The Defiler Page 9

  Maug walked the line, inspecting Murrough's captives. The skull swords had formed up in two ranks. As Maug moved so too did they, dividing again to form the final two sides of a cordon around the prisoners. Maug turned his attention to Sláine, and even then, his withered eyes barely registered the Sessair.

  "So, what do we have here? A wretched foot-slogger in the company of the great druid?" The priest of Carnun toed Sláine's side with a scabrous foot, seemed about to turn away and then stooped, sniffing. The ragged wounds of the Drune's nostrils flared open. "Oh, no. So much more than that, aren't you, soldier boy? Yes, yes, yes. I can smell her on you." Maug's pustulant tongue laved along a ridge of black teeth that made Sláine's stomach churn. One of the yellow sores eating into the muscle ruptured, leaking pus down the Drune's chin. "Yes, yes I can. You're her creature aren't you? Mother, maiden and Crone, the bitch has her talons in you."

  "It is amazing you can smell anything," said Sláine, earning himself a jab in the throat from the bone staff. He gagged, gasping as he tried desperately to suck in a lungful of air.

  "The body is such a frail thing, warrior. For all the rippling muscle and supposed strength of your carcass, a single well-placed blow could snuff out your life like a tallow candle. Do not make the mistake of thinking you are immortal just because you are Blodeuwedd's lapdog. Never forget that her sister-self, Ceridwen, is mother of death."

  "Lord Maug?"

  "What is it, soldier?"

  Murrough shuffled, obviously uncomfortable, drawing attention to himself. He clutched Feg's book to his chest. "There is something you should see. It was found in their possession." He held out the book.

  "Well, what is it?" Maug said, impatiently.

  "A book, my lord."

  The Slough priest sighed, "I can see that it is a book, soldier. So what, pray tell, makes you think it is important enough that I should want to see it? Is it the druid's grimoire perhaps?"

  "No, my lord," Murrough backed up a step.

  Sláine watched the exchange curiously; for all that the skull sword had pretended respect for the slough-skinned ones it was plain that fear of his master was what motivated the soldier.

  "Well, do not keep me waiting, Murrough. I am not at my most patient in the pouring rain."

  "Of course, my apologies, Slough Maug. The book appears to have belonged to the Lord Weird, himself."

  "I am not sure I understand, soldier. Your lips are moving and I am hearing words, but all they seem to say is: blah blah blah. Explain for me how this rabble might have come across a book that belonged to Lord Feg, and of what possible significance it is to the situation before us now. You are a soldier, Murrough: report!"

  The skull sword stiffened as though physically slapped. "It is my belief that they stole it from the Lord Weird, Slough Maug."

  "That is conjecture, soldier, assumption not fact."

  "With respect, my lord, I disagree. If you were to examine the book itself you would see it is not some obscure Tale of the Sidhe, but rather a more sensitive artefact. I have not read the work in its entirety, but there was no need. I saw enough to know the Lord Weird would not surrender this tome willingly. As to how it came into the possession of these three, I believe they are just the final link in a longer chain."

  "Meaning?"

  "The men talk, my lord. Word has come from Drunemeton that Slough Throt turned renegade and was, ah, dealt with by the Lord Weird."

  "And you have decided all by yourself that these three somehow recovered the book from the hapless Throt? That is a lot of thinking for a man of the sword, Murrough."

  The skull sword looked down at his feet.

  "So," Maug turned to Sláine. "Is it true? Has Murrough deduced the riddle of your possession - and better yet, the conundrum of my brother priest's failing? Tell me, I am curious."

  Sláine looked up at the wretched maggot-riddled face of the priest. "I'm sorry, I can see your lips moving but all I can think is: by Carnun's left nut, you stink worse than a shepherd after a busy night of offering devotions to his flock. And just to be clear I do mean the fleecy ones, not some metaphor or anything clever like that. Now, did you actually say something or was it that skin-thing you've got causing your lip to tremble?"

  The priest lashed out again with his staff, cracking it off the side of Sláine's cheek.

  "I shall enjoy hurting you, northman. I shall send your bones home to your mother in an oilskin."

  "My mother is dead," said Sláine.

