Morigu: Book 02 - The Dead

by Mark C. Perry

  Through the land an odd expectancy took hold, so that even the birds were silent and no animal dared to leave its den. More and more Arianrood's minions put up a fight, all unknown to the king of Fiodha, as Margawt battled to free the land.

  The battles took place in dark and silent places within the very veins of the earth. Monsters battled there and creatures that would drive a man insane should he ever see one in the light of day. They ripped and tore at each other, the spirits of the waters, and their savagery was something only Margawt could truly understand. The least of the inhabitants of the waters took part and the dead and dying were uncountable.

  Earthquakes shook the land and where once there had been a green glade, now would be a dark lake; where once a stream had merrily danced, now a torrent of rapids ripped apart everything in its path. Harder and harder Margawt drove his army, heading always toward the city of Pwyl. There the trees awoke, and the wooden walls moaned in pain as the land battled itself. There beneath the city, the great spirit that had spoken to Margawt fell to a minion of the Cold One. But the victor had little time to gloat over its victory, for it was torn limb from limb by shrieking hags from a child's worst nightmare.

  And there in a deep cellar waited Dermot of the Shee.

  She stood alone, holding the Tome of Rhiannon in one hand and a white candle with the other. Dermot felt Margawt's power rip through the land, lancing into her very bones like liquid metal. She cried out in pain and shock, but somehow she kept control.

  In a slow monotone she began to chant the words she and Margawt had wrestled from the Tome of Rhiannon. They were sounds really, sounds that no throat was ever formed to make, no lips designed to shape. Sounds of the forest, of the rustle of leaves and the tiny sounds of the wild creatures. The sounds of the sun drying the morning dew, of the seeds bursting and pushing through the thin veil of the earth; the cracking and shuddering of limbs battered by a storm. And most of all the constant and never-ending motion as the children of the seed stretch and twist in their endless and futile attempt to touch the sky itself.

  Many, innumerable were the memories Dermot created, tying them with Margawt's power, spreading them out, out through the land. Memories of the new, young laughter, newly wakened hunger. Memories of spring--

  Still Margawt's army forced back the enemy, and the land for hundreds of miles about Pwyl was cleansed. The trees pushed their roots deep in the muddy ground and new life sprung from their branches in a bewildering array of colors. Elsewhere, whole areas of vegetation shriveled and died; places where Arianrood's power had been accepted. The earth things took no pity on those that had betrayed them, and the creatures of the Dark were hunted down and destroyed mercilessly.

  In Pwyl the people cried in wonder as the land awoke and the heavy burden of Arianrood's betrayal was lifted.

  The wild creatures dashed about madly, hardly comprehending the joy that they felt. The beings of fairy returned and once more sought out places that they could make magic, and the land in the midst of winter bloomed like the first of springs.

  But there was a price to pay and many creatures that had once laughed and danced amongst the waters of Aes Lugh were no more. Dermot at last collapsed in exhaustion. And once more Margawt, too, payed a price.

  Donal forced himself to stand for three days and nights, his eyes never shifted from the form of the Morigu, and Anlon joined the warlord in that grim vigil. Margawt never moved the whole time, his hands still clutched the water. Donal could never say exactly what it was that happened, but it seemed to him that the waters about the Morigu turned blood red, eventually coating Margawt in a liquid shroud. But perhaps it was the Morigu himself who bled. Perhaps, but if so, it must have been from every pore in his body that he bled. 'And surely," Donal thought, "no creature can have so much blood that he can dye a whole river red," At least Donal hoped that it was not so.

  For three days and nights it continued, Margawt bleeding in or bled on, standing alone in the bright red water. His mouth was stretched open as if he screamed the whole time, but no sound did he make. His skin was stretched tight as if his muscles sought to burst through to the cool air. His eyes burned silver and for Margawt it was pain beyond even his knowledge.

