"Come, Bronwen, it is I, your father. Was I harsh to you when you were a child? Did I not hold you on my knee and tell you stories of long ago?" Bronwen crouched lower; uncertain. It was true. Remon had been a good father, a good man. "Yes, daughter," he continued, "yes. Do you think I have changed so much?"
"But the war, the evil, the--" But the words failed her.
"Yes, I know, my child. But is it not always so? Does not change always come through destruction? The breaking of the old ways, to make way for the new? Come, Bronwen, look at me. Will you not join your father and find the future at my side? Will you not accept your destiny as rightful heir to the throne of Fiodha?"
Bronwen could not help herself, her mind was flooded with memories. Memories of long ago. Of a happy childhood in a cold castle. Of the sea crashing against the cliffs at night of-- And then she wrenched free of her father's spell, for she remembered other things; remembered her eldest brother dying in her arms as the life bled from him: killed by a poisoned arrow. And of her baby sister tortured by her own father that she might reveal where Bronwen and her rebels hid. Even though she never knew, never--
"Never!" Bronwen cried, though still she could not find the strength to leap at her father and tear the life from his throat.
"Then die," he answered and from his upraised fist a terrible blast of magic stabbed at Bronwen.
It would have shredded the meat from her bones, it would have killed her instantly, but she was the favored of her god--and He was there. He intercepted the magic and it broke apart on His shields. And then He revealed himself.
He stood twelve feet high and His skin was dark brown and glowed as if cast in metal. From His brows the mighty stag horns rose silver and gleaming. His face was still indistinct and His hands more paws than not. But His eyes were clear. They were green, green like the sun through a leaf, or like a dark moss in a forgotten glade. He held a mighty sword eight feet long and black flames danced along its edges.
"Enough!" He roared and the trees themselves seemed to pick up that cry and shout it about the land. "I have had enough!" And He lifted his sword to cleave the sorcerer king in two.
And then Dubh came.
That was what they called him, he the darkest prince in Hell. He was of equal size to the god, and where once he had only one hand a new one had been forged for him in Hell. It was made of some black metal that shimmered like oil in water, and it held a spear that spat flames.
"I have use for this one yet," the demon spoke insolently, "so be gone, old one. I have no need of you."
"No need of me!" the god thundered. "Spawn of Hell, what are you to me? I shall kill you and all your kind!"
"God, you are a god, and what are they to me!" The demon's black eyes burned and he took a step toward the Hunter, then he stopped himself. "No, now is not the time, another day, old fool, another time." And with that he raised one arm and the fires of Hell claimed him and Remon and the two were gone.
The god, too, disappeared, as he chased the demon down the paths of the worlds. But it was a futile chase, for Dubh would not meet the Hunter in battle and there was no way that the god could catch the demon prince, nor follow to where he fled.
But Remon was gone and what resistance was left in his army fell apart. The warriors fled desperately, trying to reach the haven of the mighty walls of Caer Lugh and as they fled the elves chased them.
The corpses of two thirds of that once mighty army covered the earth in a long line from the hills of Longherin to the banks of the Shannon. They ran as fast as they could, crying in horror at the doom that followed them. Leaderless, they made for the ships that waited to take them to the islands that made up the city of Caer Lugh, but there another surprise awaited them.
The Shannon was frozen. In its long life, the river had never frozen here in the heart of Aes Lugh, never had even frost touched its banks. But now a thick sheet of ice covered the water, and the ships that were to save the army were locked in that cold grip. It was Dermot's magic that had frozen the river, for as Rhiannon's Tome spoke of spring, so, too, did it whisper of the dread secrets of winter.
Some of the fleeing warriors raced onto the long marble bridges, but others, unable to follow, tried the ice, hoping it was thick enough to hold their weight. It was, and the river had even frozen in such a way that tiny ripples formed everywhere so that the footing was not slippery. But, unfortunately for the fleeing warriors, the spirits of the river were beneath that ice and they reached through it with cold, cold arms to pull the warriors to their watery graves.