  "Then I shall just leave your corpse out to feed the Morrigan's crows. Perhaps it will please the witch. I do not care one way or the other. I just thought you might want to be buried at home."

  The Slough priest turned his back on them and walked with that curious, awkward lope back towards the doors of the temple. His stench lingered. "The book, soldier. Bring it to me."

  With that, the Drune disappeared into the temple, ignoring Ukko completely.

  True to his word, Maug delighted in inflicting pain on both Sláine and Myrrdin Emrys.

  The priest took the iron poker from the brazier of hot coals and walked across the dungeon floor to where Sláine was chained. Devices of pain littered the chamber. Its vile purpose contaminated the very stones of the walls and ceiling; the blood of the nameless prisoners stained deep and dark, desperation-worn grooves cut into them where those same nameless ones had ground their manacles in hopes of weakening the iron binding them.

  Ukko had swooned and fainted at the first poker plunging into the coals. The shackles around his wrists prevented the dwarf from slumping to the floor, indeed his toes barely reached the straw spread out beneath them.

  "You are a simpleton, warrior. You think I actually care about the dung that streams out of both of your orifices? I don't. Sincerely, with all of my heart, I hope you do not talk for a long, long time. Hurting you is fast becoming my only pleasure in this wretched forest. So I beg you, bite your tongue."

  Maug pressed the red-hot poker up against the sole of his left foot and rolled it slowly from heel to toe as Sláine screamed out his pain. The skin sizzled and blistered, the stench of burning flesh joining the odour of rancid meat in the airless room. Sláine writhed against his bonds, tears burning red in his eyes that was more than a match for the blistering poker as Maug lanced it back into the coals, stirring them up violently in a shower of sparks.

  "Nice, thank you. So tell me - by which of course I mean please do not breathe a word - how did you come across Feg's precious book?"

  Sláine hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat in the Drune's corrupt face. "I have nothing to say to you."

  "Oh, how delicious. Thank you, warrior. I was beginning to worry you would prove to be a big disappointment. I am glad to see I was wrong. Now, before I ask again, I am going to paint you a mental picture, please try and concentrate. Are you with me?" Hatred blazed in Sláine's pain-fuelled eyes. "Oh, you are, aren't you? You are feeling everything. How utterly marvellous. Now," Maug withdrew the poker from the coals, "imagine, if you would, the sensation of this instrument entering your flesh; not your mouth, or your eyes, both are far too banal for a man of your guts. Imagine it slipping inside your arse, and up, cauterising the wounds even as it ripped you open. Now, tell me again that you have nothing to say to me."

  Sláine's head came up. He looked at the dwarf and the druid chained either side of him, and then back at his eager-faced torturer and the glowing red tip of the poker in his hand. He tried to touch the Earth Serpent, but the Souring of the land here was too thorough, the forest dead to the Goddess. "I have something to say to you, Maug."

  "Ah, such a bittersweet moment, on the one hand the joy of victory, however inevitable it might be, and on the other, disappointment that my fun is at an end so soon. So?"

  Sláine told him, speaking clearly and enunciating every word: "I shall enjoy killing you."

  The sudden flare of fury in Maug's eyes was worth the agony of the poker searing into his side and being dragged up across his chest.


  This time he did not scream.

  He refused to give the Drune the satisfaction.

  The torture lasted days.

  Sláine did not break.

  Maug utilised all of his instruments of pain. At first he had enjoyed the game, pressing the searing pincers against Sláine's earlobe, squeezing down on them until both fiery tips met inside the skin, describing the more hideous delights the coming days held in store, reminding the young Sessair warrior again and again that there was no hope of rescue. But the fun quickly went out of it. Sláine did not scream as the pincers pierced his skin, did not beg or plead as Maug lovingly described the effect of the pear, how its barbed petals would open like a flower inside his arse and rip him apart as it was extracted, did not whimper as the Drune snuffed out any dreams of salvation. He simply took it, surrendering his body to the pain. It was as though the physicality of it did not reach his mind, that somehow he dislocated the pain from his flesh.

  Under other circumstances Slough Maug would have enjoyed the challenge of breaking the arrogant son of a bitch. As it was, he just wanted the job done.

