Morigu: Book 02 - The Dead

by Mark C. Perry

  They just stared, he thought, waiting, waiting. But he could not guess what it was they waited for, it was beyond any horror his mind could conjure. A whole race of dwarves reduced to this.... Some standing, some sitting, some so weak they just collapsed in their own filth. He wanted to scream at them, to cry: "How dare they?" How dare they allow themselves to come to this? He was filled with hate for them, even as his heart broke at their agony.

  "He wanted me to see this," Mearead finally spoke.

  "Who?" Ceallac looked down at the dwarf sprawled at his feet like some child. The elf's hand grasped his sword with such power that the metal of the grip bent to the pressure of his fingers. "Who?" he repeated and there was such menace in his voice that Mearead looked up.

  A light shone about the elf, not a bright light, not the usual aura of the elf. But something dark and gray and active. Ceallac's face was terrible in its beauty and he bared his teeth like fangs. "Who?" he rasped out once more, and though they could not hear his words, the dwarves about the elf shivered as they felt the power in them.

  "Cuir re Duriche," Mearead answered, "the last dragon." The dwarven king bowed his head, placing his hands in his lap. "Never in all the long years of our history has any done this to the dwarven people, never have we been so defeated. It is his revenge, his hatred and madness made physical. Here"--Mearead gestured to the dwarves--"here you see his mind, his black soul as it truly is. Here you see a black stain on life that a thousand victories can never wipe clean."

  "I--" the elf began but he stopped, for what could be said? What words could have any meaning in the face of this? And Ceallac's body began to shake and a slow moan escaped his lips. He could not fathom it, could not understand such a thing, not if he lived ten thousand years. It was beyond evil or wrongness or anything. Madness was a light thing compared to such hatred, such viciousness.

  But Ceallac felt no hatred of those before him, nor even sympathy, because his mind could not deal with them as individuals, as living, breathing creatures. His hate was at himself, at his cowardice. For he knew that he was a coward, though never had he known that before. He thought of the many battles of this war, and of the darker battles in these caverns. During these long months he had not ever risen again as he had in his defiance of the fomarian, because he knew--he had become afraid. He had seen the great and near great brought low. He had watched the terrible burden that a simple breath was for his cousin, the Ard Riegh. He had seen them one by one, strike back in defiance of the enemy, of the evil, and seen them one by one be brought low. There was no glory in this war, he knew that now, there were no triumphs, no magic tales that he could see. Only horror, only tragedy so great that he had refused to face it.

  He had not called all his power to him, he had not defied the fates as even the human Niall had. He had done only his duty. Not brilliantly or bravely, just well. He had not done as so many others had. He had done only what he must. And this. Now--

  He knew what the dwarven king was feeling, knew Mearead's anger at these wretches before him. How could you let this happen to you? That's what Mearead longed to cry, but he would not. For the elf it was different, much different. Mearead could not see what was really here, could not accept that this could happen to anyone, no matter their power or strength or greatness. Any could be reduced to this. Ceallac knew that. He had known it when Lonnlarcan fell to the harsh breath of mortality. He had known and sought to avoid it at all cost.

  Mearead must turn anger at his people, so that he could survive, for it was too much for the brave king's heart to believe that he could ever be so beaten. And maybe that was true. But Ceallac could see now, finally, that it was not so for him. He could fall to such a state and in a way he had begun the long path. He had done what was expected of him, no more. He had done what he must. Meaningless. Like the humans who followed what the elves called the pain way. The religion that said: Do right or be punished. What strength then? What glory then? What meaning in doing what is right only to avoid pain? There is no honor in that, no life. You must, he thought, do what is right because it is right and for no other reason.

  And I must, he added, defy this enemy with all that I have, all that I am. No matter the price.

  And he felt shame, for he realized so many already knew that. Mearead, Cucullin, Lonnlarcan, and so many more, many whom he could never know, many who had already fallen. And dead or not, defeated or not, they had been right. There could be no compromise here, none, ever. Death and pain, loss and failure, what is that to fear? What life can reside in such a way?