It was beyond standing and the men cried in horror and threw their weapons down at the bank of the river. But the elves that had followed Arianrood's warlord dared not surrender and many made their way across the bridges, though none made it across the ice. Behind them the army of Aes Lugh reformed preparing for the final conflict. They had a queen to crown and a land to free and there was nothing left to deny them.
C H A P T E R
Twenty
The victorious army of Aes Lugh waited for the rising of the sun. In silent ranks they stood on the banks of the Shannon and their eyes glowed in the dawn light. As one they stepped onto the ice ignoring the mighty bridges of Caer Lugh. With no break in their rhythm the elves divided up into twelve separate groups, one for each of the islands that made up the city. There was no stopping them; the elven warriors crashed through the long forgotten gates of the city, now exposed to the sun with the lowering of the river. They were inside before any sort of resistance could be organized.
The defenders fought hard. Like trapped rats they died fighting, each and every one. It was grim work and the ancient halls of Caer Lugh ran with blood. But it was inevitable, and by the next morning no follower of Arianrood had escaped; all were captured, or dead.
And through it all the Morigu fought, though he was nearly half-dead. He was not so fast, nor so strong as once he was, yet he was still deadly. And if the enemy's swords and spears marked him, it meant nothing to Margawt, for what pain could such wounds give him that compared with what he had already borne? Donal, Cucullin and Anlon stayed near the Morigu and more than once did they save his life, but there was no thanks for their actions and none was expected.
The Outsider was there, too, in the stolen body of Manwyn O'Shea and the demon laughed with maniacal glee the whole time. It enjoyed the fight, enjoyed killing the minions of Arianrood, for the Outsider it was all good fun.
But it was Maeve's hour and even if Arianrood had defended her city, many thought the Ead might not have been able to withstand the little queen that day. A queer light hung about Maeve and her eyes flashed fire. She fought for more than a crown, more than a kingdom. She fought for a people cast from the pages of history, cursed by the crudest of fates, doomed to genocide. In that fight Maeve was truly queen of her people. She was the personification of all that they had been and all they dreamt of becoming, and it was afterward remembered that more than one god had been born in the ancient land of Mai Methra.
It was Maeve that led the elves to Arianrood's throne room and it was Maeve that met the guardian of that place in single combat. The guardian was a creature of clay and mud, animated by an evil and long-forgotten demon. Once it had ruled its own land and the people there had worshiped it as a god, but that was long, long ago and it was a strange place for it to finally find its death.
The guardian held black, curved swords in its four hands, and acid dripped from its snout. Magic rolled from the monster like great storm clouds and its red eyes spit fire. But Maeve was equal to all the demon could give, and the hall rang with the clashing of their blades and the thunder of their magics. There was something of destiny and perhaps doom; and though the demon fought as he had not in a thousand years, he was overcome and his dark soul was cast to the blackest nether regions.
Maeve stood over the corpse of the guardian, her blade steaming from its acid blood. Her red hair floated about her like a nimbus of fire and her face glowed with rapture.
'Arianrood!" sh
e cried and her voice was heard in all the worlds. 'Arianrood!" And Maeve knew her enemy heard her. "It is my land now, bitch! The people of Mai Methra are no more! Now Aes Lugh is ours and no one and nothing shall ever take it from us! This I swear, Ead, this I swear; though the earth itself crack and die, still will this land be ours!" And truly in all the worlds there were none who could doubt the pledge of Maeve, Queen of Aes Lugh.
It was a time for feast and laughter, songs and tales in all the lands of the allies. The military loss of the last year had been reversed and the Dark Ones had been badly wounded.
Cather-na-nog was still strong, and the empire rebuilt her armies and fortifications. In the Tivulic mountains, Mearead trained his little army and in the Borderlands the humans and wild dwarves grew strong. Aes Lugh was the elves' again and the magic returned to the land. Arianrood's army that sieged the Crystal Falls was cut off and all rejoiced, for they knew, come spring, the mighty dwarves of the Crystal Falls would be free to march to war.