  If he had to kill the warrior, so be it.

  He retreated to his chamber, lit a solitary tallow candle and pored over Slough Feg's uncontrolled scrawl. The Lord Weird's innermost hopes were laid bare. It was a fool who recorded the truth of his secret self on parchment, Maug decided. Reading Feg's words gave Maug an unprecedented insight into his soul. He understood the Lord Weird. Who else could claim that? The realisation excited the priest.

  He called for Ballinus, his man-servant. "I hunger, bring me meat and ale."

  The servant returned a few moments later with a silver platter laden with honey-soaked vegetables arranged around a succulent meaty thigh. Juices gathered beneath the parsnips and turnips. It smelled of the boy, Hadren, who had fled the compound earlier in the week. The foolish boy had thought to run. The hunters had brought him back and Maug had executed him on the training ground. It was occasionally necessary to make an example of their failures, to instil fear and assure unquestioning loyalty. Deserters were not tolerated among the ranks of the skull swords, no matter how young. Hadren had provided the most recent lesson and now, thanks to the boy's sacrifice, Maug ate good fresh meat.

  Ballinus set the platter down and began carving.

  The boy was delicious.

  He wondered, idly, what the Lord Weird would give for the return of his words?

  Murrough's unique find promised to be quite fortunate.

  His mind returned to the prisoners. The warrior was fascinating - but not entertaining. Bringing fresh pain was a challenge, but it grew wearisome. For all that his ability to withstand the manifold pains Maug wrought upon his flesh was impressive, it would end. If he would not break, he would die, as all flesh died.

  He called for Ballinus once more.

  The man-servant appeared in the doorway.

  "See that the hounds are prepared. Come dawn the young Sessair and his friends will run like stags."

  "Yes, my lord. Will that be all?"

  "For now," Maug said.

  "Very well."

  Alone, Maug sat back in his chair, enjoying the heat of the fire and the thoughts of Sláine being torn apart by his wolfhounds. The warrior's death would be slow and deliciously cruel. Maug idly wondered if the man would scream as his flesh was consumed by the hungry dogs. From that delightful thought his mind wandered to thoughts of Slough Feg's generosity. What would the Lord Weird give him for the return of his precious book?

  Everything his withered heart desired, Maug decided, savouring the thought.

  And so, in the darkness, when they were alone, the prisoners talked.

  "Tell me," Sláine said into the darkness. "The priest knows you, Myrrdin. Who are you that he talks of legends? He called you the Lord of the Trees?"

  Myrrdin Emrys told them his story:

  "As I was, once, but that was a long time ago. You would not believe me if I told you it is three hundred years since I last looked upon Tir-Nan-Og, Sláine, and yet that is the truth."

  "I found you trapped within a tree on another plane of existence peopled by man-animals and giant insects, druid. You would be surprised what I am capable of believing."

  Myrrdin chuckled, a genuinely warm sound despite their harsh surroundings. "I was someone, or so I foolishly believed, my friend. I dedicated my life to the gathering of wisdom. I served the maiden, Blodeuwedd, with all of my heart. I tended her forests, shepherded her flock of creatures. She loved me, warrior. She could not live without me, or so I believed. I saw her suffering and believed I alone had the power to save her from the rot that seeped into her core. I saw the birth of the Sourlands, the coming of great evil, the rise of the wyrm, Crom-Cruach, and the enmity of Slough Feg. I believed I could stop the inevitable, warrior. I believed I had the power to end the threat of this evil that now grips so much of her land. It is not new, this sickness that sours the world. It has taken centuries to grow so strong. Its taint is insidious. Its corruption irresistible."

  "Nothing is irresistible," said Sláine.

  "Except a big-titted wench with that hungry look in her eyes that says she's game for a bit of Ukko-loving," Ukko chimed in helpfully from the other side of the room. It was the first thing he had said in a long time, and so typical of the runt that Sláine could not help but smile despite their circumstances.

  "Hubris is an unfortunate trait that so often comes with power, warrior. Like you, I was strong, or so I believed. I felt Danu's love flowing through my veins whenever I came into contact with the earth. I believed myself strong enough to make a pact with the Crone. I would have done anything to save the Goddess, Sláine. She owned my heart. I know you understand what I mean when I say that."

