"I looked for Death, and I have found him."
"But you made a promise. You pledged your word to your son."
"Niall."
"Niall."
"He will be your son and Guenivive's. He was never truly mine." And the old god was silent at this. There was truth in Mannon's words; a terrible truth the god could not understand.
"Give him what he asks, Mannon," Death said. "I think it is meant to be so."
"Guenivive."
"She will be freed. My word. My oath."
"Then take it. Take the burden, if you can bear it, for I could not." And then the last tie was loosened, and Mannon was truly dead. The god wasted no time and entered his new body. It took seven days and Death watched it all. The god lost some things, some knowledge, for the mind that was now his could not, would not remember all. The power burned inside the body and the old bones, so weak during the last months, grew stronger and thicker than ever they had been. The muscles reformed, reknit, infused with divine strength now. The frozen chainmail ripped to make room for the new body. And at the end of seven days, the god was no longer, and Mannon was no longer, but something new opened its eyes on the world for the first time and its first sight was the sun on the snow and its second was the sad not-eyes of Lord Death.
"So old one," Death said, "now you have what you wanted. What will you do with it?"
But there was no answer, for the giant's frame shook and he fell to its knees. For long moments Death waited, and finally, Mannon, Archduke of Ruegal, looked up and met his brother's eyes.
"All this time, all this time and I never knew! It is so lonely. So terrifying--"
"You used them for a thousand upon a thousand years. You used their fear, fed on it, and you never understood it. They were always greater than you, for their lot was harder."
"I will not fail." But what he would not fail the once god would not say, and Death did not ask. For he had heard so many before make that same sad and solemn promise.
C H A P T E R
Eighteen
As the old god struggled to possess the body of the dead Archduke of Ruegal, Remon, king of Fiodha, planned on quite a different type of possession. Long the sorcerer had pondered what use he might make of Arianrood's gift, for the Ead was less than clear in her instructions to him. Indeed, Remon wondered at the strange behavior of his mistress and he felt somehow he had fallen out of her good graces. However, now he felt he had a way of pleasing Arianrood and striking a blow at his enemies.
Carefully, Remon opened a small silver casket placed precisely in the center of the giant pentagram that dominated the same room where he had a week before spoken with Arianrood. Inside lay the black jewel, the prison of the great demon. Gingerly, Remon picked up the jewel with one hand while placing the casket in his robe with the other, replacing it with a small bronze dagger. With the blade he cut deep in his left palm cupping his hands, so a small pool of blood formed. Next he placed the jewel in the blood where it floated as if on a tiny red lake.
Words of power filled the room as Remon carefully undid the magic bindings that held the demon. The jewel began to open up, like the petals of a flower, and as it did so, its color changed from black to a startling bright green. For long moments the sorcerer peeled apart Arianrood's magic. It was a subtle and unbelievably powerful spell; Remon learned much of magic and his mistress's true strength that day.
At last, the final binding was broken and the demon freed. Black sparks flashed from Remon's bloody palm and coalesced like thick dust motes ten feet in the air. Slowly a form took shape and Remon, who had spoken with the princes of Hell, shuddered at the sight of the demon of the jewel.
It was at least seven feet in length and some three feet wide and looked like a great black insect; something between a spider and fly, though at the ends of its six arched legs were perfectly formed human hands. The demon's eyes were like a cat's, except they were slitted sideways and bright blue. For a moment the thing simply hovered in the air staring at Remon, its red veined wings beating at a furious pace.
"Free," it said, its voice hushed and expressing no emotion. "Free," it repeated. Its eyes roamed the room, taking in everything, then turned back to the sorcerer. Remon lost his concentration for a moment, partially hypnotized by those oddly beautiful eyes. There was something there in those eyes, something the wizard could not place. It was not relief, or anger, or anything the wizard would have expected; they seemed instead to be laughing, filled with some odd humor Remon could not decipher.