  It was as if his skin was stripped from him and his nerve endings laid open to the world. He was pulled and stretched along all the pathways his army raced. Each blow that was struck in that battle he felt. Each death was his own. But for the Morigu there was never release in death, only another to follow. It ended as all things must, though that was the worst of it all, for only with the ending of the pain did Margawt realize how great it had been. He could not bear it, could not face it. He had no strength to cry or howl or even curl up and whimper. He had nothing left and fell like a tree facedown into the water. And if in his deepest heart he hoped that the spirits might return and pull him to his death, who then could blame him? Who then could judge--

  C H A P T E R

  Nineteen

  Donal and Anlon brought the Morigu back to the city of Pwyl, for Margawt had not regained consciousness after collapsing. Donal carried the Morigu in his arms, striding up to the gates of the city where the other warlords awaited him. The whole city watched, and no one dared to speak. Cucullin moved from the others and met Donal halfway, holding out his arms to take Margawt into the city.

  "No," Donal said, "I will carry him." Cucullin studied the warlord's face for a moment and then silently nodded, stepping out of the half-elven's way. Donal moved to face Maeve.

  "I bring back Margawt, the Morigunamachamain. Never forget, Lady, that it is he and he alone that has given you the chance to claim a throne."

  "He is the greatest of the Morigus," Maeve said, her low voice shaken with awe, "no other could have done as he has."

  "Another victory he has won for us," Donal answered, his face stern, "but of the price he payed I will not speak."

  "I know of the price," Dermot said. She stared at Margawt's limp form as if she looked at some half-dead monster. "I felt the Morigu's power. I felt his burden. I think he must be mad."

  "If so, Lady, then he is greater in his madness than any of us will ever be in sanity." Saying no more, Donal continued through the city, the warlords parting to make way for him as the people of Pwyl lined the streets paying silent homage to the Morigunamachamain.

  Spring was in the air the day the army of Aes Lugh marched to Caer Lugh, though the Borderlands were still covered with snow. The trees were bright with new leaves, and the grass fresh and strewn with multicolored flowers. The army had tripled in size in the months since it had taken Pwyl. Such an army had not been seen in the land since the Dark Siegn wars and it was a spectacular sight.

  At the head of the army rode Donal Longsword, his face hard, his sword winking in the moming light. Beside him rode Queen Maeve and her dour warlord, Fergus Firemane. There, too, rode the mighty Cucullin and his form shimmered as brightly as the sun. Next to him rode Dermot of the Shee, and Bronwen, dressed this day not as the huntress, but as the princess of Fiodha. The destroyer rode silently behind the others, his monks ranged about him. But if the warlords were a noble sight then the army that followed them was even more so.

  The elven cavalry rode in close columns, their banners flapping in the morning air, their armor blinding to the eye. Long ranks of foot soldiers marched steadily behind in unison, yet their feet made no sound when they touched the ground. Today all the warriors wore the black and red of Queen Maeve, which made the army's appearance deadly and fierce. Their weapons gleamed, multicolored jewels winked at throat and brow, and a hundred feet in the air the golden hawks of Diuann ai Di darted about. There was a mighty doom about that army. A sense of a shift on the scales of fate. These warriors would not be denied and those who thought to thwart them of their goal would earn red death and nothing more.

  Day and night the army continued, the land awakening about them. Only the dwarves could have kept up with such an unnatural pace and the few humans in the army soon bec
ame exhausted. No enemies tried to hinder the army's passage, for Remon had withdrawn all his forces to the hills of Longherin, and there, like a great black spider, Arianrood's host waited. And the elves were eager for their meeting.

  Donal said little on the long march, for his mind was filled with visions of the recent past. Once more he raced from the battle of Morhalk valley, leaving Colin and his dwarves to their doom. He relived the terrible ride to the Crystal Falls and watched in awe the bloodrite of Mearead. The long months of the war played out in his head. The mighty battles, the cries of the fallen, the constant deadliness of the enemy's plans. Again Fealoth sought their deaths in his own crypt, once more the dragon roared, and Feth rose to battle the Ard Riegh. Step by step, day by day the warlord relived it all.

