"Lady," he said, "how can I get the demon close enough to strike? The Morigunamachamain has found all my spies and assassins no matter how clever and destroyed them all."
"Yes, the Morigu, he must be dealt with," she answered, "right now he is the primary threat, and the Beast has plans for him." She was silent for a moment considering. "This demon, oh king, is not like others, it is why even I could not kill him. He is free in a way no other I know is. Death is unknown to him. There are no other worlds waiting for him, no other paths. He is free. Send him, he will find a way. He will find the weak point and will strike the enemy where most it will hurt them. And then," she sighed even as she faded from sight, "he will be free once more. Free." Her voice echoed weirdly in the room and then she was gone.
Remon, wizard king of Fiodha, held the black jewel in his hands, staring at the spot where the Ead had been. Now he was beginning slowly, slowly, to understand. Free, she said, free. "She does not seek conquest, power, domination," he thought, "it is something else she wants, and all of us, the Dark Lord himself, are just pawns in her game." And he shuddered, for all his power what was he compared to the many that schemed in this mad war? All seemed to serve their own purpose, and Remon doubted seriously that the dragon could be dealt with as easily as Arianrood intimated. Remon swore under his breath as he took the stone to a work bench. Until he knew more he could do nothing, save what he was ordered to. He was trapped and in that trap he smelled his own doom.
C H A P T E R
Seventeen
He was an old god. Many centuries ago the pyridin had "chosen" to capture him, and in those long years of captivity he had dreamed of all that he had lost. The young gods had come when man had changed, and the people had no use for such as He anymore. He had wanted a mighty battle to end it all, an apocalyptic crash of might between his own and the upstart gods. It was his way after all.... But it had not happened that way, not that way at all.
The people turned from him and his bloody ways. No longer did their hearts stir to his call to arms, no longer would they give the sacrifices he demanded, and so like others before him, he and his dwindled. One by one his brothers and sisters, his children and their hero children, passed away to legend, to myth, to forgetfulness. But such an ending he could not accept--would not accept. And so he stayed, holding on to what power he could.
It was the pyridin that taught him the futility of his dreams. Once he would have waded into them, the sun his shield, the lightning his spear, the thunder his war horn. Oh, he had been mighty in his day--
But they had humbled him, chased him down like an animal and caged him with their strange magics. And then, worst of all, they forgot him.
He had languished in their prison of spells for longer than he had ruled. He, once King of all Gods, Master of the Fates of Man, the War God of the Conquerors, the Storm God of the Powerful, he, God of Gods, had simply been forgotten by his capturers and existed only for his dreams; his vague, vague dreams of gold and women and crashing mortal armies. And in time, even the dreams had no more meaning. They had become simple acts of repetition that could no longer arouse his anger, or his hope. Little things, his once mighty visions, little inconsequential things.
And then he came.
The Beast, the Destroyer, the Dark Lord, the Master of Evil, the Annihilator. He came to the land, and ripped the life out of the old god, stole from him the blood and savagery that once had made him lord of the world. He was left with nothing, nothing, for his memories were of a dead world of violence and mayhem that he no longer could respond to, no longer lust for. He was dust--
But he could not die, would not die, though often he longed for it. His own mind became a stranger for him. The wisdom that had ruled all things no longer had any value. The world had continued on and left him behind. He had been a two-faced god, a god of judgment and cruelty, wisdom and savagery, hope and madness. But the Beast stole from him half his power and all his passion, and the old one could find nothing to replace it with, though he did not even know he was trying, not until Dammuth's call shook the inner and outer worlds.
Many answered that call and joined the Arch Mage in his doomed battle. Some of them had once called the old god lord, some had been his family, the heroes that he had created so long ago. He had not known so many had survived and he was proud of the power they were able to gather, the bravery and skill they fought with. He was proud of them, but he did not join them, even though he could have. He did not--
It was truly a tale of his own age, Dammuth's stand against Hell, a true ending of apocalypse and Armageddon. It had the blood, the enemies, the defiance, the glory. It had it all. All that he had not only lived for, but was. He had always been the incarnation of that world, that belief. It was he who chose death over life: he who taught man to love death, to love power. It was he who placed violence as the ultimate good, the final answer to all questions. The strongest was the only one who mattered, and he was the master of violence, the one who understood the power in brutality--in fear. He taught his followers to love their own fall and seek it above all things. Such a man would have fought with Dammuth, such a god would have. But the old one in that moment realized that he had changed; for he had done something else.
For the first time in centuries he stretched forth his power and sought to reach Dammuth, not to join the wizard in his death struggle, but to give him one message, one bit of wisdom from a god who should have died long ago.
He tried to tell Dammuth, Arch Mage of the land, Dragonslayer, Shield of Light, one thing. He tried to tell the old man to run--
The old god had changed, changed and could never be the same. He had not filled the void that the Beast had left inside him. He was still only half a soul, but still he had changed. It was fool's glory, that old wizard's stand--fool's honor. And since that moment when he had strived to help Dammuth, the old one knew he could no longer lose himself in the pathetic memories of his dim and bloody rule. He could not retract the power he had sent forth, could not turn from the knowledge of what was happening to the land.