"I have freed you," he said, trying not to step back from the demon, "and so you owe me one task."
"Yes, yes, that is the way it always is." Again the flash of that strange look. "So what is it you wish of me?"
Carefully, never daring to take his eyes off the demon, the sorcerer explained the task he had for it. The creature did not speak the whole time, simply listening, its wings never missing a beat, its position in the air never moving an inch. When the king finished he was surprised to find himself chilled by his own sweat. The demon clicked its mandibles once.
"This is your will?"
"Yes, this is my will."
"Then I shall do as you have asked." And with that the demon flew from the room at an unbelievable speed. One moment it was there and then it was gone. Remon let out a sigh and placed a shaking hand to his brow. The demon had frightened him. He could not sense its strength, its mind. He did not understand it. It was as no creature he had ever met. But one thing he was sure of, the damned thing had been laughing at him!
The demon flew through the air high over the woods of Aes Lugh heading northeast. Lightly it chuckled to itself, for truly Remon was a fool.
The demon had many names on many worlds, but it thought of itself as the Outsider, for the rules of the worlds meant nothing to it. It had power, power beyond the sorcerer king's world, and it could have wreaked untold havoc on his enemies. But in the end Remon was a small man, a little man of little consequence, and doomed to always miss the obvious.
He wanted the death of the little Queen Maeve, thinking that in this way he would please Arianrood. The Outsider laughed, for what cared Arianrood of such things? She was long, long past the need for pride or vengeance, or much of anything. All she had was the Need. The passion for freedom, for the end of all responsibilities. All pain. But not of life. Chaos is what she craved, though she did not know it. No rules, no path, no future or past; simply put, she longed to be as the demon was. She longed to be the Outsider.
It laughed out loud at that thought. For the Outsider was the one, the only one. She could never understand, never truly be as he was.
He did not hate the Ead for the long confinement she had placed it in, but the Outsider would have its revenge. It had long whispered to her of things she could never have, should never truly want. It had spoken of the thousand worlds that were and would be. Of the path of no path. Death and life meant nothing to the Outsider, for he was not truly a part of either. The demon was neither evil nor good, right or wrong, it simply was. It wished for no domination over others. Fate had no hold on it. It watched, it participated, but it never changed.
The Outsider was not fond of this world, though here beat the heart and soul of life. But that meant nothing to it, nothing at all. Still it was bound here for this task, though none could bind it if it did not wish it so. Arianrood thought she had defeated the Outsider, but that was a fool's game and once she would have known better. But the years affected her, as they could not touch the Outsider; she was part of time. The demon had whispered of places where time had no hold. She longed to be free of the burden of life and death, and that was the Outsider's doing. She was doomed. Doomed. She thought the Outsider lived, but it did not. Her path could lead only to annihilation, though she thought she was breaking all paths. It laughed at the subtlety of its game.
Now it planned a new game, a smaller thing, but Remon had sought to order the Outsider, to force his will on one who was nothing but will. That, the dem
on thought, will not do.
The Outsider hovered above the city of Pwyl, its mind searching for the tool it needed. It was surprised by the power of the tiny creatures here and impressed with their determination and strength of will. It did not mind that in hurting Remon it would help these creatures, though of course there would be a price. And the first price would be that of a soul.
She was exactly what he needed, and the Outsider admired the perfection of his tool. Manwyn O'Shea walked alone and could not see the demon hovering above her. Her thoughts were filled with the training of the destroyer, her emotions flooded with the richness of the power he offered her. The Outsider laughed at her pathetic thrust of intelligence and gloated over the darkness that stained her soul. This was the one.
Once the Outsider touched the land in physical form the rules of this world would apply to it and that meant it must deal with the Morigunamachamain. But the Outsider knew of Margawt's attempt at Manwyn's life and that she was under the protection of Cucullin and Donal. She was a hard little blade in the Morigu's side, for he could not destroy her and he could not bear her to live. So he shut her out from his existence, and wherever she walked the land was empty, for the Morigu withdrew his power about her. And so she was truly the perfect tool, the Outsider could walk free as her and none would know of Remon's petty plans; till it was too late.