  "I know all the names of the dead," Donal heard Margawt once more say, and he shuddered as the Morigu played with the white tentacles of the swamp spirit. And over it all the warlord saw Margawt standing in the bloody lake, his mouth locked in the scream he could not utter. There was a terrible grimness about Donal that the whole army was aware of. No longer was this battle for the queen of the brown elves. It was somehow more personal, something between their warlord and the traitor Arianrood.

  In the end it always came back to that for Donal, back to the queen he had served so faithfully and who had betrayed all so callously. It was her that he felt the blame for everything that had happened should rightly be layed on. He would take Caer Lugh. He would take her city and with his own hands he would crown a new queen of Aes Lugh. And then, too, he would leave the armies and battlefields behind. He would find Mearead, and together they would finish what they started so long ago: They would find Arianrood and drown her in her own black pool.

  Cucullin rode some ways behind Donal Longsword, for he of all the allies gathered in that mighty host was the only one with the power to see that the warlord did not ride alone. On the half-elven's left walked a god, the Hunter, and Cucullin was surprised to see a shadow sword in the god's hand. Once only did the god acknowledge the high prince as he turned to regard the elf. There was a savagery in those hidden eyes that reminded Cucullin of Margawt, but there was something else: a speculation; a question that the prince could not understand or answer. But Cucullin did not turn from that gaze. The high prince was not one to be awed by anyone or anything, not even a god.

  But Cucullin did feel a chill as he studied Donal's second companion. Death rode his golden chariot once more and the prince wondered what it meant that he rode on the warlord's right hand. Death, too, turned to appraise the elf, but in his eyes there was only a lonely sadness.

  There was one more creature that could see the god and his dark brother. The Outsider drew his magic tight around it, for he had not expected two such powers to join the army. It was tempting for the demon to reveal itself, for the Outsider felt that Death, and Death alone, might truly comprehend it. But now was not the time, for the Outsider had its thoughts and goals, too.

  The army of Aes Lugh came to the hills of Longherin just as the full moon began to rise. Quickly, they organized their ranks and faced the host before them.

  Remon had placed his warriors well and he was sure of victory. His army was made up of mostly men, with many brown elves and not a few of the greater elves. Lesser demons by the hundreds waited on the hills, and other creatures of the Dark. The king had hoped for a larger force, but the goblins that had left Fiodha to join the army had disappeared without a trace as they marched through the woods of Aes Lugh. Still, most of Arianrood's wizards were there and the armies were about equal in number.

  Donal Longsword rode between the two lines of the armies, his armor jingling faintly as he studied the disposition of Remon's forces. The warlord was more than a little surprised to find that the king had placed his units exactly as Donal thought he would. He had Remon, the half-elven knew that, though he did not know he owed the Outsider for his knowledge. The warlord rode back to his ranks and gave the final orders. But even as he lifted his sword to order the advance, Anlon burst through the ranks, a dark figure on his back.

  "No," Donal whispered, "goddess, no. It is not right." But there was no answer to his plea and Donal forced himself to wait till Anlon reached him.

  "Warlord," Margawt whispered, his face pale. The Morigu was bent half over the unicorn as if in pain. "I have come."

  "Anlon," Donal's voice was harsh. "Why! Could you not leave him?" The unicorn looked up at the warlord and fire snorted from his nostrils, but the demigod's voice was soft.

  "I am called the Trickster," the unicorn answered, "and I have loved war. But if you would know why I turned from my mother, then look at this poor creature on my back and ask me no questions."

  "Why didn't you leave him behind? He had not the strength to follow."

  "Because, Warlord, he would have followed, though it kill him! Can't you see? Don't you know? He has no choice."

  "Kill," Margawt murmured, straightening somewhat on the unicorn's back. "Murder. Blood. Death." Surprisingly, Maeve rode up and approached Margawt. She laid a gentle hand on Margawt's hot brow.

  "Morigu," she said softly. "Morigu, can you hear me?" For moments Margawt's eyes darted wildly about, then finally they focused on the queen.

