Morigu: Book 02 - The Dead

by Mark C. Perry

  Dermot was the only Shee outside of Cather-na-nog, the only one to survive the battle for Tolan, and only a Shee may be chosen as a Morigunamachamain. It was always uncomfortable for her to speak to Margawt, for he was a constant reminder of what she could have been, may still become, and for Dermot there could be no cruder fate than to be driven as Margawt was. He had no free will, no individuality, he was a force of nature. He could never break his fate. His destiny was not his own to Dermot it was as if he had no soul. He terrified her as no creature of the Dark ever could.

  "You," her voice was husky and her hand shook as she reached out for the chair and slowly sat down, "you startled me."

  "Only you, I think," he continued as if she had not spoken, "can help me now." He stood staring down at her, his hand unconsciously resting on the parrying dagger at his side. He did not move in the slightest, indeed he barely seemed to breathe. He was like some statue of an ancient and terrible god. A god that demanded human sacrifices. He made no sound and Dermot shivered as she realized the silence spell that he bound about himself was the most powerful spell she had ever encountered.

  "Help you?" she stated. She hardly liked the sound of that. "It is the trees," he said quietly and there was such a sadness in his voice, Dermot nearly forgot her fear. Nearly.

  "The trees?"

  "They are dying, or they have accepted the corruption." He shrugged. "I have survived the swamps of the Devastation, though nearly they destroyed me and I have withstood the plagues of the Night Hag, but--" He stopped and he moved. Just a slight twist of the shoulders, a quiver about the nostrils, that was all, but it was so like some trapped animal, so like some small creature caught in a situation it could not understand that Dermot felt a flush of pity for him. "He is more like me than ever I guessed," she thought. "He feels the cage about him and cannot break free any more than I can. But," she reminded herself, "his burden is beyond any I have ever been called to bear."

  "Margawt," she spoke in a soft voice as to a child, "I cannot understand you, you must explain more clearly what you want of me." Again he shifted and then to her horror he began to rock back and forth on his heels and a small sound, like a moan came from him.

  "It eats me," he whispered, "it reaches through the ground and it eats me piece by piece. It whispers to me, promises me freedom, release, ending to the pain. But it lies as it always has, always will."

  "Why--who whispers to you?"

  "You don't know?" His voice was incredulous. "Surely Donal and the others understand?"

  "Understand what?" Dermot was confused. What could he possibly be speaking of?

  "The land, the land." Margawt clenched both his fists in his hair. "Oh, goddess, is it true, can it be they do not know?"

  "Margawt, what are you talking about?" Dermot asked angrily.

  "The evil that infects the land, that destroys Aes Lugh, do you not know it? Do you not recognize it? Can it be you fight what you do not understand?"

  "Of course I understand," she snapped out, "it's Arianrood. She is part of this land. She is the Ead. Her betrayal, her acceptance of the Dark has infected the magic of this country. We have to--"

  "NO!" Margawt shouted, and he whirled away from her and braced his two hands against the wall. In a quiet voice he continued.

  "I have come to you, Dermot of the Shee, because you have the Tome of Rhiannon, because you have the same blood in your veins as I, because you have the potential to be as powerful as once Dammuth was. I have come to you also because you are a woman and close to the goddess. This land is dying and what does not die is twisted and corrupted as no living thing should be. I am the Morigunamachamain and the vengeance of the earth is my destiny. But I am protector, too." He laughed harshly as he said that. "But it does not matter, Dermot of the Shee. I cannot kill the land-- Ah, how to explain, why must I explain? I am the Morigunamachamain, the only one. If only I did not know how mad I truly am--"

  For long moments neither spoke, for it was as he said. He was the Morigunamachamain, and it was not her right to ask explanations of him. She was an elf and a Shee; Dermot knew Margawt was beyond her judgment, beyond her comprehension. Yet how could she help if she did not understand?

  "You cannot," he said. Margawt turned and Dermot gasped in astonishment. His eyes were pools, pools of red thick blood; she expected to see them bleed down his face at any moment. His skin was stretched taut and the muscles in his face were like thick bands of iron. But in that face that should have horrified her, there was such beauty, such pain and sadness that Dermot nearly wept.