  "A riddle," he said to the dwarven king, "in this, a riddle, we will read it and understand it. We will bring these people to a new height and forge them into a new metal. We shall win this war, and those here, some, some of them will survive and they will not forget. Nor will they let others forget for it must never happen again." And Ceallac thought of Margawt and of the Morigunamachamain he had known in the Dark Siegn wars. He remembered how those who survived had killed themselves after the war because the world had no use for them. But, he thought, they were wrong, because if they hadn't died, this never would have happened.

  "I will war," he said quietly, "I will war forever. And I shall never stop and I shall never be defeated. I will war 'til all that can think such things, can devise such cruelty are not just dead, but forgotten. Until this is a world that can no longer create such blasphemous monsters."

  "A riddle," a third voice said and the dwarf and elf turned in surprise to see the massive form of the unicorn. "I have spoken with my father. I have spoken with many powers, none knew, none knew." The unicorn snorted once. "But there is one who has the key to this riddle, one who can answer it for us."

  "Who?" Mearead asked.

  "Niall Trollsbane, Lord of the Ring of Mannon mac Lir."

  C H A P T E R

  Twelve

  The three great lords returned to Ruegal to speak with Niall the next day. In a quiet voice the general repeated all he could remember of the journey the ring had taken him on. None spoke as the man dredged his memory for the sights, sounds, and smells of his remarkable adventure. And finally he came to the last, the ruined city on the empty world, and Niall wasn't the only one who shuddered as the story was told.

  After he finished, the four heroes wrestled with the meaning of it all, and only the unicorn could face the terrible white eyes of Niall mac Mannon. It was Mearead who finally broke the uneasy silence.

  "I was thinking of Rhysa," he said in a gruff voice, and the others turned to him and he answered their unspoken question. "She was a lovely girl, from an ancient family of Cardoc-nae-corond. I met her after the Dark Siegn wars. We were to marry. She was so very lovely." And the dwarf's dark eyes shone with his own memories.

  "Twelve years ago she wrote me a letter. It wasn't very long and I threw it in the fire some time ago." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I remember it though, word for word. At least I think I do." He gave a brief hard smile, but there was no mirth in it. "Anyway, she wanted nothing to do with me, nothing from me, never wished to see me. I have never been to Cardoc-nae-corond again."

  "Where have all the women gone?" Niall asked quietly.

  "There was a beautiful elven woman," Ceallac said, "a hundred years ago, and we all loved her. When she danced in the forest the spring would come and the little creatures came to watch. She was wise and kind and many wooed her, but she was the Ard Riegh's heart and they were to be one. She disappeared, she was lost to the elven race a hundred years ago." And the elf's eyes burned bright.

  "My mother," Niall began, but he could not continue.

  "Trell'dem's wife died in childbirth," the unicorn added, "though the greatest healers of the land watched over her."

  "Healers, healers that were priests of Fealoth," Niall said and his voice was harsh.

  "Fin's wife, that marvelous woman Katherine." Mearead shook his head. "How many? How long?"

  "What fools we've been," Ceallac added bitterly, "with our songs and bann
ers and proud speeches. They have been cutting the heart out of us for a hundred years--"

  None would voice it, but all understood. The enemy had been planning long and with vicious genius. The women had died, and the children of the great had not been born. Women, who would have on their own been leaders and heroes. Who were still every day mourned by those they left behind, by the living.

  "It is a cold dagger they have used," Anlon said, "and it has been driven deep into the heart of the goddess."

  "Into life itself," Ceallac added. And once more the four were quiet, and again it was the dwarven king who broke the silence.

  "The dwarves of the Tivulic mountains," he said, "were making weapons and armor for the dragon. But they have told me of the design, and it is not as any we have seen on the battlefields." Mearead's eyes bore into Niall. "They told me these weapons were sent north, north through Ruegal."

  "Oh, goddess," Niall murmured, "do you not see what they do to your children?" He slowly stood up. "It is time, I think, that my father and I spoke. Time it is for this horror to end." The others got up to join him, but the human shook his head, looking at that moment like a very old man. "Nay, my lords, it is my duty. Mannon can nae avoid me." And with that he left the room that seemed so cold.

