Morigu: Book 02 - The Dead

by Mark C. Perry

  "He waits for us warriors of Tolath," Shiel cried in a great voice that filled the cavern. "He waits there, the black beast, with his swine about him. He has come for our land, for our people, he has come to devour and destroy, he has come at the bidding of his masters, to crush us and all we hold dear. Look at him." Shiel pointed his sword at the dragon and he dared to meet Cuir re Duriche's evil eyes. But the hatred and power there did not dissuade the man. "He is great, he is powerful, he is the blackest nightmare come true, but I say," Shiel smiled, "I say in the end, my bonnie lads, he is nothing more than dead lizard meat!" For a second there was silence, as the fear left the eyes of the men and women there. And then came the smiles, and then the cold determination.

  "Ruegal!" they shouted and the elves joined that cry and in one great motion like a leviathan's tail surging through the deep ocean, the whole army stood straight and shook their weapons. And they charged. Charged to meet the flames of the dragon.

  That might have been the end of it there, deep beneath the mountains of Tivulic. That mighty burst of magic flame might have stopped the charge in its tracks and things would have ended differently. But Cormac mac Cainhill was there with his elves, and the magic of that people raced out to intercept the dragon's malice.

  It was as if the wave of fire crashed upon some unseen rock when the two magics met, and the dragon's flame was shattered and dispersed. But such was the power in these mighty fires that a hundred warriors fell crying with one voice as their bodies turned to red fire. But it didn't stop the warriors of Ruegal, nor Shiel mac Mannon.

  He led them, the whole army, his bodyguard about him. It was Shiel whose sword took first blood as he cut down the terrified goblin that stood before him. On and on he and his warriors went crashing through the ranks of the enemy. Like a great arrowhead they raced, raced for the last of the dragons.

  Cuir re Duriche waited, but not in silence. His mouth parted to show a black interior, lined sharklike with four-foot fangs. His great, forked tongue danced out like red lightning as he howled like a wolf and bellowed his defiance and hatred. Orange flame followed and poured upon the ranks of the men and though the elves were there again, still more fell.

  Cormac, too, joined the charge and none could withstand him and his elves, but as terrible as they were in battle, they could not catch up with Shiel as he plunged deeper into the body of the enemy, to get at its heart, to strike at the dragon.

  The cavern resounded with the crash and clang of the weapons and armor of the two armies. The cries of the wounded were lost in that clamor, as were the pleas of the dying and the shouts of the victorious. Like two great beasts struggling in the foulest of embraces, the two enemies swayed drunkenly back and forth. The dragonflame cast a red glow about everything, and mixed with the auras and magic of the elves, it made all things unreal and hallucinatory. To Shiel it was as if he waded through some great black river of sludge, where periodically a face or body of a demon would pop to the surface, only to be met by his flashing sword.

  A great roar filled the air, and an explosion made the whole cavern shudder. A bright white light burst forth for a second, catching the faces of man, elf, troll, and goblin in harsh clarity. In front of Shiel a giant goblin momentarily blinded by the light blinked away its tears, even as the warlord's sword drove through the creature's breast; the man's mind engraved the picture of the goblin's cruel face on his soul. It was pale somehow, but nothing human. The small snout was open, so Shiel could see the red mouth and the dry spittle that clung to one of the large tusks of the monster. Its eyes were yellow and slit like a cat's and even as it knew it was dying, the goblin showed no fear to its enemy, but found strength for one black oath that the man could not understand.

  And still it went on, and still he continued with his bodyguard about him. And if he realized his followers were half as many as they had been, and if he knew that the main force of his army was cut off from him, it could not have mattered to him. For this battle was won, Shiel mac Mannon was enough of a general to know that. It had been won in that first great charge when the dragon's flame had not stopped them. His duty was done. And in battle he was victorious. But it was his honor and his family's honor and most especially his father's that mattered now. Niall had brought home a magic ring, and white hair and eyes, and both brothers had names of reknown as leaders and as warriors. But Niall had brought home one more thing, the name of Trollsbane, and Shiel mac Mannon meant to gather a name, too, the name of Dragonslayer.

  His brother could have told Shiel that it was not necessary, that the world of songs and tales had nothing to do with true courage and true war, but Niall was not there; he was on a castle wall watching his father ride to his death.

  And Cormac mac Cainhill could have explained that the father's sins are not inherited by the son, not if the son does not wish it so. He could have told Shiel that and more, but Cormac could not reach Shiel, for a great sword wielded by a troll captain had just cut through the elf's shield, deep into his side, and Cormac was falling, falling amid the gore and bodies of the battlefield.

  There were others who could have stopped Shiel, or helped him, or in his place done what he felt he must do, but they were not there and so amid all the carnage of warfare Shiel mac Mannon at last stood face-to-face with the dragon.

