The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [138]
Falken’s voice faltered, but Lirith knew what he had been about to say. Until that kingdom fell.
“Wait a moment,” Durge said in his rumbling voice. “We know the Pale King was defeated in the War of the Stones. However, you have yet to tell us of his master. What became of Mohg?”
Falken picked his lute back up. “It’s a story few know, for while the War of the Stones was fought here on Falengarth where all could see, the war against Mohg took place on the shadowy borders of the Twilight Realm, where no man may tread, save perhaps the Maugrim in their time. However, just as the armies of north and south allied themselves against a common foe, so did the Eldhari and the Nindari.”
Lirith sat up straight. “You mean the Old Gods and the New Gods worked together?”
Melia nodded. “It’s true, dear. We did. I can’t say we understood one another very well, but we all knew it was the only way to save Eldh from Mohg.”
“Together, all the gods created a trap,” Falken said. “They wove a shining illusion of the three Imsari and the Dawning Stone. In his lust, Mohg raced toward what he perceived as the keys to his victory. But even as he grasped for them, they dissolved into shadows, and he knew he had been tricked. However, it was too late. In following the illusion, Mohg had stepped outside the circle of the world. With powerful runes, the Old Gods bound the circle, imprisoning Mohg beyond the borders of Eldh. Forever.
“The trick was not made without sacrifice, however, for it was said that a few of the Old Gods wove the spells of illusion to the last moment, and they were shut outside the circle of the world with Mohg.”
A sharp pain pierced Lirith’s heart. Could one really love something so much one would abandon it? The thought was beautiful, but so terribly sad.
“What happened to the rest of the Old Gods, Falken?” she asked.
“Their time was over. The world of men held no place for them. They faded into the Twilight Realm, and the Little People with them.” He cast a sidelong glance at Melia. “But then, as we learned last Midwinter’s Eve, while they are mostly forgotten, the Little People are not entirely gone.”
Lirith had not been there, but Aryn had told her the tale, how tall, radiant fairies had carried Beltan’s wounded body into the great hall of Calavere, and how queer figures had gathered the dead feydrim in twisted arms and carried them away. But then, the feydrim had been Little People once, before they were corrupted by the magic of the Necromancers.
“So the fate spoken by the witch Cirsa came true,” Aryn said.
Falken cocked his head. “How so?”
“It was because of Ulther and Elsara’s love that the Pale King was defeated and that he did not give the Great Stones to Mohg.” The young woman smiled, pressing her left hand to her breast. “ ‘Love shall yet defy you.’ ”
Falken cast a startled glance at Melia, then looked back to Aryn. “Perhaps you’re right at that,” he said gruffly.
Lirith sighed. She might have thought the bard would tell a lighter tale as an antidote to their somber mood. Yet this one had been appropriate in its way. Once again she found herself wondering who could possibly murder not one god, but two. A dragon had nearly slain Mohg, but then only by his own willing participation. Whoever had murdered Ondo and Geb must have incredible power—enough to threaten all the world even as Mohg had once done.
But the Old Gods had banded together with the New Gods to save the world. Was there even the slightest chance they might be able to help again? After all, if the Little People could return from the Twilight Realm, why not them? She opened her mouth to ask Falken—
—and a scream came forth.
A dark thing fell onto her lap with a plop, then wriggled across the gauzy fabric. It was a spider: black, shiny, and large as a coin. She leaped to her feet, and the spider fell to the floor.
The spider started to scramble away, but Durge stood and placed his boot over it. There was a wet sound. However, terror still surged in Lirith