  Mannon, Archduke of Ruegal and most likely the next emperor of Tolath, waited in his empty halls. He watched silently as his son walked the marble hall to finally stop before the great throne of the Ruegal Clan. Mannon made no gesture, said no word, he just waited.

  "Tell me, my father," Niall said, "tell your son of your treachery." And Mannon tried bravely to sit tall and face this man with the white eyes and hair, this man that was his youngest son, but now was also his worst nightmare. But he did not have it in him and Mannon, Archduke of Ruegal, seemed to shrivel before Niall's cursed eyes. Like a great oak dying beneath some alien harsh sun, so was the life drained from the man.

  "I knew, lad," he said, "oh, I knew long ago." He waved his hand to the north. "She comes to me on moonless nights, and her embrace is cold." He could not meet his son's strange eyes and looked at his feet. "Guenivive," he whispered, "sweet Guenivive-- I loved her, lad, loved her as a man is rarely given to love. She comes to me on the tower and tells me what I must do, must do if ever I wish to hold her once more." He shrugged and cleared his throat, but still he wouldn't look up.

  "It wasn't much, boy, not much that was asked of me." He shrugged again. "A few carts to cross my borders, nothing more and for that I could still hold my Guenivive, sometimes, in the night, when the moon was dark...."

  And what could Niall say to this? He who had never truly loved a woman? The contempt, the anger he had felt drained from him at his father's sad words. For if this was truly treachery, what price could the man pay greater than that he already had? His honor, his pride, his conscience--for the brief cold embrace of the dead woman he could not forget.

  "I saw her, Father," Niall said and the archduke looked up at these words. The anguish, the shame in those eyes would once have been too much for the general to bear, but Niall had changed, changed forever. "She is not dead, not truly, for her soul is held here, though her body has long ago passed the way of the flesh." The old man just nodded.

  "I have known it, lad, long ago in a secret place I would not face, I have known it. I have done what I have done, hoping she would be set free." His hand started to reach out, shaking toward Niall, but then it fell to Mannon's knees before his son could acknowledge the gesture. "But there were ever more carts, lad, ever more, and always I hoped too that she would come to me once more--" He turned away, his proud face lined with shame, and in a quiet voice continued: "I have betrayed us, I know lad, I have betrayed Guenivive, your mother. But"--he took a breath--"I swear to you here in this hall of our clan, that no more did I do, than what I have said, only the carts, lad, only the carts, though I do not know where they went after they left Ruegal, nor what they contained." He took a shuddering breath.

  "So boy, so Niall Trollsbane." He smiled briefly at that. "Tell me now, what is it that will be done with me. Will you see me hung on the gates of our castle?" But still he could not look up. "Ah, lad," he whispered, "what have you ever done to be burdened with such a thing?"

  "I can nae tell you what shall be done with you, Father." Niall climbed the stairs to the throne and grasped the archduke's shoulder with one strong hand. "I will tell you, though, what your son shall do." And finally Mannon forced himself to meet that white gaze though it cost a great deal to do so. "I shall find my mother and free her, this I shall do."

  What is behind them? Mannon thought, behind the white eyes of my son? What has done this to him? Where has he learned such compassion and justice? He was always brave, always strong, but now he is something so much more than I, something more than human, I think. And with that thought Mannon became a little afraid of his son. But he understood the wish that Niall could not say, the secret hope that sprung into the part of him that was still bonnie, little Niall, who dreamed so grand. And Mannon knew he could not do it for himself, nor, he reminded himself harshly, for Guenivive, but he could do it for his son, who had already paid too much, too much for his courage.

  "Nay, lad," he said aloud. "Nay, it is my task, and in it at least I may redeem something for our clan. I shall ride out and find your mother, and Niall, my bonnie boy, I shall never stop 'til I free her." Niall stood back and bowed once to his father, and saying no more he left the hall, his footsteps ringing in its emptiness, as his footsteps had in a city only he had seen. He left his father alone, that the man might have one last chance at salvation, and there, alone, he might find the courage to do what must be done.

