Morigu: Book 02 - The Dead

by Mark C. Perry

  That day was the first and last time that the fairy lights of Aes Lugh were seen in the day and it seemed that most of them ranged themselves about the tower Maeve stood in, not so much in homage, as in friendship and welcome. It was a day not to be forgotten.

  Donal and Cucullin stood side by side in the crowd staring up at the new queen. The people around them sang and laughed and in their happiness even did they dare to reach out sometimes and touch or even rarely talk to the two lords. Donal smiled back at them and traded jokes with those about him and Cucullin's laugh filled the air. But the High Prince turned to Donal when the others about them did not see and said:

  "It shall not be so easy next time, my lord." The elf's voice was quiet that no one should hear his words.

  "No," the warlord replied, "as we get near to the city of the witch, the defenders will be more loyal to her." He shrugged his powerful shoulders. "But others will come to Maeve's banner and I think not a few of the greater elves still survive."

  "True, but there is a great evil in this land," Cucullin continued, "and I do not think Arianrood will lightly give up her kingdom." Cucullin's words were thoughtful and he meant no harm by them, so he was surprised by Donal's reaction. The warlord whirled on the prince and lifted his great sword.

  "The bitch!" Donal shouted. "She will have no choice, for we will take it from her dead hands if we must!" The crowd around the two quieted at Donal's outburst, but Cucullin said nothing. He simply reached out and grasped the other's shoulder. And under that gentle gaze the warlord's anger dissipated.

  Another figure watched all this, from the shadows of one of the insanely twisted alleys of Pwyl. Margawt grimaced to see the giant Donal still so full of rage, but he understood. After all, he was the Morigu; he had no choice but to understand.

  He shuddered once at the memory of his deeds the night before, of his part in the freeing of the city of Pwyl. It was not his way to play the spider, to trap his enemies so. It was not his way at all. But he had no choice, for he was the Morigunamachamain and if he once more had payed the greater price, who was he to say it should not be so?

  One single blood tear traced his hard face, for it was not over, not nearly over. The land here was corrupted and filled with a sickening disease. Each step on the earth was pain for him, each breath ripped like glass in his lungs. No, it wasn't over, for the trees, as the people here, who did not submit to the Dark died; died, and Margawt was getting sick of death. He was tired of the endless list of the fallen and longed for something more, to accomplish something other than the destruction of his foes.

  But it was not for him to say it should not be so.

  C H A P T E R

  Fifteen

  During the next month the various armies of the alliance worked to consolidate their gains. In Aes Lugh the army slowly spread out in a semicircle, bringing the whole northeast of that country under its control. The people of Aes Lugh lived mainly in small groups and except for Caer Lugh, there were no great population centers for the allies to capture, though two small towns fell to their forces. As the days and weeks passed, more of the people of Aes Lugh made their way to join the army and pledge loyalty to Maeve. Some of the greater elves came, too, though they were lean and haggard, for they had been fighting a lone guerrilla war against Arianrood for many months.

  So far the plans of the allies had gone well, except for the destruction of the army at Wyrh. Still, the enemy had been sorely hurt and could not prepare any sort of offensive on any front. The largest of the enemy's forces still sieged the Crystal Falls and the Dark Ones dared not pull it back to Aes Lugh's defense, for that would have allowed the dwarves to field an army and that they most especially did not want.

  Though Donal was able to harry the supply lines of that army somewhat, Arianrood's forces firmly controlled Fas-Nache. So it was that Donal had but one choice, he must move on Caer Lugh, Arianrood's capital city. And on this goal all his strategy was based. Bronwen and Fergus Firemane formed small tactical units to fight the enemy deep in the woods of Aes Lugh, while the other leaders rebuilt the army, adding to it the defectors from Arianrood's forces. Margawt ranged far and wide on his own missions, and the Dark that had infested the land feared his coming. The Morigu always checked the new recruits, making it impossible for the enemy to place spies in the allied army.

  In Tolath Fin took Comar with little loss of life and busied himself with making the city into a powerful fortress. The loss of the duchess and her army was a hard blow to the empire, so there was no possibility of mounting a winter campaign in the south. But with the capture of the dwarven caves in the Tivulic mountains, Fin was able to reorder his armies and send some reinforcements to the Borderlands where the duke of Tinnafar continued to build a small army.

  But perhaps of all the leaders it was Mearead, king of the Crystal Falls, who had the hardest job, for it was to him that the others turned for the answer of what to do with the dragon's dwarven slaves. They fed the dwarves and gave them their freedom, but no one, it seemed, could give them back their dignity and to this task Mearead bent his formidable abilities.

  It was found that the dwarves, while slaves of the dragon, had uncovered a previously untapped, rich vein of gold, some years before. Mearead was sure the early culture that must have been here had known of the gold vein, but had saved it for a later time. It was a place to start.

  The first thing that the king ordered was for the purification of the cave where the dragon had kept his hoard. It was a long process and dangerous, but with the help of the elves and most especially Ceallac, Mearead was able to cast out the lingering traces of the monster's power. He then had the cavern walls, ceiling, and floor covered in the purest of gold, with no adornments whatsoever. Everyone was confused by his motives till he called all the dwarves together.

