by Sarah Rayne
Taliesin, who was still casting about in his mind for a way to outwit these men, said with a coldness he was far from feeling, “If you have her, she’ll be worth far less at procuration,” and the patrol leader turned to look at him with sudden surprise.
“Of course I am not going to have her,” he snapped, in a voice that said, Where-have-you-been-living-you-fool? “You know the dangers of sexual congress.” He regarded Taliesin scornfully. “I served four years in a Plague Hospital,” he said. “And I helped draw up the latest regulations.” He stood looking at Taliesin. “For all they’ll have you believe they’ve stamped it out, it’s still rampant,” he said. “This one felt unbroken, but for all I know she’s rotten with the Disease.” The sly grin touched his lips again. “But we all know the ways round it,” he said. And then, to one of the waiting patrol, “Put in the mouth clamp,” he said. “And then lie her flat.”
The mouth clamp was a tiny steel-springed contraption, a miniature dual-levered cantilever that would support something, or perhaps hold open something that would otherwise have closed tightly. Taliesin saw its use at once, and horror ran over him in a cold wave. The two men wrenched Annabel’s mouth open, and thrust the clamp inside, adjusting it so that she was unable to close her lips.
“All the better to bite you with,” said the patrolman, grinning horridly. “Only now you won’t be able to, will you?”
Annabel, half choking, gasped and reminded herself about not letting them see she was frightened, and remembered about Fael-Inis and the glinting anger and about Taliesin and about death or glory.
The clamp was attached to threaded screws that set the clamp to the exact degree the men wanted.
“Not too wide,” said the patrol leader, standing over her, caressing himself obscenely. “Not too wide. I want to feel this one’s lips.” Annabel could barely breathe, and she could certainly not scream, and even if she could have screamed, there was nothing to scream to, because Taliesin was in the hands of the patrol, and Fael-Inis would only call up a spell if they could not escape by human means …
Then a low bubbling chuckle filled the cave, and from its corner the Conablaiche reared up, casting its monstrous shadow across the floor. There was a snapping sound, a grisly, bone-on-teeth sound, and it loped across the floor, making massive swiping gestures with its great gristly arms, sending several of the patrolmen staggering back.
The Conablaiche had fallen on the leader; it seemed to spear him on the end of its talons, and it held him aloft as if inspecting him. Yes, yes, a tasty morsel indeed … The fishlike eyes swivelled and bulged with horrid appetite.
Taliesin, released by the two who had been holding him, bounded forward and snatched Annabel up, freeing her mouth from the thing they had called the clamp, holding her hard against him.
The patrolman was screaming, dreadful, trapped-hare screams, his arms and legs flailing, and the Conablaiche grinned, its fleshless lips widening, its breath fetid in the airless cave; it brought up its other arm and, deliberately and slowly, gouged the man’s now-flaccid penis from his body.
Blood and urine spurted out, and Annabel saw with a shudder of horror that they sprayed the creature’s face, and that the creature protruded a great, pendulous, leathery flap of tongue, and licked its bloodied jowls with relish.
Fael-Inis reached for Taliesin and Annabel, and drew them gently into the shadows, and Annabel, who was still feeling sick, thought, But where are we going?
The Conablaiche was bringing its talons up again in a great curving arc, and the three travellers stood for a moment longer, watching the man’s ribcage torn open. Blood covered the rock floor now, and the other patrolmen were falling and slipping as they scrambled for the narrow opening. Annabel thought they would not get very far, for certainly the terrible creature would be upon them. And even as the thought took shape, she saw the sinewy arm reach out and knock two more of the men to the floor.
To be dealt with presently, my dears … The grisly bone-on-teeth sound snapped out again, and the Conablaiche threw back its head and gave a neighing roar of triumph.
The patrolman’s heart was exposed now, embedded in flesh and muscle, and the Conablaiche inserted a pointed claw and, with a smooth, scything motion, began to cut around the raw beating heart. The screaming of the patrolman was growing fainter, but blood still pumped steadily from his mutilated body, and the three travellers could see that he still lived.