  That night Mannon left the proud city of his ancestors. He went quietly, with no fanfare, and he rode alone. Only his son was there at the battlements to watch the small figure dwindle in the darkness. But Niall was proud to see his father's back straight, and if Mannon's armor did not fit as well as once it did, and if the hand that held his lance shook, then who was to see it but Niall Trollsbane? And he would tell no other.

  "So he is gone." And Niall turned in surprise to see the dwarven king walking toward him.

  "Aye, he is gone," Niall answered. "He will follow the route the carts took and see where it leads. What he learns he will send word back to us."

  "Is it a task for an old man?" Mearead asked.

  "He was not so old a few months ago." Niall turned to search the darkness to catch one more glimpse of that tiny figure lost among the great emptiness about him. "And it does nae matter, my lord, nay, I tell you truly, it does nae matter whether he succeeds, it only matters that he found the strength to try."

  "Wisdom," Mearead said with a smile, "from a human no less...." Mearead tapped Niall on the arm getting the other's attention. "I've come looking for you, lad, because I have news I thought you'd want to know." Niall just lifted an eyebrow and waited. "The dragon," Mearead said, spitting out the word, "Cuir re Duriche is in the caverns of Tivulic and even now he leads an army against your brother and Cormac."

  "Dragon," Niall mouthed the word. "Dragon." And saying no more, the two left to prepare once more for battle.

  It was fitting that the dragon Cuir re Duriche, last of his cruel breed, should face the army of southern Tolath for the first time in the black cavern that had housed his dwarven slaves. But the dragon was not alone, for he brought his army with him. A vast, stinking horde of goblins and trolls and they surrounded his great bulk like a thousand larvae writhing among a black carcass. A bard, had one been there, would have seen the rightness of it, but there were none there that day. Most of the bards were dead now, for their magic is ever the greatest of threats to the worshipers of the Dark. So it was in Shiel's mind that that thought was found as the warlord ordered the ranks of his warriors about him. Here in this evil place there was enough room for the two great armies to meet head on, and both were hot for the dread embrace of battle.

  The dragon's eyes burned a liquid red and the acid that
slid from his jaws was black and burned anything it splattered upon. Light orange flames spouted from his nostrils, a taste of the fires to come, and in that unnatural light the great body of the beast was outlined. Forty feet from head to tail he was, and his great snout waved twenty feet straight up. He was a dream of horror and madness, with his black wings tucked in tight to his sides and his thick claws digging deep trenches in the rock floor. He looked invincible and all in that place feared him.

  Shiel mac Mannon held tight his shield and sword and sought to dare the gaze of the dragon. The warlord did not wish his men to see his fear, though they were too busy with their own to notice his. He was lord here, he knew that. It was his battle and he knew that, too. For there had been whispers in this hard little army that had fought for so long and payed so much. Talk of the Clan Ruegal, of the laird who would not leave his throne room and a younger son cursed and changed by some black magic. Now there was only Shiel and he carried no title of Trollsbane or Archduke. But he was firstborn and if in his short life that had more often been a burden than a gift, so it was, he knew, for the eldest in any family.

  It was his battle, for the honor of his clan, for the defense of his people and the necessities of duty, but most of all for his broken father and cursed brother. For the pitiful remnants of one of the greatest of the families of the empire of Tolath. The "blood of Lir the Liberator was in his veins, and of Fealoth and Trell'dem and many, many other heroes. But you cannot breed courage or ability in a man as you can in an animal. It was little to hold on, that long line of ancestors in this moment. For with them, ignored but not forgotten, were a hundred other names, names of mediocrity, of shallowness, of stupidity and of betrayal.

  So it was that Shiel could not know what it was that made his eyes flash, not with fear, but defiance. That gave strength to the scared hand that held the hilt of his weapon steady and true. He could not say. Not breeding, but maybe tradition. Maybe the gift to believe he had it in him, and maybe it was something more. But whatever it was, that indescribable feeling, it filled his muscles and braced his heart and filled his lungs and-it-made-him-STRONG!