Completely lost in her thoughts, it took her a while to notice that she had left the path and entered a huge clearing. The sky was clear and sprinkled with countless stars. Pale moonlight illuminated a scene that could only have sprung from a lunatic’s nightmare.
Without any doubt, this was the city of the gargoyles, and it looked exactly like a place where those creatures might be comfortable. It was ridiculously logical. Where else could they feel at home?
The clearing, enormous as it was, was crowded with churches, or, more precisely, seven ancient gothic cathedrals, most of them not much more than ruins. Their weathered facades were blackened and overgrown with ivy. Some of the towers had collapsed long ago, their remains not much more than a pile of moss-covered stones. The churches, their sizes ranging from small parish church to medieval cathedral, were placed in an exact circle, their entrances facing an open courtyard in the center. It looked as an old village square, with a stone well and a single, naked tree that looked strangely deformed. It reached out to the heavens with its gnarled, leafless branches like a poor sinner in hell.
Igraine shivered. It took her a while to discover what disturbed her most about the place. It seemed completely impossible that such a city could even exist – she suspected that it had been built with the help of elven magic - but the absence of a single living soul made her blood run cold. She wished to do nothing more but turn around and run for her life, but her resolve made her go forward, step by step, until she stood right in the middle of the churches. For the first time, she dared to lift her gaze, and that’s when she saw them.
The grotesque creatures were everywhere above her, hundreds, maybe thousands. They were guarding their churches, crouching on ledges over doorways, grinning down from roofs and towers. Some of them looked almost human, others like eagles, winged dragons or bats. There were devils and demons in all shapes and sizes, with horns and sharp claws made to rip out their victims’ throats. Unmoving, they looked exactly as the gargoyles she knew from her own world, carved from the same grey stone that formed the walls of the building. Their empty, lifeless eyes seemed to watch her closely.
Too quick for the human eye, the gargoyles came to life and plunged down from the cathedrals, attacking the human who dared to enter their city. She couldn’t even think or scream before she felt their hard, razor-sharp beaks and claws, cutting through skin and flesh, ready to tear her into pieces. The only sound she heard was the flapping of their wings while they encircled her, so many at the same time that her vision went dark. During her walk along the forest path, she had repeated Calatin’s advice over and over again in her thoughts to stop herself from panicking, so now she automatically protected her face with her arms.
Not my eyes, she thought. I’ll die, but please don’t let them pick out my eyes. When the gargoyles started to tear out small pieces of flesh from her shoulders and back, Igraine opened her mouth to scream. She felt a hot liquid running over her back and realized that it was her own blood. It’s over. His blood is long gone from mine. She remembered that human blood renewed itself regularly, but how often? Wouldn’t her immune system destroy the elven blood at once anyway? She knew that such thoughts were totally pointless while being killed by gargoyles, but at least they helped her to separate her mind from the pain.
All at once, it was over. She hardly realized that they had stopped attacking her when she felt a fire burning her skin, digging itself deeper into her wounded flesh. Poison, she thought. Their fangs were poisoned. Face down, she fell to the forest floor and turned onto her side, rolling into a ball like a hurt child. "Elathan," she whispered. His name was like a fiery inscription in the ever-growing darkness while she drowned in it, holding to the one word with all her strength.
Then, nothing mattered anymore as she drifted off into eternal night.
Chapter 25: An unexpected Arrival
“Don’t blame yourself, Calatin. Lady Igraine knew the dangers when she agreed to your plan. She is bound to the prince for all time, in heart, body and soul. It was a noble death for a human, giving her life in attempt to save her mate and the elven kingdoms. Besides, we are all destined to share her fate very soon, considering our chances. We should leave for the castle at once. Elathan’s execution …”
“Sundown. I told her we would wait until sundown, and wait we shall.” Calatin nodded to Kalan, thankful for the younger elf’s words although they didn’t make him feel less guilty. He had knowingly sent Igraine to her death and betrayed Elathan’s trust in him. But he had been so sure that the prince’s blood flowed strongly in his slave’s veins, so that the gargoyles would have desisted from attacking her before they killed her.