From all parts of the land the warlords gathered in Aes Lugh for the crowning of Maeve. Ceallac was there, and Niall. Breeda, the battlemaid, came with priceless gifts from her lord, and Mearead sent the young dwarf Cor to represent the people of the Golden Halls. Many lords of the empire were there, led by Brasil mac Fin, for his father had to stay to prepare the armies for the spring campaigns. And all that remained of the Green Branch knights, though they were grim, for their grand master was still presumed dead and the knights refused to honor another with the title.
They all gathered in the huge throne room that now belonged to Maeve. The room was a bewildering array of precious metals and priceless statues. The golden roof was held by twelve ancient oaks, and their leaves matched the color of the ceiling. A small stream meandered about the hall and its waters sparkled as if filled with tiny flakes of silver. And in the limbs of the mighty trees were hundreds of multicolored birds, all with their own gentle song to sing.
Maeve stood on the stairs leading to the white marble dais that held the throne. She was radiant and deadly in her red and black armor. Fergus Firemane stood beside her proudly holding her banner. The other lords and ladies stood in a half circle facing the throne, and if the room itself was a thing of beauty, the people there far outshone it.
Donal waited by the throne, which was carved from a single golden jewel that shone like the sun. He held the ancient crown of the Ead and he would not say where he found it, or how he came into possession of it. Alone of all there, the half-elven did not smile, but his face was hard and his eyes sharp. To Donal Longsword this was the first of steps that would lead to Arianrood's fall, but only the first--
Maeve walked up the steps to the throne and knelt before the warlord. He held the crown high that all might see.
"Maeve rab Kiel," he said in a mighty voice, "I, Donal, called the Longsword, the half-elven, once Warlord of Aes Lugh, do crown you queen of this land. For it is your right and it is your destiny." With that he placed the crown on Maeve's head and the new queen turned to address those assembled before her.
She looked beautiful and deadly. Her dark eyes were soft, though, and filled with wonderment as if she could not truly believe that she stood where she did, that she had accomplished the dream her people had long lost hope in. She raised her arms in front of her preparing herself to call the goddess. Maeve rab Kiel had made clear to all that her first act as queen would be to try to free Margawt from his curse.
The Morigu watched her silently, his thoughts incoherent. Could she really do it? Could the nightmare end? And did he really want it to? He felt a surge beneath his feet, for the goddess had returned to Aes Lugh, and Margawt had regained much of his former strength. He moaned quietly. She was coming. What was her will? "Goddess," he murmured, "have mercy, mercy."
And then the Outsider struck. It leapt from the crowd, Manwyn's sword held high and with one stroke severed the head from Maeve's neck. Donal froze in horror as Maeve's body collapsed, the fountain of blood shooting from her shoulders covering the Warlord in sticky warmth. The crowd about the throne cried in one voice and all surged toward the throne, but it was Margawt's voice alone that was heard clearly.
"MURDER!" he howled and there was surely no sanity in his voice. With one mighty leap he was on the dais, simultaneously drawing his sword and cleaving Manwyn O'Shea's body in two. "MURDER!" he cried over and over as he hacked the corpse into an unrecognizable heap.
It was Cucullin that reached Maeve first and it was he who stared incredulously at the queen's head. Maeve's bloody lips moved and her eyes still shone.
"No," the decapitated head hissed, "no, not now, not nowww--" And then it was silent. Only more blood came to the now dead lips.
The Outsider was not hurt by Margawt's blade, but the demon heaved itself into its proper form and sped from the room. For the first time since it could remember it was afraid. The warlords in the room were enraged beyond the Outsider's experience and for all its power, the demon did not dare and fight. As it sped from the room a grey form appeared and Death's eyes blazed.
"You are marked!" Lord Death cried, and the Outsider let out a high-pitched whine and fled as fast as it was able.
But it was not only Death that could see the assassin's flight. Margawt had felt a touch of its essence when he struck down the body of Manwyn. Quickly, he searched for the strange thing he had felt and stood up in time to see the large black insect fly out of the room. And standing in his way was the destroyer. Alone of those in the room the man was looking at the bloody corpse of Manwyn O'Shea.
"How?" he murmured, his whole body shaking. "Why? Why, little one, why?" Margawt gripped the destroyer by the neck.