“Of course he still lives,” said Fael-Inis very softly. “Does not the Conablaiche take the living hearts for its Master?”
The Conablaiche gave its neigh of triumph again, and held aloft the dripping, steaming gobbet of flesh that was a human heart.
As he did so, Fael-Inis stepped farther back into the shadows, drawing Annabel and Taliesin with him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lugh of the Longhand thought he was doing rather well. He was not the man to be intimidated by dark nights and rustling creatures in the forest; he was certainly not the man to be intimidated by the towering bulk of Tara itself. Hadn’t he been to Tara more times than he could count, and wasn’t he entirely accustomed to the splendour and the beauty? Truth to tell, splendour and beauty, although all very well in their way, had never affected Lugh all that much. And Tara did not change.
It did not change and yet it had changed completely. Lugh stole through to the Western Gate and stood for a moment looking up at the Palace.
Tara did not change and yet it had changed completely. As Lugh slipped through the Western Gate — and it was strange that there were no sentries to challenge him — he felt a blackness and a great heavy curtain fall about his mind.
Darkness. Medoc’s darkness. It was a bit discomfiting to see Tara, the Bright Palace, like this. Lugh had known, of course, that Medoc had drawn a cloud of darkness over Tara, because Medoc was a dark necromancer, he was a Lord of the Dark Ireland, and it was only to be expected that he would create his own surroundings. Lugh quite saw that. Even so, it was unsettling to see the Bright Palace in shadow. Lugh found himself remembering all the nasty stories about Ireland’s enemies. And then there were all those beliefs about the sidh, the cold, inhuman faery folk who came up to the ramparts of Tara, led by the Elven King, Aillen mac Midha. The sidh were supposed to have a strange loyalty to the High Kings, but Lugh would not trust one of the sidh from here to that tree trunk, even if he had ever seen one, which he had not.
It was really quite startling to see Tara like this. Tara ought to blaze with light and glitter with brilliance. Lugh had been accustomed to seeing it as a beacon and a lodestar. Now it was quenched and quiet. In the great Sun Chamber, where once the Wolfkings had held their dazzling Courts, a powerful necromancer dwelled, and the galleries that had sparkled with music and feasting were thick with evil enchantments. Lugh could feel it all round him. And really, really, if you were logical (which Lugh naturally was), hadn’t you to admit to a sneaking admiration for the man who had somehow doused the light? Lugh was not, of course, going to support Medoc — dear goodness, of course he was not! — but you had to give credit where it was due. Medoc had taken Tara with consummate ease, and, more to the point, he had kept it.
Lugh was creeping through the galleries now, through the small antechambers with the mystical patterns etched in gold on the floors. He knew these for minor spells created by the Palace sorcerers for the Wolfkings; the sorcerers did not easily give away their secrets, but Cormac of the Wolves had persuaded them on several occasions, and one or two very inferior enchantments had been written down and then etched in gold on the floors. Lugh had always thought this rather pretentious, though he had never said so. But now, studying the etched symbols and patterns, the thought just occurred to him that hadn’t the Wolfkings been rather ridiculous at times? Couldn’t you argue that Medoc was a far better, far stronger ruler?
And in any case, the Wolfkings’ day was over.
At this point in his thoughts, Lugh stopped short and frowned, because wasn’t that a terrible tra
itorous thought to have, and the Longhands the champions and the paladins of the Wolfline as far back as Niall of the Nine Hostages and Nuadu Airgetlam?
But the closer he got to the Sun Chamber, the more he went on thinking it, and the more he thought it, the more sensible it seemed.
You could not really guard against your own thoughts. They slid into your mind from somewhere, and then there they were. Once you had thought something, you could not unthink it. And Medoc had taken Tara and Medoc had kept Tara, and Medoc was certainly the strongest sorcerer anyone had ever known.
This was all extremely traitorous, of course, but it was also rather a fascinating notion. Lugh, walking cautiously now, began to seriously consider whether he oughtn’t to give Medoc a fair hearing.
