by Sarah Rayne
The Dark Lords were with them in reality now. Grainne could feel it, even had Damnaithe not been watching them with a dreadful, frenzied exultation. There was a thickening of the air, a sluggishness in the shadows, and there was the miasma of ancient corruption, and of an old, old evil.
Sinister and quite terrifyingly alluring …
Grainne drew in a deep breath. As she did so, Medoc turned to look at her, and a slow smile touched the corners of his mouth. He knows, thought Grainne, staring at him. He knows what I am feeling …
And then something light and pure and swift stirred at the corners of her mind, and she knew it again for Erin, Fergus’s son, calling to her, sending out to the Samhailt.
The Wolves … Help me … I cannot do it alone …
But will they be strong enough? cried Grainne in silent anguish. Can they defeat all of this?
Medoc had stopped chanting now, and was standing motionless. Grainne thought that even so, even silent and unmoving, authority and power still poured outwards from him. She thought that if he beckoned to her now she would not be able to resist. She would walk to stand before him, and she would do his bidding …
The nearest of the Twelve Lords moved then; he stepped forward and bowed his head in obeisance.
“You called to me, Master. I am here.”
“Speak your name.”
“I am Debauchery,” said the voice from inside the black armour, and Grainne shuddered, because there was a thick, treacly, knowing timbre to it. You felt that the owner of the voice would find nothing too revolting and no action too disgusting.
“I walk the streets by night,” said the voice from within the armour. “I take my prey from the young and innocent. I am sexual excess and I am forbidden appetite. There is nothing I will not do to indulge my senses.”
“Who is your Master?”
“You are my Master, and I serve Crom Croich,” said the Lord.
“It is well,” said Medoc. “Take your place.” As the Lord of Debauchery stepped back, the next Lord came forward, and again Medoc said, “Speak your name.”
“I am Perversion,” said the second Lord, and his voice was soft and rather horribly intimate. You could easily imagine lying in bed in the dark and hearing a voice like this whisper dreadful suggestions in your ear. Grainne shuddered, and the Lord of Perversion went on. “I take my prey from the dark and warped side of Men’s natures,” he said, and now there was a caressing note to his voice, and there was the same knowing note as well, as if he, like the Lord of Debauchery, could see into the dark corners of Men’s natures, and see their most secret fantasies. “In my sway,” said the Lord of Perversion, “men and women perform every obscenity ever imagined. I am responsible for men desiring men and women desiring women. I am responsible for men mating with animals, and for the inflicting of pain for sexual pleasure. The sins committed in my name are many and varied, and my followers are legion.”
“Who is your Master?”
“You are my Master,” said the Lord of Perversion, “and I serve Crom Croich.” And again Medoc said, “It is well. Take your place,” and the Lord took the second place next to the Lord of Debauchery. As he did so, Damnaithe, who was crouching on the floor next to the Lord of Debauchery, reared up and embraced him, writhing against the hardness of the carapace, her head thrown back. Grainne stared and felt horrified, but felt, as well, a rather terrible pity, for surely the creature was only like this because of Medoc’s enchantments and Medoc’s beckoning spells, and because of what she had seen in her sojourn in the Dark Realm.
One by one, the Twelve Lords came forward now, and one by one they answered to Medoc, and gave their names, and swore their allegiance.
Hatred: vicious-sounding and angry, so that Grainne knew that behind the visor would be red glaring eyes and teeth and claws … Selfishness: cold and hard, so that you knew the Lord would have small narrow eyes and a tight, mean mouth; he would be vain and self-absorbed and self-indulgent.
Decadence came next, weary-sounding, and although his eyes were in shadow, you knew they would be as old as sin, as if they had seen everything there was to see. Grainne found the Lord of Decadence very horrid indeed; he made her think of thin pale-visaged gentlemen who reclined on comfortable chairs and sipped good wine, and watched while nubile young girls were paraded before them. When the Lord of Decadence said, in his bored voice, “Master, my appetites are jaded and surfeited, and it is the task of my followers to explore ways to rouse me,” Grainne knew that the image had been a true one. When Decadence took his place, Damnaithe flung herself on the floor in front of him, pulling her ragged skirts up above her waist, caressing herself obscenely with stiff jabbing fingers. Grainne, repulsed but unable to look away, saw the visored head tilt consideringly, and caught the red glint of interest from the half-concealed eyes.
