“Attack!” Balan’s voice cried, and frozen Queen’s Guardsmen were mobilized… though only Balan and six others were on their feet.
Snarling, Thulsa Doom seemed to waver, to shimmer… and became a plaintively wailing Erris of Moytura.
Cormac was running, and his broad sweeping cut was already begun. Again he lopped off the head of the undying wizard. It rolled on the floor, a piteous sight to shake strong men: the head of a pretty young woman whose eyes and mouth gaped and whose lovely pale hair flew.
And then Erris’s head was a rattling, hairless, fleshless skull; the true head of Thulsa Doom.
Once again the robed body went for its severed head… but Wulfhere, charging past Cormac like an enraged bear, seized the headless body. Both fell, to roll wrestling, desperately seeking crippling holds. Cries rose as the robe vanished, and the flamehaired giant appeared to be wrestling with a huge growling shaggy bear…
And then Wulfhere fought a lashing, writhing serpent…
And then a woman, her with orange-red hair and green eyes, in leathern armour and tall, tall boots that rose up under her tunic, a woman who cried out, “Wulfhere, No! Wulfhere-”
Shaking like a wind-blown aspen, Cormac tore his pouch from his belt. Ruthlessly he spilled onto the temple floor the gifts he’d brought for a queen: garnets and emeralds, a great twinkling sapphire and two sunny amethysts, a necklace of coral and stones found only in Europe. The treasure of Doom-heim twinkled and sparkled on the stone floor. It was the sack Cormac mac Art needed, now.
A few steps he took, and caught up the death’s head of Thulsa Doom, and popped it into the leathern bag.
As he drew its strings, the wall of blue flame died without leaving so much as a smoke-smudge on the temple floor.
The Queen of Moytura descended the steps while Cormac mac Art strode toward them. Behind her came Dithorba. He carried a hammer, brought from the Inn of Red Rory.
A few feet away, Wulfhere rolled grunting and cursing on the floor. Wide-eyed guardsmen saw with fearful horror that he seemed to be wrestling with the same man who approached their queen.
With a proud queen’s sense of drama and her dignity-and an awareness of Cormac’s height-Riora Feachtnachis halted at the bottom step but one. Thus her eyes were slightly above the level of Cormac’s. He extended the leathern bag, puffed bulgy with the skull it contained. He rested it on the step at her feet.
“Lady Queen,” he said, “our bargain.”
The man with whom Wulfhere wrestled shrieked in anguish and horrid knowledge; the final death of the Undead wizard was imminent.
“Lady Queen,” Dithorba said, and he handed her a hammer all of iron.
Her light eyes met Cormac’s directly.
“Strike!” he urged, almost shouting.
“Not so fast, Cormac, Champion,” Riora said. “There is another matter we must discuss, first.”
Cormac stared at her. He spoke quietly, his teeth tightly together: “We have a bargain, Riora. My part was to return yourself to the throne. That I have done. Your part is merely to strike this bag with that hammer, to smash the skull of Thulsa Doom.”
“Oh, Cormac,” she murmured, but he gazed implacably. Riora’s face firmed. She lifted her chin haughtily, and Riora spoke for all to hear. “The Queen of the Moyturans will grant the boon you ask, Champion of Moytura, Savior of Moytura… in return for that which Moytura has not-a consort and husband for its queen, and one worthy of her and her people. Yourself, Cormac mac Art!”
Chapter Fifteen:
The Throne of Moytura
“Lady Queen,” Dithorba said, with reproach and accusation in his voice. “You gave your word; both Torna and I were present! It is as Cormac has stated!”
Her face stiffened still more; her jawline was as if chiseled from stone. Her mouth, insofar as her sensuous lips were capable, assumed a straight line.
Her head lowered slowly, until her eyes met Cormac’s. As a reminder, she tapped the head of the hammer into her palm. “Stay with me, Cormac mac Art, Trenfher na Moytura!”
From behind the grimly staring mac Art, Balan’s voice roared out and echoed from wall to wall of Danu’s temple: “NO man of the GAELS may rule the Tuatha de Danann! There may be no such consort of our queen!”
