"It was not always such," he said quietly, "these trees had names, had souls, and their leaves never fell. They were silver in the winter and gold in the summer." He took a breath of the evil air and shuddered. "Some of the fey creatures lived here and they danced day and night, for here the sun never touches the ground, nor does the rain or snow."
"This place," she said waving her hand, "is dead, Donal Longsword." He just shrugged. "I was told," she continued, "that last winter you were still warlord here. Did you not see the changes?" Donal clenched his teeth and Maeve flinched a little from the violence of that movement. But she held his eyes.
"I was asked that once before," he answered. "I rode through here not long ago, not so long ago and I watched the fey dance under the silver leaves. For me it was the same and in my heart it remains so." Maeve nodded once. It was a good answer, a noble reply, and she respected the many things that it said. She dared to reach up and pat his massive knee as if to comfort a child.
"It will be again, Donal Longsword," she gently answered. "We will make it so, you and I." There was such strength and surety in her that Donal could not help but be impressed.
"But lady," he gestured about him, "do you really have such faith in our chances?"
"Chances?" She laughed. "Chances, hell! As the humans would say, it is destiny, warlord, destiny and the fate's balance for the wronging of Mai Methra. My people here in this land will heed my call, and I shall take this land from the black witch and it shall be everything you remember, young Donal, and much, much more!" Donal started to reply, but his horse shied, and there stood Margawt.
"A city." The Morigu grinned, an unsettling sight. "A city of wood, filled with humans, and," he nodded in Maeve's direction, "the little people."
"It is Pwyl," Donal stated, for he knew Margawt would not fail him, and it was this city that the warlord had chosen for their first attack.
"Half a day's march," Margawt said, turning to leave, "a few mortal mages. Nothing to stand in our way 'til we get there." And then he was gone. Donal turned to Maeve.
"Now, Lady, the time I have waited a long year for. Now comes the time to strike at the witch and begin the payment she owes me!" His horse leapt ahead, urged on by the wrath of the warlord, and his army followed behind.
The city of Pwyl spread haphazardly across three small hills lying in the middle of a large lush valley. The valley was surrounded by high hills where the thick wood of Aes Lugh towered over the city below. There were no trees in the quiet valley, instead it was covered by an ankle-deep blue-green grass, dotted here and there with flowers of all colors and designs. The city itself was a fantastic structure of curved walls and needle-thin towers. There were no angles or straight lines anywhere in Pwyl and everything was built of wood, even the streets.
The city and the surrounding valley retained much of its former beauty, but it was only on the surface. There was a haze in the air, a miasma of heat and weight that covered everything. The strange grass here was not so bright as once it had been, and there were large areas that were brown, like liver spots on the hands of the aged. The marvelous wood that Pwyl had been built from, wood that had retained its life and vitality, was now grey and corpse-pale. The city looked like a beautiful woman, dying slowly of some terrible disease that could only be seen if one stood close to her. Then the blue, thin veins could be seen with the sad, yellow caste to the skin and the bones beginning to push up through the dying flesh.
The army of Aes Lugh silently surrounded the city, quickly overrunning the outposts in the hills. The encirclement of the valley was completed just as night came and Donal Longsword, Warlord of the Army, rode forth to the gates of Pwyl alone. In his arms he cradled a long pole wrapped in cloth. He reared his horse to stop a bowshot away from the city's walls and scanned the battlements for a moment. The defenders of the city stared down at him with wide eyes, for they had been caught completely unawares. Donal noted that though there were many humans on the walls, the majority of the warriors were brown elves. He smiled grimly at that knowledge, for this is why he had picked this city to begin the campaign. He sat tall in his saddle, unconsciously rolling his powerful muscles under his armor.