Jealousy was called after Decadence; particularly horrid, with hungry eyes and grasping hands, and a smothering voice. And Deceit: sly and slimy and furtive. He would lure you into giving him your trust, and then betray you and hurt you quite dreadfully.
Avarice and Lust and Conceit came next. Conceit was remote and patronising, and faced with him you would feel every drop of confidence you had ever possessed drain away. He would make you feel small and silly, and he would certainly humiliate you.
To each of them, Medoc said, “It is well. Take your place,” and at length the Twelve Lords were ranged around the Sun Chamber, still silent and watchful, but no longer empty suits of armour. Ancient evil emanated from every one of them, and the Sun Chamber glowed with heavy dark enchantments, and old, almost-forgotten sorcery. Grainne, half lying, half sitting in the corner where she and Erin had been flung, thought that it was becoming difficult to breathe.
Medoc held out his hands once more, and the shadows slithered and there was a rather dreadful wet creeping sound, as if something was stirring in the farthest corners, and Grainne, her arms about Erin now, thought that it was easy to imagine that something sinuous and snake-like was forming in the corners and slithering towards them.
And then the shadows solidified, and there was no doubt any longer what Medoc was summoning.
The stench of rotting fish was in their nostrils, and there was a harsh snapping sound, like horn on bone, and there was a grating laugh.
Grainne turned her head slowly, because this was the worst yet, even though she had known there would be no escaping it. If Crom Croich was to be called up, Medoc would certainly need his terrible servant to assist him in the ritual.
As Grainne searched the shadows, there was a movement, lurching, loping. The shadows parted, and the something solidified, and the moonlight shifted, so that they saw it clearly. There was a sly darting movement and the snapping grating laughter came again.
Here I am, Master … You called to me and I returned from the Far Future, from the Mountain Halls …
The Conablaiche was in the Sun Chamber with them.
As soon as Grainne saw it, she knew that Medoc was having difficulty in controlling it. And for sure, this was not the furtive hungry creature of darkness; it was not the shadowy legend who prowled the cobbled streets of Ireland’s remote villages and hill farms after nightfall to snatch up sleeping children and offer them to Crom Croich. This was no midnight shadow, no creeping furtive servant. This was a monster, rampant and lusting for blood; a dreadful being, a ghoul, a nightmare apparition, raging and greedy and very nearly uncontrollable. It loped across the Sun Chamber, and stood before Medoc, a great hulking shape with shreds of flesh clinging to its skeletal figure, and fragments of skin adhering to its talons. It dripped with the blood and the juices of its victims, and it was hungry and salivating. Grainne saw that it had only one eye; that the other was in some way damaged; it hung from the eye-socket on a dreadful string of raw red muscle, and the creature pawed at this from time to time, as if trying to thrust it back into its terrible skull.
For the space of a heartbeat, Grainne and Erin both thought it would fall on Medoc, and
they waited, hardly daring to breathe. But Medoc went forward at once, walking in a circle about the creature, intoning a spell, and Grainne saw the Conablaiche hesitate. It did not flinch, but the single eye became watchful and, although it made clawing movements with its gristly arms, it did not move nearer.
Medoc stood looking at it for a moment before appearing satisfied that the creature was penned in the circle he had made. He returned to the centre of the Sun Chamber, and light began to glow from the carvings at his feet. He again threw back his head and stretched out his arms, and crimson-tinged light streamed from him. There was a deep, far-off thrumming, and the air shivered. A vast coldness crept over the Sun Chamber, and Grainne knew at once that it was the great chill of an enormous approaching evil.
Heartchill, bonechill, and you will never be warm again. Crom Croich is drawing near …
Grainne drew Erin closer to her for warmth, even though she knew that the terrible cold could not be fought.