  "What is happening to you, Margawt?" she asked, and she could not help but lift a hand toward his face, but he shied from her touch.

  "I do not know. I am not as the others were. I know things, feel things-- I can do things no other Morigu could." He moved closer to her and looked down with his blood eyes. "Dermot, if the land is corrupted, if the earth herself becomes one with the Dark, is my only choice to seek a way to destroy the world itself?" And she began to understand.

  "The evil in Aes Lugh, it affects you like the evil in a creature of the Dark," she said.

  "It is much worse, for the land has little choice, no real mind as a man, or elf, or to an extent a goblin."

  "I understand you cannot kill the land, so you have come to me to find a way to change the land, to drive the Dark from it."

  "I have that power, I found it in my battle with the Night Hag, but I do not know how to control it, how to direct it."

  "Margawt, what you speak of, it is the power of a god!"

  "A god?" He laughed. "What are gods to me? There is only the goddess, and if you think she is as other beings that are called gods are, you are very far from the truth."

  "Cannot the goddess then do this thing?"

  "I am the avenger. I am the protector. The hunter. The sword of the earth. The mad passion of the earth things. Vengeance. I must find a way to cleanse the land, or I must destroy it; I have no choice."

  "Perhaps if we defeat Arianrood, perhaps if she is--"

  "No!" Margawt's fist slashed through the air. "NO! You do not understand! Do you think Arianrood is as the others? Do you think the Dark seduced her with power over other creatures? Do you think it is power like that she craves? She is the Ead, she knows, she knows it all. Don't you understand? Don't you see?"

  "See what?" Dermot shouted. She was half in a rage, though she did not know why. She did not understand, could not understand. And finally she realized she did not want to understand. She leapt up and tried to stop him from speaking, for she knew in that moment if she let him speak, all things, everything she was and everything she would have been, would be lost forever. But he was the Morigu and he could not help but understand.

  "It is not Arianrood," he said sadly for he recognized what a terrible moment this was for her. He understood what he was doing to her. "It is not her magic gone evil that infects the land, that kills it. It is the voice of the Beast, Dermot of the Shee, it is He who whispers to me, whispers to us all. It is His breath that kills all with insane delights, and mad wishes." Dermot sat back down and said nothing.

  "I do not yet know what He has offered Arianrood, what knowledge or what power He offers her. This I do not know." Dermot stared at his face, mesmerized by his blood eyes and godlike features. "But they were fools to think that such as Fealoth could ever defeat the Beast. He was never truly cast out, never truly gone. His form, His mind, perhaps His soul, but not His spirit. He has always been here, and Arianrood fell to Him as so many others have. As it seems the whole world must. Even I. For He has plans for the least of us, Dermot of the Shee, and for me He plans something beyond bearing. He plans for me to destroy the world." ,,

  "If the whole world is corrupt," she whispered, "if the land itself if wrong..."

  "I am the Morigunamachamain... I have so little of my own. I would have no choice. I would be driven to it. And Dermot," he added almost gently, "I would find a way."

  "I believe you." He did not answer, j
ust stood there waiting. It was all too much to fathom for her. But she understood now why it was so hard for him to speak clearly. He was truly not like any other creature, he was a force, like a hurricane or a tornado. He was directed, but not by himself. She realized it must be an almost unbearable strain for him to talk as he had. How much easier, how much simpler, to just do as he was driven to do. To just kill and never think of it. Never weigh it and try to understand it. Who had the right to judge him? Who could say it is wrong for him to do one thing or another? Who but he could ever truly understand the unbelievable agony that every breath must be?

  She understood now. She understood why he came to her, and what he asked of her. A new thing, a Morigu striving to give life instead of taking it. She understood why he rebelled oh so subtle against his fate. And she understood one more thing, she now knew why the other Morigus had killed themselves after the Dark Siegn wars. They had known, they had known as only they of all creatures, mortal and immortal, could know. They understood that the great war had only been the beginning. They knew the Dark Lord hadn't been defeated, that he was stronger than ever, and they, as Margawt now did, heard his voice and his subtle promises. They understood the future for them was to be the murderers of the very earth, and rather than be a part of that they killed themselves. As Dermot knew she would have.