"People of Pwyl," he cried, "you know me, for once I was your warlord." Not a few of the brown elves on the wall shifted uncomfortably at his statement. "I did not join the black witch in her treachery." Donal knew they understood he meant Arianrood. "I did not sell my soul to the Dark!" The half-elf's sharp ears picked up some murmuring at that. "I have come back with an army, to free Aes Lugh from the evil that grips it, and I have come back to help give this land something more than freedom." Donal picked up the pole he had brought with him and began to unfurl the cloth about it. "I have come back to give Aes Lugh a new queen!" With that the wind caught the banner he held, and though to the humans it was only a black cloth, the brown elves could make out the banner of long-dead Mai Methra and a moan of sorrow and longing filled the night air.
In answer to that sound the army of Aes Lugh blew upon their great war horns. The valley filled with the power and beauty of that sound. From their ranks a small group rode toward Donal, even as the sky above Pwyl filled with the mighty hawks of Diuann ai Di.
The riders ranged themselves about Donal that the defenders of the city might see them. The destroyer rode up, the banner of the Hunter god in his hands, and two of his monks beside him. Bronwen, too, came, not as the huntress, but as Bronwen ap Remon, princess of Fiodha; and she carried her people's banner with a handful of Green Branch knights acting as her honor guard. There, too, rode the High Prince Cucullin, his king's banner flapping in the night air. Beside him rode the captain of the Ard Riegh's personal guard, and the generals of the army. And on Cucullin's right rode Dermot, carrying the High Prince's colors, her magic flaring in a white aura about her.
And last came two riders, the gold of their steeds flashing in the night, the fierce red and black of their armor a stark threat in itself. They rode to the front of the small group at the gates of Pwyl. The leader's eyes burned like flame, and her hair was a wave of blood. Her face was proud and stern and in that moment, Maeve was the match of any hero that had ever walked the face of the earth.
"I am Maeve rab Kiel," she spoke quietly, but her voice filled every corner of Pwyl and everyone heard her as if she spoke to them alone. "I am the last of the rab Kiels and rightful ruler of the people of Mai Methra." Behind her Fergus Firemane took the banner from Donal and defiantly planted it in the ground. "I have come to claim this land of Aes Lugh for my people. To free it from the dark sins of Arianrood Blacksoul. I will not be denied in this by any being, by any power. Join me and we shall build a new future for our people. Defy me and die!" She said nothing more and simply waited as if she expected the gates of the city to be thrown open for her.
It was a moment that could not be forgotten for the brown elves behind those walls. They had followed where Arianrood their mistress had led. Followed, for what choice had they? Their people had been cast from the stage of the world, the greatness that had once been theirs had become dust, dust covering the ruins of their cities, the bones of their people, the land of their birth. They had accepted their fate, the destiny that had overtaken them. They had borne loss of their pride, their hearts and hopes. The war for them had not been a great conflict or a choice. It had been simply the continuation of their own slow and sure decline. If they made war, then it was against the dwarves, and that was no great change, for the two races had warred in earlier ages. It was not a revolt against the goddess or the light. Aes Lugh had dwindled, surely, but so had they. No goblins had crossed their path, these were not the ones chosen to fight besides the Dark Ones. They were not led by demons, or monsters, or evil men. They were led by their own people, who were doing what they had done for so long--following the orders of Arianrood and believing her lies.
But now--
The men on those walls did not understand what was happening; they did not know what the name of "rab Kiel" mean
t to their allies. They did know Bronwen and some few respected her for long rebellion against her father. Not all the warriors of Fiodha were pleased with their king, or this war, or their garrison duty in a strange land. Not a few began to question, though the majority belonged to the Sorcerer King Remon heart and soul, and therefore to Arianrood.
It was a strange night that began the campaign of Aes Lugh. The gates did not open to admit Maeve, no one kneeled and called her queen. But none came to the walls to answer her challenge, none dared to face the mighty leaders of the elven army. The defenders of Pwyl stayed on the walls, but they talked to themselves quietly, and their leaders did not like the questions that were being asked.
The hawks of Diuann ai Di, like tiny golden comets, danced over the city of Pwyl. Every once in a while one of the powerful birds would swoop down to tear a banner from the walls. It would bring its prize to a great height and drop it while its fellows slashed and tore at the cloth in its slow fall, till only scraps landed on the streets of the city.