For Crom Croich was struggling for rebirth into the world of Men …
The Sun Chamber was pulsating with horrid life now; the crimson light was throbbing rhythmically as if a giant heart was beating, or as if something great and powerful was striving for life.
Crom Croich, entering the world of Men again, taking on the substance of flesh …
And then Medoc moved aside, and on the spot where he had been standing, at the exact point that the sorcerers and the sidh had created the enchantments that were to have held Tara safe, something was materialising.
At first Grainne thought it was only the gathering of more shadows, and then she thought it was something a bit more than that. Medoc began to chant, and the light throbbed and pulsated faster, and the thing was forming …
A wet glistening sack, repulsive and amorphous. A giant cocoon, shivering with movement from within, pulsating and twitching, wet and raw and slimed. Not quite flesh and not quite spirit. It reared up before them, a lumpish column, a giant chrysalis, growing stronger and more incarnate with every minute.
Crom Croich, reborn into the world of Men …
Very softly, Erin said, “What is it? What are we witnessing?” and Grainne, unable to look away from the heaving, panting thing before them, said, “The birth of a god.”
The thing was nearly twenty feet high now; it was a living pulsing sack that might at any minute burst open and vomit forth the dreadful monster-god.
The cocoon was heaving spasmodically now and the pale sack was beginning to split in places. Rivulets of a thick, not quite colourless fluid oozed out and seeped on to the floor of the Sun Chamber.
The birth of a god …
The Twelve Lords had moved silently, and were surrounding the creature now, the dark miasma of their presence hanging on the air. They were chanting the god’s name in steady, measured tones.
Crom Croich … Crom Croich …
The creature was taking a shape now; rudimentary arms were sprouting from the upper portions of the glistening sack, and stump-like legs protruded from the lower. There was a bulge at the highest point that would be a head in minutes, and there were bulbous excrescences that would become eyes …
Crom Croich, the word made flesh …
The Conablaiche was cawing and scrabbling at the floor with its claws, and eyeing the birthing greedily, and the Lad of the Skins was grinning in his corner, his lips wet and greedy, his teeth gleaming with saliva that ran down his chin. He slewed his eyes round to where Grainne and Erin lay helpless.
Soon to be in my hands …
The giant embryo was forming. The rudimentary shoulders and legs were rudimentary no longer. The god was being born before their eyes. Shoulders, arms; thighs and legs and feet. A thick neck. Pendulous features and slit-like eyes. The birth sack was splitting more fully now; there was a wet pulpy noise, a glutinous sucking sound, and from within the birth sack came a stronger and much more definite movement than anything that had gone before. The birthsack was disintegrating; in another minute, Crom Croich would stand before them, newly born, terrible, greedy, demanding sacrifice …
As Grainne and Erin half lay, half knelt in their corner, Medoc turned and walked with slow deliberation to the waiting Throne, the famous and symbolic seat of power, the Seat of every High King and Queen of Tara, from the first ruler of all, whom some called the cursed Queen, through the great Niall of the Nine Hostages, and Nuadu Airgetlam of the Silver Arm, down through the reckless charming Cor-mac, and Dierdriu, until it had come down to Grainne, whom some had called Grainne the Gentle.
And once that was my Throne, and once I held Court here, and now Medoc occupies it, and if I am remembered at all, it will be as the Queen who was defeated by the Dark Ireland, and who was sacrificed to Crom Croich. And I shall die, and Erin will die, and Fergus will never have known him, and Raynor will be for ever alone, and Tara will be lost, and Ireland will be lost, and everything my people have done will all be in vain.
And then, without warning, certainly without understanding, something pierced her mind, and she half turned her head to look at Erin. Something white and silvery and as pure and as clear as spring water, and as strong and as beautiful as crystal …
Erin’s thought-forms came clearly into her mind.
The Wolves … you must help me …
Grainne felt the silver light flooding her mind, and she half closed her eyes, and wrapped her consciousness all about it and, quite suddenly, she could sense it all, she could see the long slender twining cord that would reach out and circle the wolves, and bring them back to Tara.
