The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [135]
“Worry makes me hungry,” Falken said. “I think it’s time we asked Madam Vil for our supper.”
45.
They ate cheerlessly as stars appeared outside the window. Lirith knew the food was delicious, but it tasted like ashes on her tongue. None of them had any idea what to do to stop the murderer. And whether it was the Sight or not, somehow Lirith knew there would be more deaths before this was over. Would her own be one of them?
“Falken,” Melia said, as servants cleared away the remains of the supper and left the room, “perhaps a song or tale is in order this evening, something to take our minds off a long and wearying day.”
Falken retrieved his lute from its case. He seemed to think a minute, his wolfish face motionless, then he nodded. “I believe I’ll tell you about the New Gods, and how they came to Falengarth. That seems an appropriate subject given the history of this city.”
Melia gave the bard a sharp look. “And I’m certain you’ll do justice to the tale, with no favor toward one side or another.” On her lap, the kitten hissed and spat.
Falken laughed. “Don’t worry, Melia. The Old Gods won’t come off looking better in this tale. I promise you that.”
Melia said nothing more, and the others drew their chairs close to the bard. He strummed a soft, melancholy song. It made Lirith think of beautiful things lost, things that had faded long ago yet were not entirely forgotten.
“Do you remember the drawing we saw in the wilds between Toloria and Perridon?” Falken said in his resonant voice. “The giant on the side of the hill?”
Aryn nodded. “It was one of the Old Gods. Mohg, I believe you called him.”
Durge cleared his throat. “I mean you and your Old Gods no offense, Falken, but from that drawing Mohg did not appear to be a terribly kind fellow.”
Lirith remembered the god’s single, staring eye, his long fangs, and the people writhing in his hand.
“That’s because he wasn’t,” the bard said. “Mohg was a god consumed by poison and shadow; he wanted nothing less than to shatter the world. But he wasn’t always that way. And that’s part of this story as well.”
The stars spun outside the windows as Falken told a story that alternately stirred Lirith’s blood and froze it.
“Long ago,” Falken began, “the Old Gods dwelled deep in the forests of Falengarth in the north of Eldh. With them dwelled their children, the Little People, who were of myriad forms and manners: mischievous greenmen, clever dark elfs or dwarfs, and the light-elfs—or fairies—who of them all were closest to the hearts of the Old Gods.
“There were no men in Falengarth then, save the Maugrim, who were not like the men of today. The Maugrim lived in the forests, wearing the skins of animals, making their homes in caves, and hunting with knives of stone, for, like the Little People, the Maugrim could not bear the touch of iron.
“For eons, the Old Gods were the mightiest beings in all of Falengarth: Olrig One-Eye, Ysani of the Meeting of Ways, Durnach the Smith. And Mohg, Lord of Nightfall, who was stronger than all but Olrig when the sun slipped beneath the edge of the world and the day died.”
“So even then he was wicked,” Aryn said.
“No,” Melia countered. “There is no evil inherent in the night. Only what men and gods would bring there.”
Falken nodded. “Melia’s right. But then, more than a thousand years ago, things began to change. While only the Maugrim dwelled in Falengarth, for eons men had dwelled in Moringarth, the great, hot land south of the Summer Sea. The Old Gods never ventured to Moringarth, preferring the cool, moist forests of the north, and so the shining cities of men did not trouble them.
“But there came a great conflagration in the south, and many men fled north across the sea to Falengarth. There they founded many cities,