Small groups of riders, elves and brown elves, would break from the encircling army and race up and down the broad valley. They would leap from their horses and catch the arrows their fellows sped through the night. They would sing and dance and call for the people of Pwyl to join them and there was magic in their voices. Sometimes they would ride over one of the dead spots of grass and it was seen with great wonder that when they did so, the land came back to life, and the grass turned a piercing blue-green once more.
And the fairy lights came back to the valley. Even the people of this land could not say truly what the fairy lights were. Some said they were the souls of the dead who so loved their land, they had to periodically return and visit. Others said the lights were the dreams of the trees dancing to some unknown tune that only the wood can hear. Whatever they were, the fairy lights had not been seen in the land in a long time, and none could miss the implications in the fact that they came with the army of Maeve rab Kiel.
They were beautiful, those strange magic lights, of all colors and ranging from as small as a flower seed to as large as a man's head. Some floated about the elves' shoulders lighting their exotic faces with a mixture of delightful colors. Some drifted among the trees, as if a long line of people marched with candles in their hands. But as lovely as they were, they were eerie and somehow threatening, and many shivered behind the wood walls of Pwyl.
Wisps of fog drifted over the valley, obscuring the fairy lights some, and making the whole remarkable scene even more dreamlike. And with the fog came one more thing, one more surprise for the people of the city. Even as the fog slowly drifted through their stout walls and into their streets, so, too, came Margawt, the Morigunamachamain.
He did not come alone, but blanketed Bronwen in his magic, so that she, too, might pass all barriers unseen. But Bronwen remembered little of that strange journey, for her human sensibilities were already dazzled by the elven magic that held the valley in its thrall. All she knew was that she crept alongside the Morigu, staying as close as she dared, for he made no sound to follow and would not speak. She would later remember it as a walk through a long dark tunnel, whose side and roof could not be touched, yet were always pressing in on her. How long it took, she could not say, but in time she found herself in a shadowed corner of a side street of Pwyl.
With a light touch on her arm Margawt led her through the crazy twists and turns of the city's streets, finally bringing her to a large home surrounded by a grey garden. This was the house of Grannia of the clan Powl and Donal had thought that here allies could be found. Margawt left Bronwen hiding beneath a dying hedge and continued to the house alone. She felt she should protest, after all she was the huntress, but she knew that there was no one, perhaps not even her god," who could hunt as the Morigunamachamain could; so she just waited.
He came back an hour later, and his sword was wet with blood.
'An old one," he whispered, "she waits for us. I killed the traitors." He turned and walked boldly to the front door, Bronwen hurrying to keep up. The odd, round door was opened by a tiny brown elf whose blue eyes seemed wet with tears. She ushered the two in, closing the door firmly behind her. Only then did Bronwen notice the little woman had donned a rusted chain-mail shirt and carried an ax that seemed larger than she.
"I have called them as you asked, lord," Grannia said quietly to Margawt, bowing deep to him, "and I myself shall destroy the traitors." The old woman stifled a sniffle as she struggled to raise the giant ax.
"Nay, woman," Margawt answered, reaching out and taking the ax from the brown elf. Bronwen was shocked by the gentleness in the Morigu's voice and manner. She did not know that already this night Margawt had killed most of the old woman's family. "It is my destiny and my duty." Grannia relinquished her weapon hesitantly, then with a gasp fell to her knees and much to the embarrassment of Margawt grabbed his hand and kissed it.
"Lord, lord, we have waited, waited so long for you." Her tears covered Margawt's hand. "We almost gave up, and now you come, with a queen and our own good Donal. Ah, lord, we have waited for you." Bronwen could not hide her shock at the elf's words. Margawt had not brought the others, he was not the leader of the army. "Or," she thought again, "maybe he is?"
Margawt lifted the old woman up and gently removed his hand from hers.
"Lady, it is time, and the earth cries to me." She nodded once and led Margawt and Bronwen into a room with no ceiling, a large pool of water in the center and two roaring fireplaces at either end. Four other brown elves waited; they were younger and their armor and weapons were in good shape. They grimly bowed once and the gruesome events of that night began.