He would lead the warriors to the circle of stones in the gardens behind the outer wall surrounding the castle, a holy place where nobles who had violated the law were put on trial, be it traitors or unfaithful royal concubines. But only accusations against a member of the royal family would summon a gathering of the Oldest Ones. Since Elathan had sworn to declare his guilt – and Calatin knew that he’d never break an oath - it would be a farce, a simple formality required to execute the prince. No elder would demand proof if the prince confessed to being his father’s murderer, even if they knew the truth. After Ruadan’s coronation had been disturbed by Elathan and his guard, the king’s oldest son was the closest to the throne now. His word was law, and when he condemned himself, it was impossible to contradict him.
Cloaked in silence, the elven warriors looked up to the Sliabh an Óir. The castle reflected the warm light of the dying sun soon to vanish behind the mountains, yet its beauty was overshadowed by a foreboding of death today. A few moments later, the last beams of light were gone. Calatin presently closed his eyes.
Forgive me, Igraine.
Then he raised his hand, giving the sign for the guard’s departure. Just when he started to move, a shiver ran through his body, and he stopped dead in his tracks. Before even hearing the sickening sound of a thousand leathery wings, he felt magic filling the air, a very old and dark magic. But he wasn’t prepared for the sight that awaited him when he finally turned around.
Innumerable gargoyles plunged down from the sky, darkening the full moon before the night set in. The warriors raised their swords and drew their longbows, but the beasts didn’t attack, just landed on the surrounding trees without uttering a sound. They looked like ugly birds watching their prey, deadly claws tightened around the branches. Then, a last gargoyle flew down, spanning his gigantic black wings.
He was the largest of them all, almost twice as large as a grown man, with a heavy, muscular body that looked part human, part dragon. He had long, crooked horns, one of the tips broken off during a fight with his peers long ago. His dark, purplish-grey skin looked almost withered, betraying his age. There was no doubt about his leadership, being the oldest and strongest of his race. Calatin knew that gargoyles kept their names secret, only known to their own kind. The demons bowed their heads respectfully as their chieftain arrived.
But all this wasn’t what caused the elven knights to gasp in horror. It was the sight of Igraine, whom the ancient gargoyle carried and slowly let down to the ground. He held her solely with his claws, piercing the soft flesh of her shoulders. Small trickles of blood ran over her skin, but she did not seem to feel the pain. Her light elven clothes were gone, doubtless shredded into rags by the creatures’ attack when she tried to enter their city. They had given her a new dress, made of precious soft velvet. It cut tightly around the arms and waist, but with a long skirt that gave her enough freedom to move her legs, and black as a raven’s wing. Tiny glittering onyx stones were stitched to the bodice, glowing in the moonlight. Her hair was parted, partly braided as a warrior’s. She looked like a dark queen, so beautiful that Calatin’s heart missed a beat. But she was very pale and still, so he thought her to be dead for a short moment. Then, to the magician’s relief, she opened her eyes as the gargoyle chieftain set her down, her bare feet softly touching the forest floor.
She looked at her surroundings like a child that had just awoken from a dream, then she directed her gaze at the magician. Calatin couldn’t suppress a harsh outcry of shock when he saw her eyes. They weren’t green anymore, but a bright silver that gleamed in the night.
Calatin cursed under his breath and looked at the gargoyle chieftain. “What have you done to her?” he hissed. “Don’t you know who she is?”
The chieftain’s razor-sharp fangs showed while he smiled brightly. “Why, your prince’s slave of pleasure, of course,” he answered, his voice deep and melodic. “Her blood is delicious. I couldn’t help but taste the human while I healed her from the wounds my people regrettably inflicted on her. I fear the change of color in her eyes is an inevitable side effect of the poison. But it becomes her, don’t you think?”