And he could feel Medoc’s presence very strongly now. A dark swirling force at the centre of the Palace; a whirling power that would embrace a man’s soul and smother his mind. A force that would certainly wrap itself about Ireland and mould Ireland. Yes, this needed thinking about very carefully.
Directly ahead of him was the Sun Chamber, the heart and the core of Tara. It was said to be the most beautiful place in the entire western world, although Lugh usually suffered a sick headache if he had to be in it for too long, and had to make an excuse to leave.
The double doors of the Sun Chamber were closed, and as Lugh made his way across the marble floors, he caught the faintest sound of movement from within. He stopped outside the doors and hesitated. It would probably be quite a good idea to go inside the Sun Chamber, because it might tell him a bit about Medoc. They needed to know all they could about Medoc.
But Lugh was becoming more and more fascinated by the creature that was Medoc; he wanted to know more about him, and if Medoc turned out to be what he, Lugh, suspected, then the idea of changing allegiances would certainly be looked at. Probably Medoc would be very glad to have a fine warrior such as Lugh in his ranks. Probably he would grant Lugh one or two honours, which Lugh would refuse with a becoming display of modesty, although he would not refuse too firmly, because that would be rude. The Longhands were many things, but rude was not one of them.
It would be extremely gratifying if Medoc granted him some kind of high place in his service, because didn’t all the stories about Medoc say that he looked after his own? That would show Fergus and Fintan and Cermait and those silly Tusks!
Still, it was necessary to be careful, because although this was Tara, the Shining Citadel, the seat of every High King of Ireland, it was also the lair of the darkest and most powerful necromancer ever to come out of the Dark Ireland. Lugh knew about necromancers; they were greedy and hungry and eternally on the watch for the glittering kingdoms of humans. Hundreds of years might pass quite peacefully, and they would leave the humans alone, and they would dwell inside the Dark Ireland, which was their domain. And then, without warning, they would find a gateway between the two worlds, and they would summon their terrible servants, and there would be wars and battles, and sometimes they would gain control of Tara, and sometimes they would be beaten back.
Lugh knew all of the stories. He knew about the terrible creatures of the Dark Ireland, and about the evil necromancers who dwelled there in dark towers and grim citadels. He knew very well that Medoc was Overlord of many of these beings, and probably he could summon them all and overrun Ireland if he cared to.
He knew, as well, about the Guardians, the rather dreadful band of evil, greedy necromancers, who would guard anything in the world, so long as someone would pay them enough. He wondered, briefly, whether Medoc might have called up the Guardians to watch over Tara, and he remembered some of the stories whispered about them. He remembered that there were three who were female but not human, and who nearly always worked together, and who were the most fearsome of all …
Spectre, who was grey and wraithlike, and who was composed of nightwinds and freezing winter dawns and howling blizzards … And Reflection, who many years ago had stolen the legendary Cloak of Nightmares from the Wolfkings, and now used it for her own nefarious ends. The last of the three was the Sensleibhe, who was the most fearsome of them all. The Sensleibhe it was who lured children into her warm, firelit room and then wove them into cloth made of human skin and human nails and human hair …
And then Lugh decided that these were such terrible thoughts to have when you were creeping through a dark and apparently deserted Palace that he would put them from him. Anyway, people did not believe in that sort of thing now.
He stood rather indecisively outside the Sun Chamber, because although he was becoming rather interested in the idea of confronting Medoc, it was quite likely that the Twelve Dark Lords would be in the Sun Chamber, and this was a very good reason for hesitating. Lugh did not know very much about the Twelve Lords. They were said to sup with Medoc every night, and to assist him in his sorcery and his rituals. They were each named for some aspect of evil; Corruption and Depravity and Lust and Perversion were but four — Lugh did not know them all and he did not want to know them. He was not overly particular about Depravity, except if you were involved in a war where there was generally pillaging and raping, and which you had to join in with, because people thought you were odd if you did not. But he would certainly go inside the Sun Chamber. He would go in at any minute. He was braver than most men, and he was not afraid of the Dark Lords. He was definitely not afraid of Medoc, because you were not afraid of someone for whom you were going to do a favour.