War! Yes, he knew war, but he had not ever truly understood it. For what was war to him? If he lost, he rose to fight again. If he won, he would seek a new battle. The broken forms of the corpses he left on those ancient battlefields meant nothing to him. They had no names, no lifes, no purpose, save to do his will. For he was the strongest.
But that was all long ago and no longer was he the strongest; he was nothing but a half-remembered tale to frighten children with. And in his fall he learned new things, though he was slow to accept them. He had learned the names of those on the battlefields; he had learned the reasons behind the wars. There were many other things for him to learn, but he had not the method, he had not the skill. He was nothing.
And so it had been for the old one during the long year of the war, as he strove with the little power that still remained to understand what he could not. Yet perhaps his power was not so diminished, for he was not surprised when after centuries of neglect the pyridin finally remembered him and during that cold winter day offered a new path for an old god.
"Pyridin peoples make choice," the ugly little creature said in a squeaky voice, its stick-thin body bending and weaving in some strange pattern that made sense only to the pyridin. "Dorrerilassarslany made choice, help big peoples fight unthings, black unhealth stain all lands now. Even pyridin lands." The creature squealed in disgust. "We help, we war, but pyridin peoples chose no army, chose stealth, chose trickery, chose magic, claws and fangs in dark!" The pyridin moved close to the god, its pink eyes bright. "Pyridin people, we search, search. We do what no others can do--our choice. We seek the Unthing's deepest hole, blackest den. Evil!" it screamed, dancing away. "Evil! Black! Dark stain! No choice! No choice!" Again it moved closer, speaking in a husky whisper. "They seek. They do. They seek to free the Dark One, to bring the Beast here to take away all choice. All choice--even theirs. Pigs! Unthings! No choice! No choice evermore!!!!" And the creature shrie
ked like a dying horse.
"What is it you wish of me?" the god said, though he could not hide his excitement. He knew his moment had come. His chance to pit his will against the true enemy, the only enemy. The Beast.
"Hate gods," the pyridin answered petulantly. "Less gods, more choice." It gave a dramatic sigh, shrugging its shoulders in resignation. "But best choice. We free old god--he help humans. Like humans, though they stupid and follow others. They scared of choice." It shrugged again. "But pyridin people like them." It reached out a tentative paw and poked at the supine god. "Ancient one, old one, do you choose to fight? Can old god understand? Can old god see? All peoples, all peoples must fight now, but pyridin people don't choose armies, don't need armies. But old god, he could fight?"
"I will fight, little one," the god answered. He should hate this creature and all its kind; once he would have, but he did not hate them and he could sense the fear the pyridin felt. That all the people of the land felt. "I will do battle in the name of your people. The people of the land will know that the pyridin war, too."
"Good choice!" It yelled at the top of its voice, "Good choice!" It danced a moment, then abruptly squatted down. "Old god, changed. Made new choices. Not same god pyridin people capture long ago. Not same unthing. Now no longer great god, now less god. But pyridin people think old god more than he was. Pyridin people remember old god's choice, is good choice." The pyridin stood up and waved a paw in the air. "Tell big peoples, pyridin seek. Pyridin have chosen. Beast! Black Unmaker! That is true enemy. Must not be freed! Must not make war! Must not be!" The pyridin's voice turned dark with its anger, and the god saw the power in these odd creatures, the savagery. "Take Black One's choice away. Unmaker will take all choices from unthings." It sighed. "Tell big people this. Make war, old god. It must be done."
The god thought long on the pyridin's words, especially its last. It must be done, the creature had said. Must be done. That was not a phrase that he had ever heard a pyridin speak. He understood there was a need here, a need to fight, but it wasn't his need. His need was to fill the void, the void of lost purpose, and of the half soul that was all his claim in the world. So he searched, searched the land, for he had no power as of old. He needed form. He needed purpose. He needed an avatar.
It was to the humans he looked, for they were always his. He felt the changes in their souls. He did not comprehend the differences, but he, for once, saw the people as individuals, as something other than his tools and toys. He had need of a pact, a body, and a name.
There were many, many of stature; he had no time for a childhood. No time for a lifetime to train. He knew that much. So he searched the land and because old ways die hard, he looked only to men and only men of great power and great ability.
Fin. He was too singular, too unique. There was nothing the god could offer Fin, laird of Dun Scaga, for the man had all he needed. Brasil. The son. Proud, brave. But not the father's equal, still no less for that. Strong, good warrior, but no.
Niall. Ah, that one. The god shuddered, for the white eyes turned to stare at him. They were filled, filled with so many things. And a city the god knew. Never that one. His fate could not be interfered with. Only Niall could choose it.
And so it continued, one lord after another, all discarded, but not always for reasons the god could understand. But he was always a being of instinct. And those he had something to give--power; they were the wrong ones. They had the old blood in them, the old ways. He wanted to know the world through new eyes, eyes that--
And then he saw him.
