The Defiler by Steven Savile Page B

muscle of his lip curling in a sneer. "Tell me, are you the druid? No, don't tell me. You are. You are. But I must admit you are not what I expected, druid. I am quite disappointed, Myrrdin Emrys, the fabled Lord of the Trees. To hear talk of you one would think a god walked among the mortals. Three hundred years of superstition and prattle and this is the great Myrrdin?" The Slough priest shook his head though it did not so much shake as loll on his neck.
    Myrrdin opened his eyes. "I am the druid, Myrrdin," the Skinless Man said, his voice devoid of emotion. The sight of the wooden orbs caused the Drune to step back involuntarily, then take four more forwards and lean in close, fascinated by the fusion of nature and humanity. "A living embodiment of the great wood... now that is more interesting. Perhaps there is something to your legend after all. Perhaps. Trust me, your suffering shall be every bit as legendary as your life warrants." Maug limped away from the tattooed man, talking animatedly to himself.
    Sláine could not make out a word that dripped off the priest's tongue.
    The rain intensified, quickly turning the ground to wet sucking mud.
    The Drune's bare feet sank into the ground, leaving maggots of flesh behind as he moved. The sloughed flesh writhed with a repulsive life all of its own.
    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