The Outsider lanced down, crashing through what little defense the girl had and casually he batted her soul away. It was done in the blink of an eye. The small soul of Manwyn O'Shea was trapped far away, as the Outsider took her body, her mind, her memories. There are many ways of possession.
But still it was the Outsider and rules were meaningless to it. It reached out and touched the mind of Donal Longsword. It was simple for the demon to push here and pull there without Donal realizing the Outsider's presence. It did not invade, it simply clarified what Donal himself sought to understand. And in his study, Donal Longsword leapt up and ripped down the map from the wall. He studied it carefully, hardly containing his enthusiasm. It was true, he realized, Remon had no choice! He would place his army on the hills of Longherin, some five miles from Caer Lugh. Yes, he could see it now, the king would try to hurt the army of Aes Lugh before retreating behind the walls of the city. And the hills were a perfect defensive position.
Donal knew, he knew, how Remon would place his forces. The elves' spies were excellent and Donal was well informed of the composition of Remon's army. Yes, he could see it now, see how he could break the shield wall and anticipate Remon's staged withdrawals from the hills. It was all so clear!
And then he remembered another thing. Of course! The city of Caer Lugh was spread among some twelve islands on the river Shannon. And Donal remembered that once the river had been shallower; long ago, ages ago. Still the old gates were there, some ten feet below the current water line. If they could somehow lower the river level, they could easily break through the defenses of Caer Lugh, take the city in one battle instead of a costly siege. It could be done. He knew it. It could be done!
And the Outsider laughed.
It was the demon that had picked the knowledge of Remon's battle plans from the sorcerer king's thoughts. It remembered the old gates from an age long gone, and now that knowledge was Donal's.
"Yes, little king," the Outsider thought. "I will do your bidding and kill the would-be queen, but you shall lose the battle and Arianrood's city!"
Several soldiers were startled to hear Manwyn O'Shea laugh, for no one had ever seen her happy. They watched, bemused, while she skipped down the street whistling some odd but merry tune.
Anlon appeared at Pwyl that week, in time to join Donal and Margawt on their quest. Donal's elven steed was hard pressed to keep up with the supernatural speed of the unicorn, which once more Margawt rode, as the companions raced through the thick forest of Aes Lugh. It took them six days to reach their goal: the place where the river Shannon entered Aes Lugh. Here the fall of Caer Lugh would begin.
It was a place of unnatural beauty, for the river came pouring into Aes Lugh from Fas-Nache through a land of rocky hills and dark crevasses. Here the river announced the boundaries of the two ancient lands by crashing over a powerful waterfall, sixty feet high and a hundred broad. The water poured over the edge leaping into the small lake beneath, but where once the river continued on through rough rapids, laughing for those with the ears to hear, as it raced deep into the heart of the land it loved, now it crashed and roared in anger and funnels of water spun through the air as the river spirits vented their rage and despair.
Donal dismounted and stood watching as Margawt and the unicorn approached the edge of the lake. The warlord marveled at the sun-bright lillies that spun in mad circles about the jutting rocks surrounded by a pure white foam. The water here was an unnatural blue, the shadows of its depth an odd silver color. The half elven could feel the concentration of magic in this place and he wondered at the alienness of its feel.
"The guardians go no farther than this place," Anlon said, his dark eyes contemplating the water. "Here the river is still clean and filled with life, but in Arianrood's realm all things are tainted." Margawt reached into the water with both arms and sighed.
"Here is the land's heart," he murmured, "here is the remembrance of what once was."
"Call them, Morigu," Anlon said, "they will heed you." But Margawt did not answer. Slowly he rose and walked into the lake. A faint steam came from his skin where the water touched him, but if it hurt the Morigu at all, he did not show it.