Riora’s light eyes went cold and hard as diamonds as she stared over Cormac’s head. She lifted an arm; she pointed. “Cormac my darling, my champion-slay that traitor!”
Cormac backed from the steps and moved to one side. The pouch of leather lay at Riora’s feet; still Wulfhere strove to hold the headless Thulsa Doom and still the latter struggled to break free of the huge man. Cormac turned to gaze into Balan’s eyes, and the Danan commander stared no less levelly. Cormac looked again at Riora, who stood with chin high and eyes cold. He waited until she looked again at him.
“I will not,” he told her.
After a long moment, Riora cried in a voice almost pitiful, “Who rules in Moytura?”
“The queen,” Balan called, “and no other-and never one who is not of the de Danann!”
Cormac’s voice was a mere mutter, which only Riora and Dithorba heard. “A girl, who knows not how to behave herself as a woman, much less a queen… and who does dishonour on herself and her people by breaking her word… and insisting on the impossible.”
Riora swung her eyes and then her head this way and that, as if seeking approval or aid; any sort of reinforcement for her unreasonable and egocentric willfulness. She saw none. All stared, and on the faces of some were worried frowns-nervousness and worry both for herself and her people.
“But… it is my will! It is what I want! Can never a queen have what she wants? Must she belong to her people and the old men who advise her?”
There was no reply.
“Wulfhere,” Cormac said, “release Thulsa Doom.”
Wulfhere still struggled, for though two Danan guardsmen had stabbed his opponent, they sought not to pin Thulsa Doom and so he was unaffected, woundless and strong as ever once their iron blades left his robed body.
“Wha-”
“Release him, Wulfhere!”
Wulfhere objected, and did not understand, and did as his friend demanded.
The headless body rose. It seemed to look this way and that, though without eyes or even a skull to set them in. It rose-and advanced on Riora. The queen cowered against Dithorba, then reached out piteously to Cormac. He put a symbolic additional pace between them and stared coldly at her.
Thulsa Doom approached.
Dithorba could not bear it; again a wall of weak blue fire rose before the stalking horror.
This time Thulsa Doom only paused. Then he, it, walked through the fire. His robe caught at the hem and the yellow flame licked up. The undying wizard reached the foot of the steps-and reached for Riora Feachtnachis.
With a little cry, the fearful queen squatted and brought the iron hammer smashing down onto the leathern pouch Cormac had left at her feet. The hammer struck the bulge of the skull within; all heard it crack and saw the bulge flatten.
Instantly the headless body twitched into gruesome shuffling movement. The unspeakable ancient abomination that was Thulsa Doom lurched into uncontrolled and uncontrollable movement; spastic jerks and twitches took possession of the robe that was his sole manifestation. The queen struck again. The long dark robe convulsed and staggered, shuddered and lurched even as the yellow flames rose up its shifting folds.
Then the flames roared up unnaturally, formed a plume of fierce yellow-white. Straight up that jerking figure they rose in a plume, and-vanished. That which had been Thulsa Doom had turned to ash, like dust that settled to the temple floor as after a windstorm during a drought.
Men murmured; their queen crouched, staring, shivering.
Only then did Cormac return to her.
From beneath her hammer he drew his belt pouch. The bag was limp. He opened its drawstrings, widened the mouth, and upended it. The small quantity of fine, almost transparent dust that sifted do
wn may have been all that remained of that fearsome skull… or it may merely have been dust, in the bag aforetime. Nothing more emerged save those few grains of dust. Cormac held only an unornarnented leathern sack; the pouch that had contained the dread skull of Thulsa Doom was empty.
After eighteen thousand years, a hundred and eighty centuries, Thulsa Doom was dead; permanently dead. Evil incarnate had left the world.
Cormac stared at the woman who crouched on the steps in a manner far less than regal. She looked like an awed, fear-filled girl whose eyes begged for understanding and comfort.
“It is done, Riora. The throne is yours. Tarmur Roag is dead. Your cousin is wounded and your prisoner-and from what I’ve seen of ye, better for him he’d lost his head to Balan’s sword rather than a mere few fingers.”
She stared. Her lips moved. No sound emerged.