  Margawt was the Morigunamachamain, the only one. Dermot wondered if the goddess truly understood how well she had picked him. And she wondered if in the end he would go as the others before him had. He bore the burden alone now and could look to no other to lift it for him. But still, she thought, we can help--there's always that.

  "There are prisons and there are prisons, Margawt," she said, "and you shall come to know the size of mine. Together we shall read the Tome of Rhiannon and there, I promise you, we shall discover the magic you seek and free Aes Lugh from its doom."

  He did not answer her, he only waited. But as his eyes and face returned to normal, and as he once more bore the manner he had always had, he could not hide the one quick moment when his shoulders relaxed and his hands relaxed and almost, almost he gave a quick smile of pleasure. Dermot did not acknowledge it, did not show she had seen it. She picked up the tome and turned her thoughts to the task ahead, but even as she did, she knew that there would be a price for all this. They would find a way to free the land, she was sure of that, but there would be a price. For the Beast would never forget their defiance. Never.

  As Margawt and Dermot began their task in the capital city of Aes Lugh, the sorcerer king of Fiodha, Remon anxiously awaited word from his mistress Arianrood. Remon was not a big man, but spare and lean, and as is often the case with such men, he was physically extremely powerful. The long, black robe he usually wore, paired with his dark eyes and high cheekbones, gave him the look of an ascetic, an appearance blunted somewhat by the sword and long-bladed knife strapped about his waist.

  He paced back and forth across the large stonechamber he had appropriated as his workroom. The place was filled with the paraphernalia of magic and a slight stench of corruption seemed to permeate the very air. The king was anxious. Since the spring he had led the huge army that sieged the dwarves of the Crystal Falls and he feared that the allies' advance into Aes Lugh would force him to abandon the siege. Remon was not sure that he had enough troops to hold Caer Lugh, and if the city was taken, the entire northern army would be isolated. And then the dwarves would be free to take the initiative. And Remon had learned in the long year of warfare to fear the dwarves.

  It was for this reason that he had sent a desperate message to Arianrood. He did not fear the Ead's anger, for the setbacks of the last months could not in any way be blamed upon him, but he wondered if even Arianrood could devise a way to alleviate the deteriorating strategic situation. If she could not, then Remon felt it was only a matter of time till the allies gained the upper hand.

  The king continued pacing as he pictured the movement of the various armies in his head. Numerically the allies were still at a severe disadvantage, but the quick victories of the spring had, he felt, come too easy. The Dark armies were overextended in the south in a vast unsteady line from Aes Lugh to the sea. Since early summer, Remon had argued for a halt on all fronts, while the armies consolidated their positions, especially in the north. He had prophesied the destruction of the Maigul armies in Cather-na-nog, though that was small consolation in the loss of so many thousands.

  But all the strategic situation, bleak as it seemed, was simply the symptom of the problem, not the cause. To the king this had always been a war of conquest, a war between nations for the control of the continent and inevitably, the world. Slowly, however, he had realized that for the demon princes and for Arianrood herself it was otherwise. Remon had objected strenuously, when the Ead and the others had withdrawn from the battlefields, though he could guess the reason for it. But with the withdrawal of such power from the armies, the allies were given the chance to stabilize their fronts and then go on the counteroffensive. To make it worse, even Remon had been caught off guard by the size and scope of the allies' attacks.

  Then there was the dragon. Remon had always seen Cuir re Duriche as an ally, for the dragon, too, was first and foremost interested in conquest. But his behavior in Tolath was nothing less than betrayal, for now the humans would be able to start an offensive in the south come spring. It was madness. The sorcerer could not fathom the purpose for the dragon's actions.

  The king's anger built with each moment, for there were things here he did not understand. It wasn't help he wanted from Arianrood, it was explanations and if he was expected to continue as her warlord, he must have them.