  "I have chosen a name for your future," he said, "you shall henceforth be known as the people of the Golden Hall." And some say that was the first of his gifts to the dwarves. But it was a small thing compared to what was to come.

  The three gifts of Mearead they were later called and it was in these acts that the dwarven king most reputed the Dark Ones.

  The first gift was simple, on the outside, for each night Mearead would gather all the dwarves in the cavern where they had been slaves. There sitting on the great out-thrusting rock where first he had seen them in all their misery he told them stories, which is to say he gave to them his experience, his knowledge and his humor. Each night he would sit in the pitch black cave, usually with one or two small ones tumbling about him, and he would speak of many things. And always Niall mac Mannon stood with him, though the man never spoke a word.

  Mearead told the people of the dwarf's ancient history, and of the war that now ravaged the world. He would paint pictures with his words of his own home and those he loved. And the people learned to mourn the loss of Colin, Mearead's sister-son, for often did the king speak of him. Every night before the king was done, he would tell one humorous story, and though the people never dared to laugh aloud, this was the high point of the day to all. All thought that the funny tales were ancient stories and none knew that Mearead made them all up. And, too, he would talk of little things, food and farming, metalwork and all the crafts. And most especially he would talk of art.

  He told them it was in their very being to reach for that elusive phantom, ever and ever he said:

  "Remember you are dwarves, and all dwarves are artists and warriors bom."

  This was the first gift and a great gift it was, for it gave the people something to look forward to. It gave them questions and many wonders to wrestle with. And in time the eldest of the folk came to Mearead and asked him to be their king.

  "This I will not do," he said that night, "though you honor me by asking." And the people were sad for they felt that Mearead did not think them worthy. So that night Mearead told them of the blood price and the terrible oaths he had sworn and explained until he had cut the bloodeagle into the flesh of Arianrood
he could not go back to his own kingdom, never mind rule a new one. This they understood, for they were beginning to feel the stirrings of the savage fierceness of the dwarves, the other side of their nature. And it was to this part the king bequeathed his second gift.

  "I will be your warlord," he said, "at least for a time, for you must make war on those who have abused you so." And many feared at his words. Some even protested; had they not suffered enough? To this Mearead answered sadly:

  "Perhaps, if you were not dwarves," his eyes shone in the dark of the cave, "for a dwarf can bend knee to no creature, mortal or immortal, and I tell you, a dwarf without his pride is one who has lost his soul. You have been brutalized as no creature should and you must not think it happened because you deserved it. You must get angry. You must feel outrage. You must fight back. But not for vengeance--that is the human way. Fight for justice." And then he chose four thousand of them, that in time would be their army. From these he chose five hundred and it was these who would be the nucleus of that army. And he asked Niall to help train them.

  Mearead had the forges and anvils brought to one room and with mighty spells he consecrated that place into a dwarven cave of the making. He commissioned an elven artist to paint a huge mural of Cuir re Duriche on one wall.

  "Know your enemy," was all he answered to the dwarves' questions of his motive for the painting.

  In this room Mearead and the dwarves of the Golden Hall designed the armor their army would wear. First it was decided that the weapons would be of one type, that all the people might learn the use of it. Though it would be easier to learn the skill of the mattock or mace, Mearead decided that the battleax would become the weapon of this people. And when they asked why, he told the story of the mighty dragon Ruhtivak, brother to Sessthon and of how he had severed the monster's neck with ax and magic, after the monster had killed his father, King Connal. All then agreed it was the proper choice. And it was noticed that after that Niall Trollsbane began to carry a battleax instead of his sword.

  The armor created was chain with metal reinforcements. Mearead found a few pieces of the dragon's hoard that the monster had left. These he melted down, mixing in pure gold and small flakes of the dragon's dried blood that had been found on the battlefield floor. Blood that Shiel mac Mannon had shed at his ultimate cost. He kept a cauldron of this metal in the cave of the making, further enhancing it with his own magic. One drop of it was added to each suit of armor, giving it two added qualities: one that the armor came out a bright gold as if it had been made completely of the precious metal, and the second, Mearead promised, was that the armor would be resistant to dragonflame.

  To the axes he also added the metal of his cauldron. And one thing more. A single drop of his blood, that the sacred bond of the blood-price might strengthen the weapons and the resolve and courage of those that bore them. The axes, when cast, turned out a strange gold color which in certain light turned dark red. So it was, his second gift was seen by some as the gift of war, but to those who understood it was the gift of defiance and courage.

  The third gift was thought by many to be the least, but to the dwarves of the Golden Hall it was understood to be the greatest and most important. Mearead brought it to them one night and at the sight of it the cavern grew unnaturally quiet, for the king had worked quietly and secretly on this gift and none had known of it and that night he did not speak.

  It was a sculpture, some four feet by eight feet at the base, some six feet high. It was made from a solid piece of white marble and it portrayed Mearead and Donal Longsword at the grave of Colin. The people knew of this moment from the king's stories. It was the greatest work of art that Mearead had ever created, though he knew there was one more sculpture he must do--someday.