  "Oh, little man," Cuir re Duriche chuckled, "you have worked so hard to find your death." But Shiel said nothing as his sword lunged for the dragon's breast. The green scales were hard here, and thick, but Shiel was a strong man and his sword had some of the ancient magic in it. So his sword bit and bit deep, but never deep enough--

  The dragon reared away from the blow and his heavy tail crushed thirty goblins as it slammed down in anger. The dragon's head smashed into the rough ceiling, splintering the stone, sending down a crashing flood of stone and dust. A moment, a moment, the man stood before the ancient beast. His sword smoking from the thick, hot blood of the dragon. A moment to stare in those red eyes, to face them with no fear, not even of hatred. A moment to bring his sword back for one more blow before the dragon was upon him.

  Cuir re Duriche's head darted down like a great snake, and it shrugged off the pain in its snout as the warlord struck once again before its mouth encircled him. The dragon's teeth were as spears and they pierced the man's chest and legs and the heat was such in that mouth, that Shiel's clothes took fire and his armor began to melt. Once more he tried to strike with his mighty sword, and if there had been a bard there, he would have said he did; but Shiel's back was broken, and death was in his veins and all the strength he had left he gave to one word, even as his mouth filled with hot, red blood--the last he would ever shed.

  "Father."

  And so in the mouth of the last of the dragons, Shiel mac Mannon, eldest of the Clan Ruegal, died. He died too quick and too fast to realize what this would mean for the warriors who followed him. They should have broken then, seeing his body flare up in flames between the monster's teeth and hearing the cry of the elves as their warlord Cormac mac Cainhill fell to the sword of the troll. But they did not, and once more--it was because of the dragon.

  He swallowed Shiel's body whole, armor and weapons and charred flesh. He swallowed the hero's corpse, and that broke their hearts. But then Cuir re Duriche laughed and looked down upon them all as they gazed up at his terrible majesty and he laughed again.

  "Finish my work for me, little toads," the mighty beast said and he laughed for a third time and turned and left the cavern. The dragon shouldn't have laughed and he certainly shouldn't have left his army, but he did. The warriors, men and elf both, roared in one great voice and if their charge before was undeniable, this one was invincible. They howled like animals and more than one had tears on pale cheeks for their fallen lords. But they were not soldiers, these men and women of two different races, they were warriors, each. They did not follow blindly those who led them. Their generals had to earn their respect, their trust, their leaders must be heroes and made of strength and justice. T
hey had to be the equal of those they led.

  The elves' magic blocked the path of retreat and no creature of the Dark, no goblin, no troll left that place alive.

  The cavern that had so long been stained by the gross desecration of the dwarves' slavery was washed clean with the warm blood of the enemy. The bodies were piled hip-deep in some places and the stench of the dead was everywhere. It was beyond victory for an army to have two such battles, it was beyond good luck or strategy or tactics, it was something else entirely. It was enshrined by the hero death of Shiel mac Mannon, though Cormac mac Cainhill would live to war again. But it was marred by a terrible truth of the words of the dragon.

  "Finish my work--" he had said, and it didn't take too long for the warriors to understand that this battle and the battle of Tonith were given to them, that for some reason the last dragon in the land had wished the allies to destroy his armies and recapture the mountains of Tivulic. Their victory was also his, and there was a terrible injustice and gall in that. And a terrible fear.

  C H A P T E R

  Thirteen

  Gwenyth of the Long Sight, Duchess of Conlai, stood upon the walls of Wyth, the coastal city in the south of Tolath that her forces had captured weeks before. It had been a heady time as winter slowly came, for her army spread out from the coast and cut deep into the enemy's lines of supply, overrunning one outpost after another, and freeing many of the Dark Ones' captives--but it hadn't lasted.

  The winter storms were on the sea with a vehemence the lady had never seen before. The fierce weather beached her great fleet, and following on the heels of the storms came the black armies of the enemy. One by one they recaptured the strongholds from her, till now all she controlled was this city. All her warriors were locked behind its walls and surrounding them on three sides was a vast army of the Dark Ones. And this day, two days after the fall of Shiel mac Mannon, the siege had begun.

  But the duchess was not afraid. The walls of Wyth were strong and her army well provisioned. They could hold out through the winter, and now that the mountains of Tivulic were once more controlled by the forces of the empire, come spring, she would have relief, especially since her beloved fleet would once more be free to ravage the flanks of the Dark Ones.

  No, it was not fear the old woman felt, but anger, a deep anger unlike any emotion she had ever felt, for it was a living thing congesting her lungs and weighing down her limbs.

  The mages of the monks of the Hunter had kept all three armies of the allies well informed of the progress of each, and this improvement of communications their magic had allowed proved indispensable and had done much to offset the enemy's advantages. Wherever a mage of the maker was, there was access to all the information known to any of the leaders of the armies. And it was the most recent news that cut so deeply at the noble lady.

  It had bothered Gwenyth from the beginning of this war that the women of the land played a lesser role than they had in the Dark Siegn wars and it had made the duchess more determined to strike hard at the invaders. But she who carried the gift/curse of the Seasight, had not seen through the enemy's machinations. The revelations of the Dark Ones' long campaign against the women of the land stoked a cold fury in her that was directed not only at the enemy, but at herself as well, and at the lords of the land. If it had been the men that had been struck down so, she was sure that notice would have been taken, but that was the evil genius of the Dark Ones' campaign, for the majority of the warriors and lords of this land had always been men and it was the men that were most remembered in the ballads and tales of history.