  Just then there was a blinding green light in the center of the room, and Remon stumbled back from the awesome display. The light slowly dimmed and there Arianrood floated two feet off the floor. Her body was slightly insubstantial as she was in astral form, but the king was surprised he had expected a messenger, not the Ead herself. To make his discomfort complete, Arianrood stood naked before him, and he could see the incredible power that she commanded. He bowed low and waited for her to speak.

  "Remon," she said as if barely remembering who he was. Since she was there in astral form, which is to say her personality and soul were in the room, but not her actual body, her voice had an odd, hollow ring. "What is it you desire?"

  "Answers." Remon did not shout, but all his impatience came back to him. "Answers as to why our enemy is allowed to counterattack. How did they get to Aes Lugh with an army of elves? Why did the dragon destroy his army? Answers, my queen, for if you don't realize it, the whole war is turning against us."

  "The war, yes," she answered in a dreamy voice.

  "Don't you understand!" Remon could not hide his exasperation. "If we don't do something now, if we don't check the enemies' advances, we could lose!" Arianrood stared silently at the king for a moment; slowly her form solidified somewhat and for the first time she looked straight at Remon.

  "Armies will not win this war," she said.

  "They could have!" Again Arianrood was silent for some time.

  "Remon, do you know what I and the demon lords are doing?" Now it was the man who did not speak. Finally in a small voice he answered.

  "You seek to free the master from his bonds."

  "The master?" Arianrood laughed, a harsh hollow sound. "Your master perhaps!" Abruptly her laughter stopped. "But you are correct, we are breaking the chains Fealoth cast about the Beast and we will bring him here to tread the earth once more." Her form drifted closer to him. "Remon, little king, do you think the people of the land can resist the might of the Dark Lord himself?"

  "They did before," Remon dared to answer, though his voice shook at the implications of his words.

  "Indeed." Arianrood again laughed her weird laugh. "Indeed they did. But then again that was another time, another war, and that time I fought against the Beast." The king had no answer to that.

  "The war, Remon, is secondary," she said, "do y
ou understand? Your task and that of the other warlords is to keep pressure on the enemy so they cannot afford the resources to hinder the freeing of your master." She stressed "your." "Now, Remon, tell me how I may help you."

  "The enemy advances daily. I think they will reach Caer Lugh and here a final battle for control of Aes Lugh will take place. We cannot lose that battle, or the whole northern army will be cut off. Now with the loss of the dragon's army in Tolath our forces are stretched thin. I dare not divert any units from the Crystal Falls, or we will have the whole dwarven nation on our backs. We need warriors! We need the return of the princes and yourself to hold our positions! Caer Lugh must not fall!"

  "There are no armies to give you." Arianrood spoke with flat finality. "Neither I nor any of the powers that assist me will turn from our task. Do you not realize, Remon, that the Bright World itself is riven by war?" She smiled. "If it had not been for the Hunter, the elves never would have reached Aes Lugh. It was that ancient god and the damnable Morigu that allowed their progress through the swamps of the Devastation. If the dragon had not betrayed us, the humans would never have recaptured the mountains of Tivulic. As it is they are on their last legs."

  "The dragon," Remon murmured, still confused as to the monster's motives.

  "Yes, he plays his own little game, Remon." She shrugged, still smiling. "It is he, not the elves or humans, that has hurt us most, but Cuir re Duriche is a fool. He dreams of lost glories and of his race once more ruling as of old. But the dragons are no more, and he is the last of his kind. And in the end either we or our enemies will deal with him." Arianrood extended her hand and in it lay a glowing black jewel.

  "But I have a gift for you, king," she said. "Trapped in this stone is a demon unlike any other. He is a creature I defeated long ages ago. He is constrained by no rule, not by time, or fate, or duty. Free him and he will offer one service. Use him to strike at the heart of your enemy! Use him to break their will and turn their triumphs into tragedies. The price they are paying in this war is a cost they cannot continue to afford and in the end all of them will pay the ultimate price." Hesitantly Remon reached out and picked up the stone, once more in awe of Arianrood's power, for to bear a physical thing while in astral form was an unheard of feat. The stone was warm and Remon could feel the demon's attempts to free itself from its prison. Attempts that in centuries had not diminished in power or perseverance.