Calatin’s body went rigid as he understood the demon’s words. Gargoyle’s claws were poisonous, dangerous for Fae but deadly for humans. But the bat-winged creatures were also said to have great healing abilities, on which he had counted when he sent Igraine to those creatures to ask for their help. “If you have harmed her in any way …,” he began, drawing his sword.
“Calatin, it’s me,” Igraine said. When she reached out and touched the elf’s arm, he relaxed and sheathed his weapon. Hugging her briefly, he murmured, “Sweet Goddess, it’s good to see you alive, Igraine. We thought we had lost you.”
“But I’m here, Calatin. Actually, I haven’t ever felt this strong before. It appears to me that I’m just back in time. You boys can’t have all the fun alone, so let’s go and cause Ruadan some real trouble.”
She could have sworn that Calatin’s perfect white teeth sparkled when he flashed her a very elfish grin. “I see that you have brought some friends to join the party.”
* * * * *
"I, Elathan, Prince of the Elven Realms and heir to the throne, confess that I stabbed my father’s heart with Saighneán.” The prince’s voice sounded as hard and cold as the silver dagger presented to him by a goblin servant on a dark blue cushion. Now more than ever, no one but he dared to touch the dagger. When the goblin raised the exquisitely shaped blade for all to see, a ray of moonlight broke on it, and it shimmered with an otherworldly glow.
Elathan’s face betrayed no sign of emotion while he stood in the middle of the stone circle where the council of twelve elders had spoken justice since the dawn of time, when even they had been young and subjects to the first elven king. There were nine seats of black basalt inside the circle. The old elves, eight of them male, four females, had taken their places to hold court there, not to rise again until a sentence was uttered. They were dressed in long, midnight blue robes, their faces of a pale perfection that belied their true age. Only their eyes were deep seas of wisdom, and not even the boldest warriors could stand to hold their gaze too long.
Elathan had listened to Ruadan’s false accusations without much interest, and his face had shown no sign of emotion while his half-brother called forth his witnesses, mostly palace servants who had either been bribed or intimidated by the troll guards. Ruadan had undoubtedly threatened to kill their families if they didn’t claim to have seen the throne heir wandering the darkened corridors of the castle on the night of the king’s death, blood staining his armor and a silver dagger in his hand. He was willing to accept his fate as long as Igraine was safe from Ruadan’s thirst for revenge. So he simply nodded when the elders finally declared him guilty of high treason, although it obviously grieved them deeply to condemn him to death. They knew that the whole trial was a farce, still they were powerless to intercede as long as he publicly confessed. No one could doubt the word of the throne heir, by law the present king, even if he was not yet crowned.
Ruadan had demanded that Elathan should be beheaded with an axe, but the elders wouldn’t allow a member of the royal family to die as a common traitor. According to the law, he would die by his own sword. But as the throne heir refused to kneel down before the executioner, who wasn’t tall enough to behead the towering prince while standing up, Ruadan had to send for the tallest troll in his guard.
A large shadow fell over the stone circle, and even the elders couldn’t hide the expression of shock on their faces when they looked up to the heavens. Silently innumerable gargoyles tore through the air as they dived down, spreading their black wings like giant, darkly elegant birds. Some of them carried Igraine and the elven warriors, holding them like prey with their long-taloned hands. Even the smaller ones seemed to be incredibly strong, carrying the heavily muscled elves with ease.
Igraine landed first. The gargoyle chieftain cautiously set her down in the middle of the elders, right on a thick basalt block that served as an altar for them to pray to their gods. And she herself looked more like a pagan goddess than human pleasure slave right now. Her features looked almost elven when she faced the council with a proudly raised chin, piercing them with her otherworldly, silver eyes.
“I have come to claim my Prince,” she said calmly, but her voice was deep and clear, and several of the elders shuddered when they sensed the power that seared through her body. “There will be no execution, for he is mine.” She turned her head to Elathan, who still stood motionlessly beside the beheading block. His face seemed to be carved in stone, resembling the rock of the mountain palace behind him, now just faintly shimmering in the moonlight. But his eyes shone with pride. “Sweet Igraine,” his mind spoke to hers, “you are beautiful beyond words. Now that I’ve seen that you don’t need my protection anymore, I will happily die.”