  "I do," said Sláine.

  "She betrayed me, of course. That is her way. You take her at her word, but everything you say she twists to her advantage, everything she says has multiple meanings, none of which are ever clear. Her word is treacherous. Morrigu is a devious being. I begged her help against the evil that I saw coming from the south. She said she has walked many futures and in many of them has seen the Goddess, Danu, emerge victorious from the souring of her body - and in all of these futures, she said, I, Myrrdin Emrys, had a vital part to play. Her assurances fed my inflated sense of self; flattery has a way of undermining common sense. She had seen my transcendence, my becoming one with the woods I protected. I should have known, but her words were sweet to my ears. I imagined the mastery of my world, she delivered centuries of imprisonment, trapped within the living wood I had chosen to serve. It was my destiny, she promised, to become the Skinless Man. I thought for a moment she meant that I would become like Feg and the others, and slough my skin. I despaired that I might be weak enough to betray all that I loved but Morrigu herself removed my skin as it was, painting the past of the forests on my flesh, the history of those great domains. She said it was the first stage in becoming the maiden's champion, that I must be what my enemies most feared, a living embodiment of the great forests."

  "Sounds to me like you just weren't listening," Ukko said.

  "I heard what I wanted to hear, good dwarf, there is a subtle difference."

  "You still wound up trapped in a tree, so it isn't much of a difference if you ask me."

  "How did you end up in that place?" Sláine asked, meaning Purgadair, not the one tree of Nàimhdiel.

  "I answered her call. The Crone bade me travel the El Worlds in search of the hero my beloved needed to save her. That was my role, she said. I was not a fighter, for all that I had mastered the sacred knowledge and had the strength to open the very mists of time to enter the Annfwyn. Danu had need of axe and sword over wisdom and learning. My role in this play of life was to be a guide, not the champion. It was difficult for a prideful man to swallow, but I put my arrogance aside and accepted my part. Morrigu claimed to have seen me find her hero through the mists in a distant hell she called Purgadair. I took her on her word and
opened the way. It took all of my power to breach the dimensions, and then once I made the transition I was impotent. The sudden absence of the Earth Serpent, the abandonment of the Goddess, undermined my resolve. I believed myself beaten before I had taken ten paces in that blighted place. What I did not understand was that it was a trap. That realisation came too late to save me from my conceit. Instead, I walked into it, like a fool, with my eyes closed. Without the power to draw upon, the power that had been my life, that had fuelled my quest to save the land and the woman I loved and so much more, I was humbled beyond my own arrogant ability to believe. I was weak for the first time since childhood. Believe me, it was a bitter lesson for a proud man to swallow. I followed her like one of her damnable crows following a trail of breadcrumbs. The last words the Crone said as the jaws of her trap slammed shut sealing me in the tree were that she loved me."

  "That's harsh," Ukko said.

  "She is a harsh mistress, this Goddess of ours, dwarf. Make no mistake. She was true to her word, I was at one with the forest I served, and I did indeed meet my axe-wielding champion in the desert beyond the walls of Purgadair. Everything she promised came to fruition, just not in the manner my hubris had chosen to believe it would happen."

  "Do you regret your pact?" asked Sláine, thinking of his own unspoken promise to obey the crow-aspect of the warrior Goddess in a single deed of her choosing. The notion that the Crone had already walked the paths of various futures and knew both the promise and the outcome and would not give voice to the actual deed did not sit well with Sláine, but there was nothing he could do now but live with the promise he had made, whatever it might be.

  "Three centuries have been stolen from me - by rights I should be feeding the worms of my forest now. Instead I am here, forced to look upon the ruination of all I swore to nurture. This, around you, was my home. I was 'lord' of this place. Dardun was my home, Sláine. You ask me if I regret my bargain? When I look at the twisted roots and the rot that has eaten into my trees, I do. This canker has spread far beyond what it was when I stood as guardian to the great forest of Dardun. The roots of its evil have had three hundred years to spread unchecked. That is a long time by anyone's reckoning. But, having paid Morrigu's forfeit, now I would collect on her promise."