Donal watched fascinated as Margawt stopped chest-deep in the water. Around him the lake turned a darker shade of blue and it seemed to the half-elven that he could see figures swimming in it. The forms moved quickly and held no stable shape. The water frothed around the Morigu, great waves crashed inches from him, but no water touched Margawt's face, and he stood stock-still.
Then some thirty feet from Margawt the water stilled, and a large serpentine head broke the surface. Donal could not make out the being's features, though he was sure the creature was golden and its eyes silver. The great jaws of the water spirit crashed shut, a splintering sound like a wooden ship breaking on the shoals.
"Have you finally heeded our call, avenger?" The spirit's voice was impossibly deep, and Donal had to concentrate to understand it.
"I have come for the land," Margawt answered, "I have come to free it of Arianrood's plague."
"And how will you accomplish what all the people of the river could not?" There was something dark in that voice, something that spoke of gasping lungs and unheard pleas for help.
"The river must turn to other paths, deep into the earth in forgotten veins of the mother. The river must cleanse the roots of the dying land." The creature crashed its teeth together once more, the sound of deadly rapids.
"The people of the river go no more to Aes Lugh. We do not pollute ourselves with the Ead's darkness!"
"You will go," Margawt answered quietly.
"Are you so sure of that young one?" The spirit's long neck stretched out so its silver eyes were scant inches from Margawt's. "Who is it that commands the people of the river?"
"I command." Margawt's face turned hard and the spirit shied from the Morigu as if from a flame. "I am the Morigunamachamain. The only one. I command."
"We are free! Free! We run with the waters, we carve the land. You are the Morigunamachamain! You are the goddess's avenger. Her warrior. Make war and leave us, mad one!"
"You, too, will make war," Margawt answered, his voice now a bare whisper.
"Nay! Nay, it shall not be. We will not cross into Arianrood's stinking swamp! The filth of that land fouls the waters, chokes it with a rot and decay no power can wash clean! You do not know what you ask. You do not understand the cost to us!"
"Never speak to me of cost! Never speak to me of payment!" The lake water churned and crashed like a great storm upon the ocean. "You will withdraw the river from its age-old path. You will guide it to the heart of the land
and awaken the trees. You will do this whatever the cost, because it must be done. It is the only way."
At Margawt's words the water turned black and a horrible chorus of cries filled the air. There were great howls in that sound, last defiance of a strong man dying alone; and wails, sounds of a mother seeking her child in a river's depths; and worst of all, high-pitched cries of terror as of the child pulled to his death by some creature of the deep with cold hands. But through it all Margawt stood straight and unmoved, and as a wave beating hopelessly against some ancient rock, the spirit's terror vainly tried to reach him. And for the first time, Donal Longsword knew the fear the enemy must feel when it heard the approach of the Morigu.
"It is time," Margawt said and at his words the water calmed and the water spirit plunged into the lake. In moments all was still and Margawt stood alone. His two hands grasped the water as if he clutched something solid. Slowly Margawt spread out his power, first to the lake, and there he touched the water spirits and sent them forth like war spears cast at the beginning of battle. Faster and faster he pushed them, twisting and turning, as the water welcomed their passage.
He directed them to small streams that led underground, to larger streams and finally to cold and dark rivers that had never seen the light of day. Here the first true resistance was met, for many of the spirits of these lightless places had welcomed the new rule of the Ead, but they were overwhelmed and crushed by the might of Margawt's strange army. And by the power of his vengeance. Deeper and deeper the spirits raced, carving new passages for the river, doing a thousand years' work in days.
In Caer Lugh Remon was aware that the river was receding, but he did not know what it meant, nor did he see any reason he should fear it. But there were some in the Ead's city that watched the waterline dropping and shuddered at the sight. They knew such a thing should not be.
Morigu: Book 02 - The Dead Page 20