“I love you,” she simply answered, astonished how easy it was to unite their thoughts now. She felt strange ... changed, but stronger than ever. “And I will always need you, foolish elf. You won’t die, at least not today.”
“He is a traitor and his father’s murderer,” Ruadan said, his handsome face distorted into a mask of fury. “The only punishment for his hideous crime is death. The elders have heard his confession. And who is this mortal woman, a mere slave,” he seemed to spit out the word, “to dare to speak in front of this noble court?”
The gargoyle king left his place on one of the trees, from whence he had been watching, and landed right on the altar, crouching at Igraine’s side. “Oh, she isn’t mortal anymore,” he said, his voice rumbling like thunder. “Gargoyle poison affected her in a most peculiar way. We did not expect this, for no human had survived our fangs before. When we discovered that Elathan’s blood was flowing through her veins, we tried to save her, but she didn’t even need our help. She changed before our eyes, healing from inside. Doubtless she absorbed a part of the prince’s magic when they shared their blood, not even knowing which powers now were hers to command. But it was the poison that accelerated the process of her transformation, making her immortal. She can stilled be killed, of course. But by law, she can now no longer be a slave of pleasure. Therefore, she should be addressed as the prince’s …”
“Mate,” Elathan said, his voice raw with emotion. “Lady Igraine is my mate, you all owe her fealty. She has the right to be heard in front of this court.”
Igraine’s eyes widened when the elders, one after another, bowed their heads to acknowledge her.
Calatin stepped forward, his shoulders bloodstained from the gargoyle’s claws. “Ruadan, the honored elders know as well as you and I that it wasn’t Elathan who killed the king. He just agreed to confess because it was his only chance of saving Lady Igraine. Therefore, I, Calatin, next in line to the throne after Elathan, accuse you, Prince Ruadan, of being King Bres’s murderer.”
Before the elders could even think about an answer, Ruadan commanded his guards to attack. With an outcry of rage, the trolls threw themselves on Elathan’s men, who were already waiting for them with drawn swords and longbows. Though much stronger, the trolls couldn’t cope with the elves’ natural grace and speed. Slim, crooked swords hacked through the guards’ bodies, leaving behind a trail of severed limbs. The largest troll who had come to behead Elathan went down to his fu
rry knees, a fountain of blood gurgling from the place where Calatin had cut his head off in one single blow.
More guards, elves and trolls alike, emerged from the inner castle yard, but the gargoyles rose up in the air with delighted cries since the smell of blood had awakened their hunger to kill. When Igraine saw what they did to their enemies when they crossed the gates she averted her eyes, realizing how lucky she was to stand here, alive, after having entered the city of these dangerous creatures. But she couldn’t shut off the terrible screams from her ears. Gathering all her courage, she jumped down from the altar, drawing her own sword.
When a guard came out of the fighting crowd and headed for her with a bloody spear, she acted instinctively. She raised her right hand, palm outwards, and struck him down with a blazing shot of energy, making the troll go down in flames. Despite herself, she liked the feeling of power her new abilities gave her, and she threw a glance at Elathan, curious to know if he had seen her using his magic fire.
The fighting elves moved almost too quick for her eyes when everything happened at once – Ruadan attacked his older half-brother with death in his eyes, Elathan – freed from the iron chains around his wrists and legs by Calatin’s magic – grabbed his sword from the lifeless hand of the beheaded troll and ran it deep into Ruadan’s side. When he retracted it, light red blood gushed from the wound, but the half-nymph’s hatred ran so deep that he didn’t seem to realize the pain. Cursing, he swung his own sword, heading right for Elathan’s throat. Igraine cried out in a feeble attempt to warn her beloved, yet it was already too late to save him from the deadly blow that would fulfill his destiny.
Bound to the Prince Page 26