It was later called the Night of Goddess, though that was a gentle name for the bloody work that happened in that strange room. One by one brown elves and humans were called to that place and there they were judged. It was Margawt and Margawt alone that decided life or death for the visitors. No words were spoken. He simply looked at them and either nodded briefly or with one swipe of his sword beheaded them. Humans and brown elves came to the summons and two elves, but both of them failed and Margawt killed them with a savage glee. Some of those that lived left the room to plan, others stayed to pile the heads of the traitors about the pool. The water soon turned red.
Not a few brown elves were killed that night and most of the humans who entered that house never left, but many were untouched by the darkness that had invaded Aes Lugh. The leaders of the city knew nothing of what was going on as the rebels stationed themselves about the city; the elves waiting for the coming of their queen, the humans eager to support their princess. Maybe there was an inevitability about it all that the strange elven magic portended, for several of the leaders of the city tried to escape in the night. All were caught by the waiting elves beneath the trees in the hills and there hung from thick branches. And when daylight finally came and the lords of the army of Aes Lugh rode to the gates of the city, a hushed expectancy filled the valley.
It was Dermot who rode straight to the gates. She was dressed in white armor and her dark hair and eyes seemed wild in the sunlight. Though she stood barely twenty feet from the walls, no arrow was shot, no spear flung, no stone dropped, as if all knew such missiles would never reach her, as they would not have.
Though she bore no weapon it was noticed that in her left hand she carried a thick book whose edges seemed to glitter like sunlight on water. Dermot lifted her right hand and spoke to the gate as if she spoke to another person.
"It is I, Dermot of Cather-na-nog, sorceress and Shee, who comes before you," she said in a soft dreamy voice. "I come in the name of my Lord Lonnlarcan and in the name of Queen Maeve. I come in my own name and stand before you as one of the many who would defy the Dark of this place. Will you heed me? For in justice's name I bid you, open." It was a gentle command, but command enough, for it was followed by words of great power that only Cucullin of all there could rightly be said to understand, but even he had not seen such a spell as this befor
e.
From Dermot's hand a dazzling splash of yellow-gold light leapt forward and covered the gate. The light coalesced into a yellow humanoid giant, his form insubstantial and semi-transparent. With slow grace he went to one knee before the sorceress, then he turned to the gates. Two great hands spread across their solid doors and with a ponderous motion he began to push against them. Behind them the great silver bars lifted from their braces and fell to the ground and slowly the gates opened. He continued to push until the way to the city was clear and then he slowly dwindled as if he still struggled to open some unseen barrier down a long, long path. When he was finally lost in the distance Dermot turned to Maeve.
"Your city awaits, oh, Queen," she said. Maeve lifted her sword and with a great cry led the charge through the gates. No one raced to bar her path, for all had been lost in Dermot's magic, and now it was too late. The rebels inside the city led by Bronwen ap Remon cut down the defenders and opened the other gates. It was a fast furious fight and over in less than an hour, for truly most of the people of Pwyl were Maeve's now. None of the enemy escaped that valley to tell of what had happened, for the brown elves were nothing if not efficient in their vengeance.
So it was noon of the second day since the coming of the army of Aes Lugh to Pwyl that Maeve stood on a tower and addressed her new subjects. Not many could remember what she said that day, for the people of the city needed no words to strengthen their resolve, nor did they need it explained to them the consequences of their action. They had defied Arianrood, the Ead, she who had been their goddess, defied the most powerful being in the land and Arianrood would not take that lightly. The path had been chosen, either they or Arianrood would be destroyed; there was no other way.
But also this day, they had become a people again, more than a nation, or a culture. They were once more part of the future of the world; once more would the threads of their destiny be woven in the great pattern of life. They could never be truly beaten now, they knew that in their souls. They had a queen and an army, but most of all, they had their pride. In this moment the brown elves, the people of desecrated Mai Methra, the little people, knew that always some would survive and now and forever would they strive for the light.
Morigu: Book 02 - The Dead Page 16