“It is done,” he repeated. “Wulfhere and I must return to our own. All the world owes ye a debt, though I’ll not be thanking ye for doing that to which ye were forced.”
She found her voice. The hammer clanked on the steps as her hand moved out to clutch his arm. “Cormac… stay. Be King of Moytura-King of the Danann.”
“I will not. I cannot.”
Her voice lowered and her fingertips stroked the skin of his forearm. “Stay anyhow, then. No crown need be on you. Tarry with me.”
Cormac looked around. Poets, chroniclers, priests-ah!
“Balan! Yon man in the yellow tunic-he wants arresting and questioning. And… all the priests save him.” He pointed.
Balan turned; his men, so long frozen, came alive. The man in the tunic of primrose hue betrayed himself by falling to his knees and swearing that Tarmur Roag had forced him. The priest Cormac had singled out glanced about and, as if evading some dread plague, stepped away from his cohorts. They glared their malignance at him and at the Gael.
“He in the yellow tunic, and those four,” Cormac said, “I noted well, earlier. No shock or surprise seemed upon them at news of the treachery done here, or of the queen’s imprisonment.”
Balan nodded. “Many will want questioning,” he said.
“Many will DIE!” Riora cried, rising, quivering.
Cormac looked at her, and his face was inscrutable-unless it was sadness it showed, and perhaps a trace of pity.
“Odin’s beauteous red beard, it’s days I’ve been prisoner, and not enough food given me to nourish a titmouse! Be there food in Moytura?-and ale?”
Cormac smiled slightly at Wulfhere, and he nodded. “We will remain, and eat and sleep and share ale with ye of Moytura… our brothers beneath the earth.” And on the morrow, he mused, we will hie ourselves from this place of an unworthy ruler.
The queen turned bright eyes on him, but Cormac’s expression when he looked upon her was unreadable. Then he turned from her to stride half the temple’s length and to pick up that which Tarmur Roag had slung to the, floor; the Chain of Danu that had so long held Thulsa Doom.
The little band of people who made their way from temple to royal palace learned that they’d hardly be going hungry; a celebratory feast had been ordered long hours before and was in preparation. No matter that it had been for traitors who, expected to celebrate their victory in usurping rule in Moytura; there was victual and ale aplenty for the truly victorious. And the menace of Thulsa Doom was ended.
Eighty guardsmen were found locked in an old barracks. Balan made an assumption about their loyalty, based on the fact that the plotters had mured them up. Of none others save the six who’d fought at his side in the temple-and the three wounded others now attended by the queen’s own physician-could he be sure. Hence the eighty became at once the Palace Guard, and officers were set to arranging their shifts. None knew how many others might have been privy to the plot of Cairluh and Tarmur Roag-and in sympathy with it. Peoples had been so stupid before as to throw over one distasteful ruler only to install the equally bad, or worse, and of a surety would do so again.
As for Cairluh, Balan insisted that the queen’s cousin-who was also Balan’s, Cormac learned-Cairluh receive either medical treatment or instant execution as a mercy; the queen was for sending her plotting cousin at once to the dungeon she’d so recently quitted, and him with wounds untreated. Cormac heard her shout at her Commander of Guardsmen, the Lord Balan. Balan never raised his voice. Dithorba and Torna joined their entreaties to his, speaking much of what was seemly. They prevailed.
Cormac and Wulfhere were given sumptuous quarters, a room for each, and with every inch of stone covered and disguised; the Moyturans saw enough of bare rock. The Gael soon learned that his room abutted and adjoined the royal apartment. Onto an overly soft bed he tossed the Chain of Danu that Thulsa Doom had worn. He stood gazing at it, fingering his own Moonbow.
While Wulfhere was served by ale-bearing young women, Cormac went seeking Balan. He obtained privacy with the commander, despite the fact that the latter was passing busy. His queen was bathing and seeing to herself; her advisers and aides saw to the business of the queendom.
“It’s a brace of questions I’d ask of ye, Lord Balan.”
“We are weapon-men together; call me Balan. You who saved us all-ask.”
“Ye love the queen? No-I mean: Ye love Riora?” Balan’s face went rigid. “I would kill you for her, brother weapon-man.”