  "I hear."

  "Then listen well." She rode closer and gently wiped his forehead with her cassock. "Listen well. I will win this kingdom, I will do it for many reasons, not the least for you and not the least because of you. And when the crown is on my head, I shall call the goddess, as is my right. And then Margawt, I shall find a way to free you."

  "Free me?"

  "All my life the assassins have hunted me. Since I was a child bloodshed and violence have been my lot, but nothing that was done to me or to any of us is worth the burden you bear." She smiled a sad smile. "You are really so young, aren't you, Margawt? So young for the elven kind. I will free you that you may seek another destiny."

  "No destiny. I am the Morigu. I am nothing else."

  "We shall see," the queen answered in a curiously light voice, "we shall see."

  "Can she do it?" the Hunter asked his brother. At first Death would not answer, but the god repeated his question and could not be ignored.

  "He is doomed," Death answered, "as I begin to think they all are." And with that he turned to once more stare at Cucullin, who met that look unflinching. "Doomed!"

  The war horns of the two mighty armies shattered the stillness of the night and the elves crashed into the shield wall of their hated foes with a boom that shook the hills. Donal led the way, his mighty sword burning blue in the dark, sweeping the enemy from his path. Indeed the giant warlord seemed possessed of the dwarven berserker spirit. Nothing could stand in his way.

  Even as he cleaved the head of a human captain with an impossibly powerful blow, Donal's thoughts followed the plan of battle. In his mind's eye he could see the units of his army moving into position like a giant chess game, each move preordained. It took only moments for King Remon to realize that he was in serious trouble.

  His magic was completely blanketed by the Shee Dermot and that of his mages as easily countered by those of the elven host. Each contingency he had planned for, he was outwitted on, each tiny weakness in his army exploited. Strong units were ignored, while the full power of the elves' attack hit the few weak points in the line. The king shifted his reserves to plug the holes, but even as he did a cavalry charge collapsed his flank. It was unbelievable, but it was happening. In less than a half hour of battle, Remon knew he was in a no-win situation.

  The army of Aes Lugh continued its grim work. The elves' auras flared in the night and for everyone that fell, five of the foe died. The hawks of Diuann ai Di tore into Remon's cavalry like some berserk wind, scattering the ranks, laying the riders open to the charge of the elven horse led by Cucullin. Before the High Prince and his elves, Remon's cavalry crumbled and in moments all thoughts of resisting were forgotten. Those that could fled.

  Quickly Remon ordered
the withdrawal, having worked out beforehand each stage of the retreat that he might inflict terrible damage on the elves. But it was not to be, for his fortified positions were overrun before they could be properly manned. And before half the king's army had begun to retreat, Donal Longsword had pierced the center and was rampaging through the rear lines.

  "Remon!" The warlord's voice carried over the terrible sounds of the battle. "Remon!" his voice full of madness and death. But the king had no wish to meet Donal Longsword in battle and he fled, trying to save what remnants of his army he could. And so it was not Donal he met that night, but his own daughter, Bronwen, the huntress.

  She stood before him, her hands empty of weapons, wearing only the clawed cestus of her calling.

  "Father, do you not know me?" she asked.

  "Bronwen," and there was a hesitancy in his voice. "Bronwen."

  "Yes, Father. King. Traitor," she hissed. "It is your daughter, the last of your children. You remember that you murdered my brothers and sisters." It was not a question.

  "Murdered!" Remon howled. Forgotten was the battle, the pressure of Dermot's magic, the need to save as much of his army as possible. "Murdered!" he repeated, "they forfeited their life by rebelling against their father and liege lord!"

  "They were murdered because they would not sell their soul as you have!" Bronwen tensed as she prepared to leap, and Remon did not miss the fact that her cestus were red with blood.

  "Fool! You cannot understand, will not understand! You talk like some idiot in a child's tale." And then his voice changed and he smiled. "Come daughter, will you really kill your own father? Patricide it is called, I believe. Will your new friends understand such a thing?" Bronwen hesitated a moment.