He would spin a tale for the camp when he got back, which they would all swallow without any difficulty. He would not tell them how he had bearded Medoc in his lair (which in fact he had still to do), but he would say that he had surveyed the lie of the land, and assessed the number of sentries and guards. This would be considered very useful.
He was just sketching out a bit of a tale which the soldiers would like to hear, when there was a definite sound from inside the Sun Chamber. Lugh stood very still and tried not to make any sound at all, and tried not to breathe, because his heart was thumping erratically and making him puff a bit.
The massive doors, carved with the wolf emblem, swung slowly open, and dark blue light, tinged with crimson, poured out into the dark hall where Lugh stood.
A soft and rather beautiful voice from inside the Chamber said, “Come inside, human.”
Of their own volition, Lugh’s feet took him forward.
Lugh was already more than halfway to accepting Medoc by this time, of course; he had already argued it out with himself, and he had already convinced himself that it would be to his advantage to give his allegiance to Medoc. This was not changing sides, simply being practical. The Longhands knew how to be practical.
The Sun Chamber was in shadow; it was no longer the blaze of light and colour it had once been, although there was light of a kind; there was a rather warm, rather reddish firelight, and there were curious shadows. Lugh glanced at the shadows and then away, because he had the unpleasant impression of solid figures within the shadows. The Dark Lords …?
The long banqueting table, which could seat a hundred and fifty people with ease, was laid for some kind of feast. The rich spicy scents of roasting meats and of warm, fragrant wine reached Lugh, who remembered, rather unexpectedly, that he was hungry. But he stood uncertainly in the doorway, wishing that the doors were not quite so wide and not quite so high, because to be sure it made a Man feel a bit puny to be framed like this in such a massive opening, and the last thing you wanted in this kind of situation was to feel puny.
As he moved forward, he saw that tall carved chairs were ranged about the banqueting table, and he counted them. Twelve. One for each of the Dark Lords. And one at the head of the table facing the door. Thirteen in all.
Twelve Dark Lords and the one who ruled them: Medoc.
The firelight washed over him, making him a creature of dark shadows and red flickering light, so that for a moment Lugh could not be sure if anyone sat there or not. And then he moved a little nearer, and he saw that a fi
gure did sit there, and that it was watching him, wholly at ease, the fingers of one hand curled about the stem of a wine chalice.
Medoc. The Dark Necromancer. The cruel, beautiful, evil one who had driven out the Wolfline.
(And, let facts be faced, had kept out the Wolfline.)
He was rather smaller than Lugh had expected, and with every step closer, Lugh thought he was very ordinary indeed. His hair was dark and his face was lean and even slightly austere. You had the feeling that he might enjoy good music and wine and the learned, rather dry tomes of the Druids and the Alchemists.
Lugh began to feel considerably better. This was quite definitely a person he could handle. He could handle most people, of course, but he would admit to having been the smallest bit nervous about meeting Medoc.
Medoc had risen and come forward. It was gratifying to discover that he was not quite so tall as Lugh. It was even more gratifying to discover that Medoc, for all his sinister reputation, was not in the least bit alarming. You could not be afraid of a man six inches shorter than you were, and who seemed to possess the gentle, unworldly features of a scholar. Lugh squared his shoulders and began to feel in command of the situation. It would be nice to think that he might go down in history as the one who had bearded Medoc in his lair. And then he wished he had not used the word lair, because it conjured up rather unpleasant visions of dark firelit caves with reddish glows and eerie shadows that danced across the ceiling, and might have been anything at all.
A bit like the Sun Chamber now …
Medoc spoke then, and his voice was soft and gentle and soothing. He said, “You are most welcome, Sir of the Longhand,” and Lugh was at once pleased. He eyed Medoc and said he took that very kindly, because he had heard that strangers were no longer welcome inside Tara.