The silver cord that never breaks …
Strength poured into her, and she knew it for Erin’s strength, and then there was a brief flare of awareness, and Grainne thought, I believe it is working! and felt the silver cord thicken, and felt the distant response.
And then Erin said, very softly, “Listen. Do you hear?"
And Grainne looked at him, her eyes shining, because she had heard, and it was the one sound she had never believed she would hear again.
The howling of wolves.
*
Nobody in the Queen’s armies, or in the ranks of the Cruithin or the Beastline, had dared to ask themselves if they would be in time to rescue the Queen, but every single person assembled on the moonlit hills outside Folaim thought it. Medoc had the Queen, he had imprisoned her inside the Bright Palace, and he had surrounded her with his own darkness. It was all very well to tell each other that Medoc was a gentleman, and he would treat Her Majesty with courtesy; you could be courteous and gentlemanly at one and the same moment you were cutting out somebody’s heart. Fintan said he could have wished that that particular example had not been used, because it conjured up nightmarish memories of Crom Croich and the Conablaiche, but Cermait said stoutly that this was nonsense; nobody, not even Medoc, would really consider reviving the cult of Crom Croich. But he looked doubtful and he followed it up by saying that they ought to be setting off right away.
Fergus had taken up his old position at the head of the waiting armies, but it was noticed by everyone that Raynor was close at his side. Dorrainge said, in his cold-fish way, that Fergus and Raynor would not get on, because they were no more alike than turnips and threadworms, but everyone knew that, beneath the skin, Fergus and Raynor were of the same mould.
Tybion the Tusk’s romantic soul was thrilled to the core by the sight of these two remarkable creatures preparing to rescue the lady they both loved. In fact, what with the battle, and the possibility of dying gloriously for the Queen, Tybion thought that if he could have been sure of Grainne’s ultimate safety, he would have been happier than he had ever been in his entire life. But he put these thoughts resolutely aside, because he had been given the command of the Cruithin by Fergus, and this was such an honour that Tybion scarcely knew what to do with himself for delight. He found the Cruithin to be perfectly amiable and entirely obedient, so that it was as well that he did not realise that the Cruithin did not really need leading, and that Fergus was
simply making Tybion feel useful. The Cruithin would probably do whatever they wanted to do in the battle, and since whatever they did would probably be of immense help, it was immaterial who led them. It was fortunate that Tybion did not know this.
Fintan and Cermait had decided to ride with the Beastline because, as Fintan said, coming straight from the Grail Castle, they would not be accustomed to battles, and it would be a good idea to guide them. Cermait said this was very true indeed. The Beastline did not need guiding, any more than the Cruithin, but they were all far too polite to say so.
Dorrainge had decided to bring up the rear, since the Druids were peace-loving people, and anyway, Dorrainge himself, as Second Druid, had to be a bit removed from any danger. It was important for the Second Druid not to be killed or injured; it was particularly important for him not to be killed. He did not say this, and he was going to be unobtrusive about keeping to the rear. It was to be hoped that Cathbad did not do something silly and emotional, like flinging himself into the front ranks, because this would draw down unwelcome attention to the Druids, which was not something the Druids would like.
Taliesin and Annabel had stayed a little apart, watching everything, helping Niall and Conn and the boys to sort out horses and arm themselves with swords and bows.
“Marvellous,” said Conn, grinning.
“I shall kill a very lot of enemies,” said Michael, who had been given a minuscule sword, and who was going to be kept out of the real fighting, but who did not know this.
It had not previously occurred to Annabel that you could truly fight a war by getting on to a horse and brandishing a sword and riding off crying death and destruction to the other side, even though she had read about this in the forbidden books. It would be tactful not to go around telling these people about the way wars were fought in her world, the world of the Drakon, because it would have sounded patronising. Annabel, more used to buttons being pressed, and machines being sent out over enemy territory, and screens and electronic intelligences being consulted for battle plans, was intrigued.