  The two figures of the dwarf and half-elf seemed vividly alive. Donal's hand was lifted as he rubbed the grave dirt into his noble features. His face was twisted and jagged with the half-elf's shock and horror at the betrayal by his mistress. It was the face of the leaders of this war, of their feelings of failure at protecting the people, and their savage determination to crush the enemy.

  But Mearead's face was different, for it was the face of the people themselves. In that wrinkled and lined skin was the map of a long, full life, one now struck by a tragedy it could not ever have imagined. His eyes held the intolerable sorrow of all parents who bury their children, and in the set of those broad shoulders was the hard burden of going on with such a loss, a loss that all pray never happens. But in the strong hands, seeming to tense about the ax-handle even as the dwarves watched, there was another thing. Not the mighty outrage and anger of Donal, but the sure determination to continue, to go on doing what must be done, no matter what the cost. It was there in the whole stance of the statue, unknowingly Mearead had shown in his work his secret heart, his absolute conviction that he will win, because he must. And if Arianrood had seen that sculpture she would have known fear.

  For the dwarves of the Golden Hall it was otherwise. They saw in both figures for the first time a future for themselves. Not an easy future, it was surely one full of hard payments, but a future nonetheless. They saw at the pitiful grave, so small in the scheme of things, their own tragedy. The many, many dead they had not mourned. The terrible living death they had all somehow survived, and the crushing guilt that haunted them in their survival. It is probably only dwarves who would respond so, for in that moment the folk truly became a people. They stood there weeping silently with their young looking at them uncomprehendingly, and that night they once more became individuals.

  A young dwarf, a lad really, methodically climbed the rock that Mearead stood on. He reached out his hand to the king and Mearead grasped it. The young dwarf's eyes searched the face of the king.

  "Thank you," he said in a quiet voice, "we thought we had been conquered, beaten to the point that we only deserved the fate we bore. But you have shown us it is otherwise. We can be brutalized, battered, beaten, but nothing and no one can change the fact that we have the right, nay, the duty to live, to seek our own way, to find our own truths." And then because he was a dwarf the lad turned to the others and shouted out.

  "I think it is time we planned on how to carve some dragon flesh!" And the cavern resounded with their cheers, while the old king just smiled, his hand lightly touching the sculpture of Colin's grave.

  C H A P T E R

  Sixteen

  Dermot shook her long hair from her eyes, letting a small sigh escape her tightened lips. She sat at an ancient table in one of the small auxiliary study rooms of the Pwyl library. The table top was covered with half-brittle scrolls and archaic books of lore, and in the middle of all that accumulated knowledge lay the Tome of Rhiannon. Dermot had hoped that the extensive collection in the library would help her to decipher the ancient knowledge that the goddess had bequeathed her. But so far she had found little that helped.

  She let out another sigh and shifted irritably in her chair. So far the heart of Rhiannon's wisdom had eluded her; the only real magic she had acquired from her constant study of the tome was the opening spell she had used on the gates of Pwyl. But except for that she had gained no other spell and her search was beginning to frustrate her beyond bearing.

  It was against her nature, this role of sorceress that she found herself in. She was at heart a wild creature of instinct, not deliberation. She felt trapped by the gift of the goddess as if everywhere she turned there was a wall refusing her passage. She was like some great cat, placed behind bars, always pacing back and forth, held but never controlled and never, never tamed.

  Dermot would be the first to admit that the Tome of Rhiannon had increased her knowledge and her power. Her view of many things had changed in the last months, for the words of Rhiannon were subtle and twisted one's vision first this way and then that. But at the same time Dermot's quest had a way of insulating her from the events around her. She was changing, but not from the effects of the war as the others. Her changes came from the lonely strug
gle to understand the genius of a sorcerer who had died centuries before. She longed to see Niall. She knew of the changes the ring had forced on him; all the leaders of the army were interested in deciphering what exactly had happened to the general, Donal especially. Dermot wondered if Niall felt as oddly isolated and insulated as she did. She amused herself sometimes by trying to picture his new eyes and hair. It was odd for her to realize she missed him, missed anyone for that matter, especially a human-- But she was sorceress enough to know that the goddess had bound her and Niall's fate together, though she could not guess what that truly would mean.

  "I must speak with you." Dermot jumped at the voice behind her and nearly knocked over the table as she leapt to confront the speaker. All her defenses went up immediately, for none should be able to sneak up on her. Dermot turned with her magic in her eyes to face the intruder.

  Margawt just stood there, ignoring the implications of the snapping gold aura about the young Shee. He just watched her with his solemn eyes, till Dermot collected herself.

  "I must speak with you," he said again. For a moment Dermot could not think of a reply. He had frightened her and she knew somehow something was wrong. As a Shee and as a sorceress of great power, she routinely placed guards and wards about her, wards that none, not even a Morigunamachamain, should be able to pass without her knowledge. But that wasn't the only reason there was a touch of fear in her eyes.