  But what was Lir without Ellawyn? And surely the women of the elvenkind had always been the equals of the men. Many were the tales of Lonnlarcan's mother Megahn, who had ruled the elves of Cather-na-nog for a thousand years and in all his majesty, the son had never come close to eclipsing the mother. It was a hard thorn that pierced the duchess this day and the worst to her was the thought of Arianrood. The eldest of the world's children. First in knowledge, in power, in wisdom, and now--one more tool of the Dark. It was an evil thing for the women of the land, that black betrayal, and hardest of all for the old woman on the wall was the sure understanding that the Seasight gave her that Arianrood had known, known long and longer still, of the hard, sharp blows that the Dark Ones had struck in secret, in silence against all women. Against the goddess herself.

  But there was some hope in all this, for as the war continued the women of the empire took a larger and larger role in it. There was the Shee Dermot, who by all accounts was growing mightier by the day, and Queen Maeve determined to free her people and carve a nation from Arianrood's own kingdom. And little Bronwen, who of all had been fighting in this war from the beginning and now was the huntress. There were others waiting in the wings and first and foremost in the duchess's heart there was Tara Brightblade'. Tara, grand master of the Green Branch knights.

  Tara's younger brother had fallen in the battle of Greenway. Malchai, like his sister, had had the Witchsight and his memory was still held in reverence by the noble knights, even though so many had died during the year. Malchai was remembered, and all now understood that his sister was greater than ever he was. Tara Brightblade had been on a quest when the war started, and deep into the lands of the Devastation she had ridden, alone, for in her heart she had felt the stirrings of evil in the land and sought to find the cause. None would reproach the knight that she had looked in the wrong place for the threat, after all how many had even believed such a threat existed? And since her return last summer, Tara had ever been at the forefront of battle and the enemy had learned to fear her mighty sword.

  Brightblade, she was called, and next to Niall and Fin she was the most accomplished of all the humans in sword work. Her sword had a name, Amargin it was called, and it had always been wielded by the best warrior of her clan. It flamed in battle, a light blue fire, and the source of its power came from the heart of its owner, and it was said by the knights of the Green Branch that the mighty sword had never burned as bright as it did in the hands of Tara.

  The duchess smiled at the pride she felt for the grand master. Tara's family was related to her own, and the Witchsight that she bore was not so different from the Seasight of Gwenyth. And that same sight told her that Tara would play a role in this war, a most important role -----

  Even as Gwenyth of the Long Sight stood looking down from the walls of her captured city, four hundred miles away Fin, Warlord of the West stared up at the walls of the city he planned to capture. The warlord had not been idle these last months. With his tiny army he had outmaneuvered the enemy again and again in the woods of Ettorro, and now those woods were firmly held in the hands of the empire's forces led by Fin's son Brasil. Now with the victory of the Tivulic mountains complete and the duchess's army forcing the Dark Ones to withdraw troops from the front to deal with her, Fin could move against this city he had longed to take since it had been lost at such cost so early in the war.

  "Comar," he breathed the name like a quiet prayer. Here the brave General Fintan had fought his final battle and payed such a terrible price for his bravery at the hands of the Demon Prince Roella, the Firelord. Every warrior that had defended this city had died, but they had succeeded in their desperate ploy and had held the enemy here for precious days. Days that allowed the forces of the alliance to gather and defeat the invaders before the gates of Tolan and ruin the Dark One's bid to shatter the empire. Now the time had come to replay the events of those desperate months, and now it was the humans who attacked.

  He studied the walls carefully and smiled in satisfaction. Comar had been a trading city, built after the Dark Siegn wars and far from the borders of the Dark Siegn. It had not been built for defense. Fin was pleased to see that the enemy in their arrogance had not, during the long months of occupation, improved the low walls. Indeed, in some places the destruction of the defenses in that earlier battle had only been hastily repaired.

  "Comar," he said again as he turned to trudge th
rough the light snow to his command tent. He would have that city! He would rebuild it into a mighty fortress to sweep down into the plains of southern Tolath come spring and free his land.

  And a third figure stared up at city walls, the walls of Wyth. With his inhuman vision he could see the frail figure of the duchess looking down at his army and he could feel her anger and surety that she was secure. But he, too, was determined. He, too, whispered to himself.

  "I will have that city."

  He was a warlord and a wizard and once he had been human and known by the name of Tallien. He had ruled a mighty city in Maihan, and his people had been proud of their stern lord. But that was long ago and the cities of Maihan were ruins now, and its people dead or enslaved. It had been the dragon that had been their undoing and the mighty demon prince called Dubh, that mixed with the people's own pride.

  Tallien had led the Free States of Maihan in turning from their friendship with Tolath. He had led them in their romantic dreams of conquest and empire in other lands and other continents. And for a hundred years that dream had been realized. But the dream had a black worm chewing its bowels, and one by one the subjected people threw off the chains of bondage. The people of Ibhire turned their back on their neighbors and the mighty empire of Tolath neither needed, nor was inclined to deal with Maihan. One by one the cities of that once noble land turned against each other, one by one their might was crushed beneath wars that had no purpose save loot, revenge and rapine.