"It is on you, human!" he spat. "On you!" The monk fell to his knees seeming not to hear Margawt. He reached out and gently touched what was left of Manwyn's face.
"Na, na, little one, na, na, it's not so bad. Not to worry. Na, na, little one, I am here. Nothing for you to fear, na, little one, I will protect you, my Bridget--" Margawt turned from the scene, his soul shrieking inside him and the need for vengeance beyond anything he had ever known. He pushed through the crowd and with his unnatural speed raced after the Outsider. Unknown to him Anlon followed, for the demigod alone of those in the room had also seen the Outsider for what it was.
The two chased the demon through the twisting maze of Caer Lugh. As fast as the Outsider could fly, Margawt and Anlon were gaining. The demon could not believe it, could not understand how anything could catch it. But they were. The creature screamed in frustration and fear. Could it die? It did not think so, but it feared the two behind, it feared as it never should fear. Never had.
So when they offered to help, it did not turn from them in scorn as was its wont. Eagerly the Outsider followed their directions and once more found itself in the room where Remon had freed it. And they were waiting.
Anlon and Margawt burst through the door seconds behind their prey and so intent were they on the Outsider, they did not realize the demon was not alone, not until it was too late.
They waited, in full physical form, and the room vibrated from their power. They were three: Apkieran, Lord of the Undead; the Shadowlord, the most powerful of all the fomarians; and Fealoth, once God of Light, now the blackest traitor of all. They waited and sprang upon the unicorn and the Morigu before either truly knew what had happened.
Margawt's screams shattered the windows of the room. The evil was so strong, so powerful, so wrong, that he was nearly overwhelmed simply by the presence of his enemies. But he was the Morigunamachamain and he leapt into the battle with mad abandon.
Anlon, too, lost no time in closing with the three dread lords. He knew he and Margawt had little chance, but the Trickster did not for a moment consider fleeing.
Margawt's sword shattered as he blocked a mighty swing of Apkieran's ax, but the Morigu continued past the demon prince and leapt at Fealoth. The Morigunamachamain called all his power to him and the city shook with the surge of power as the earth answer
ed his call. His hands clasped about the neck of the god and he sunk his teeth deep in Fealoth's breast.
Anlon smashed through the Shadowlord's magic barriers and the unicorn's horn speared the fomarian's side. Apkieran attacked the Trickster with the great ax Kervalen that so long ago the demon had taken from the dead hand of Lord Kiernan, Cucullin's father. It was one of the few weapons that could truly harm the unicorn, and with one stroke, the undead lord nearly severed his foe's spine.
The battle raged with such intensity that the room was pulverized in minutes; the floors above collapsed on the combatants but they took no notice. All five howled their hate and screamed in rage at their wounds. They savaged one another with a maniacal fury that the world had never seen before.
Fealoth cast the Morigu from him and the god's sword nearly disemboweled the elf. But Margawt was back up in seconds, unmindful of the terrible wound he had taken and his fist smashed the god's shoulder so hard that the bones beneath shattered. At the same moment Anlon reared and a gout of flame shot from his nostrils covering Apkieran. The demon nearly collapsed from the shock of the pain, for fire had never before touched him.
Yet, the Shadowlord was hardly done and from somewhere he produced a giant black chain and with the terrible strength of the earth god he once was, the fomarian smashed the weapon across Margawt's back. From Fealoth's eyes his divine lightning struck, and Margawt was caught between the two attacks and nearly crushed to pulp.
So it went back and forth, magics and mighty blows, the whole of the city collapsing around the horrible battle. Yet, despite all of Margawt's and Anlon's power, they faced three of the mightiest beings in all the worlds and their doom was upon them.
The Morigu fell first, his head half severed by the ax Kervalen. Anlon lasted mere moments longer and his fate was harsh. His horn pierced Fealoth's chest, but the god's sword severed it. The Shadowlord blasted the flesh from the Trickster's bones, and Apkieran sank his canines deep into Anlon's neck. And the demigod collapsed.
Morigu: Book 02 - The Dead Page 22