Death, Lord Death waited as he always did, and his manner was sad, as it had not always been. He stood over the man waiting, waiting as the human slowly froze and Death's hand tightened. There.
And Death looked up at the old god and he almost smiled.
"So, brother, I wondered if you would ever make an appearance." But the god had once been more entwined with Death than any creature, once they had nearly been one, so he saw what he could not believe.
"Death, Death has changed?" he asked softly.
"And the king of kings, can he change?"
"Do not mock me, once I was your equal!"
"No, never that, though you enlarged my kingdom, old one. Oh yes, you were quick to send the poor fools to my halls."
"Death makes war?"
"Is that so strange?"
"More strange than anything I can remember and I remember much, brother."
"Do you remember the sacrifices, oh mighty one, do you remember the flames and the screams?"
"So, scavenger, it is so, you have changed."
"No, old one, where is your great wisdom? Your vaunted knowledge that encompassed all things?" Death moved closer and his eyes burned cold. "Death does not change, only what he shows, only what is seen of him. Death does not change. And-You-Never-Knew-Me!" Faced with that cold fury, the old god was silent for long moments. Finally, he spoke.
"Do you hate me, brother? Do you hate the heroes I sent you?"
"Fools, old fool. You sent me fools who died for nothing. Lived for nothing. Your world worshiped me and never knew how I hated it for that!"
"Death has compassion?"
"If not he, then who?"
"And so." The god turned to the man in the snow. "Avatar, Death. I would walk the world once more."
"Do you think I have stayed my hand from you in pity?" Death hissed. "Do you think I will let you carve the world once more? The wounds are deeper now than ever you could make. Do you think I will let you add?"
"Look at me, brother, see me as I am. I am incomplete. What you hate in me is stripped from me and lost in the years. I have no will, no reason. I have no madness. I have nothing. I need avatar." For long moments Death did not answer, for he could see the truth in his brother's words. But he had followed this one through the ages, he had seen his many forms, though the old one could not remember them all, for the span of years was too great for him to gather. But once there had been a triad: Death, the Hunter, and the God of War.
"Our little brother will not be too pleased to see you, old one." Death said, but his voice held no anger or threat.
"I am less, I am no god, nothing. I barely hold together what soul is left to me. Give me the man. He is of no use. I need the body. I need the memories. I need purpose."
"Who would you fight, Lord of Crows? Who would you lead to my arms?"
"I will bring you no more sacrifices than I must, scavenger!" The old god turned on Death and in his anger something of his old self shone through, and the sun was darkened by his words. "I will fight the Beast! For he is of us, the three of us, brother. He is our son! He is our father!"
"He is nothing of me. Nothing!"
"He is the fear of you, the madness of me, the savagery of the Hunter. He is our doom, our destiny. I have not loved the men I ruled, but I have respected them. I have not cared for them, but sometimes I helped. Not all that I was hurt them. I knew kindness. I knew gentleness. And now, I know what you have learned, brother, what has changed you. I know fear."
"Fear--?"
"Yes, brother." The old one's face hardened. "The Beast has gone beyond us. He has broken his bounds. He will crack the world in two. He will strip us of future, of past, of now. He no longer needs you, brother. He has gone beyond death, beyond insanity. He is the Annihilator. He will destroy, so that in all worlds, all paths, only he is. Only he."
"And you fear this. You fear an ending."
"No!" the god howled. "Not I, not I-- There is not an I, not anymore. There is nothing. But I have seen, brother.
I have seen in the humans' hearts. Memories, memories that should not be there. Dammuth was one of mine, though he almost broke from the chains of my rule. Is the Morigu the goddess's, my brother, or is he mine? Is he yours?"
"I do not know."
"What happens when we die, scavenger? What lies beyond your halls?"
"If I knew, could I tell?"
"If you knew, could any stop you telling?"
>
"Why this man?"
"He has lived, he has needed as of old, but sought his relief in other ways. He has died here, broken and alone. He has died for love."
"You never were a god of love," Death answered. "Lust, envy, pride, possession; this your pantheon knew, but never love."
"Neither do the young gods."
"Is that the answer?"
"Can Death know the answer to such a question?"
"Now you taunt me and you wound me as of old." Lord Death reached to the man and freed his soul. "Ask him, butcher. Ask him if he will give you all that once was his." The god turned to the shining thing that beheld its broken body.
"Mannon, Archduke of Ruegal," he said, "does that name still have meaning for you?"
"The cord is not completely severed," Death hissed, "not yet, hurry, for he still knows pain."
"I will war against your enemies, mortal," the god said, "I will take your form and make it mine. Your wants will be mine. Your desires mine."
"And my flaws?" came the hollow answer.
"Yes, but all will change. I will not be you. I will improve the tools you had. I will strengthen the body and the skills."
"Guenivive."
"Ah, why is that a name to cut you even as you are freed?"
"Guenivive."
"I will find a way. She will be freed."
"Guenivive."
"Perhaps, old man, she will find you in time. I will complete your quest somehow. Do you understand? I will do this for you."
Morigu: Book 02 - The Dead Page 19