“There’ll be no need. It’s among our own Wulfhere and I will be returning, on the morrow, however ye reckon day and night in this kingdom of twilight. And Balan: It’s no love I have on me for Riora.”
“Nor do you understand my loving her.”
Cormac shrugged. “It is no business of mine to say, Balan. Have-have ye been lovers?”
“Nor is that for you to ask, Cormac mac Art.”
“True. I have asked. I have some… semblance of a plan, Balan. Her feeling for me is infatuation, no more. I would know of yourself.”
“We have been lovers. We have spoken love. We have even spoken of marriage. She is… a difficult woman.”
“Umm. Moytura could-your pardon, Balan-Moytura could be the worse for her in uncontrolled rule, and far better with you as her lover, or more. Ah. Your face has turned to stone. I’ll be saying no more.”
Nor did he. But the Gael held much inner converse with himself, and was still at his thoughts when Wulfhere had downed six huge cups and was disporting himself in his chamber with a maid more than willing. And still the sombre mac Art turned thoughts in his mind; he was still pondering when a door opened behind him. He turned.
She was beautiful. The gown and jewels and chaplet crown on her were beautiful, and her face with its reddened lips and darkened brows and lashes and eyelids to break the Danan pallor and set it off to her advantage; Riora the Fair and Righteous knew how to enhance the natural sensuous loveliness that was hers.
“I would have the Champion of Moytura escort me to the feast, Cormac.”
He considered. Aye, he would do that, and he did. He was aware of many eyes on him, more than a few of which held troubled gazes. And the queen and courtiers and their two guests banqueted, and quaffed ale. The Gael and the Dane were plied with questions about the outer world, so that they were able to ask but few of their own. Cormac did learn why his head had bothered him since he’d set foot here, and why too the goddess-flame Dithorba had raised, just as Cathbadh on the isle, had burned blue rather than brightly. The air of Moytura was not good, and fire was a great danger in this world without plants, though underground rivers found the sea and air from the sea found all parts of Moytura. It was thus simple for Cormac to prevail upon Dithorba for a strong sleeping potion, though the mage counseled more ale.
Considerably later, Cormac mac Art opened a door from his chamber into a sumptuous and sprawling one that was darkened by the drawing of heavy drapes against the perpetual light of Danu. There awaited a sensuous woman for her champion, and he joined her. Once he had done what he intended with Dithorba’s potion, stupor replaced desire in the eyes of Riora and her quickened breathing r
elaxed more and more. Then the queen was asleep.
Cormac returned to his own room, dressed, and went along the hall to the chamber given over to his Danish friend. Abed with no less than two Moyturans, Wulfhere protested violently-and grumbling, rose and dressed himself. Aye, the smiling young women with him knew where they might find the lord Balan.
Balan stared at the two men in much surprise; both were dressed, and armoured, and with their weapons by them.
“She sleeps,” Cormac said, without preamble. “And no, we did not, she and I. Wulfhere and I leave tonight, Balan-now. Nor do I wish to leave behind in Moytura an enemy, and for naught, and him a weapon-man with high skill and bravery on him.”
“I am not so petty, Cormac mac Art.”
Aye, the Gael thought, it is why yourself should be king of Moytura-and not Riora.
“For saving us all from torture and the slow death-and the de Danann from misrule by Tarmur Roag through Cairluh, Cormac mac Art of the Gaels, we and even Danu herself owe you debt.”
“Balan: you are better than a good man. You have a queen now whom you are too good a man to serve. It’s no thanks I deserve for setting Riora again on the throne.”
“Be careful, my friend. I love her.” Balan looked down. “Danu help me-for what you say is true. For me her rule will be a life of joy and misery, each giving way to the other. For Moytura, she is considerably the lesser of two evils. I cannot be her husband. No man can control a queen, and I’ll not be my wife’s subject!”
“Balan: attend me, and hold rein on yourself whilst ye hear my words. She sleeps… deeply, for I asked Dithorba for a sleeping potion and gave it her. Easy man,” Cormac cautioned, as Balan showed reaction. “The more fool yourself, Balan, an ye are not by her side when she wakes-on the morrow and every morrow after.”
“I like not your drugging her, but I’ll not dispute those words.”
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