by Sarah Rayne
“This is a much more exciting way of fighting a war,” she said to Taliesin.
“Wars aren’t meant to be exciting,” said Taliesin. And then, “Or are they? Mars approaching … leaden rain and iron hail … into the tumult and the fire and the — What are you doing?”
“I’m fastening on spurs,” said Annabel, sitting on the ground and trying to inspect the soles of her boots. “I borrowed them from one of the soldiers. I expect I shall have to give them back when it’s all over, and they’re not what I’d call comfortable, but you can’t have everything in a battle. But of course, you can’t ride into battle without the proper equipment,” said Annabel firmly, because it was always as well to be firm about something you cared about, and it was not to be thought of that she should not join in the battle, this immense war charge they were all going to make on Tara, now that she was here.
Taliesin said thoughtfully, “And I daresay that ‘a pair of good spurs to a borrowed horse is better than a peck of oats.’ Do you know I find it quite remarkable how the echoes reverberate about a battlefield. I know that somebody will some day say that, because I can hear it and I can feel it, and if it has not been said already, and perhaps to better purpose, then certainly it will be said in the future. I should very much prefer you not to take part in this battle, Annabel.”
“I know that,” said Annabel, who had been expecting this.
Taliesin took both her hands, drew her aside, and looked at her very straightly. “Listen, lady,” he said, and Annabel stared at him with delight, because when Taliesin said “lady” in just that voice, it was precious and private and so filled with promise that it was very nearly impossible not to do what he wanted. Only, said Annabel to herself, the trouble is that what he wants is for me to stay safely out here in the forest and miss everything. And I will not.
“Listen,” said Taliesin, not firmly, but very carefully, “this isn’t going to be an affair of glory and excitement and galloping to victory. It isn’t an adventure, Annabel.” And stopped, and thought how ridiculous this sounded, because surely all war was an adventure of sorts. “People will get killed,” he said. “Wounded. Maimed. People will die in agony, or live in agony for hours before they do die.” He paused, and his hands tightened about hers. “And we might be defeated,” said Taliesin gently.
There was a pause. Annabel said, in rather a small voice, “Might we?”
“Medoc is the strongest necromancer ever to come out of the Dark Ireland,” said Taliesin. “And his creatures are fearsome and merciless. Fergus is not invincible.”
“Well, I won’t stay behind,” said Annabel, who had not thought about them losing the battle until this minute, but who would still not have missed any of it for a King’s ransom.
“Obstinate child,” said Taliesin. “Are we then to ride forward as if the hounds of hell were chasing us, slaying Medoc’s dark creatures as we go?”
“I shan’t get in the way,” said Annabel, who had thought it all out, and was in fact planning to ride at the rear of the Beastline people with Bee. “We thought we’d be all right there,” she said. “We don’t expect to do any actual fighting.”
“Of course not.”
“But after all, I did disable the Conablaiche,” said Annabel. “Don’t forget that I did that.”
“I do not forget,” said Taliesin. “It is only that …”
“Yes?”
He paused, and then said, very softly, “It is only that if I am to take you back with me to my house in the Street of Money Lenders, and see you curl up by the hearth, and drink wine with you, and talk to you, and find out about you …”
“Yes?” said Annabel, scarcely daring to breathe.
Taliesin smiled. “It is that I should like you whole and unmarked,” he said. And then, in a different, much more intense voice, “Oh, Annabel,” he said softly, “we are going to shut out the clamouring world, and we are going to create our own world.”
Our own world … Annabel stared at him, and saw, for a heartbeat of time, the images and the visions.
Taliesin said, “Firelit walls and an immense deep reservoir of happiness. Days spent working, nights spent together. Companionship and sharing and laughter and wine and music …”
And friends to make and worlds to explore. And Taliesin there … And I shall never be lonely again …
Annabel did not say any of this, but she reached out to touch his face with one hand, and smiled back at him.
And then Taliesin said, in a different, more practical voice, “I believe that Fergus is ready for the charge.”
*
Fergus thought he was as ready as he would ever be. He felt odd and rather unreal, as if he had not yet completely returned to the world. And cold … I think I shall never be truly warm again, he thought, and wondered if it was only the lingering coldness of the soulless, or if it was a deeper cold. I shall never properly love a woman again, ever …
He turned to face the waiting armies, and the Beastline and the lost boys, and for a moment felt that he was seeing them from a great distance, from the far end of a tunnel, from behind glass …
Now we see through a glass darkly. But then face to face.
I am seeing them through glass, thought Fergus, still looking at the rows of soldiery, and the colours and the glinting armour and the weapons and the pennants. I am seeing through a glass, but before we reach Tara, I must somehow be face to face with them …
This is where I belong, thought Fergus. After all, this is where I belong, and this is what I know. Fighting and making war and winning war. Trying to keep Ireland safe.
Ireland. Oh, yes, thought Fergus, feeling the merest breath of warm air melt the ice about his heart. Yes, after all, it is Ireland that matters.
The memory of the Prison of Hostages, and of the mountain caverns, receded a little. This is the real world, thought Fergus. This is what I understand, and this is where I belong. He saw how they watched him, and how they were waiting for his command, and he saw, as well, as clearly as if it had been drawn out in front of him, the battle plan, and the route they would take, and the way in which they would ride on Tara. He turned his horse about and surveyed them all, and without warning, light kindled in his eyes.
For I am the head of the High Queen’s Fiana, and I can lead these people to victory, and I can restore the Wolfline to Ireland. He lifted his arm in the gesture that meant Make ready and felt a shiver of anticipation go through the waiting creatures. Fergus, his every sense alive now, saw spears of pure white light pierce the twilit skies, and knew it for the Samhailt, the ancient and most purely magical gift, only ever bestowed on the Royal Houses of Ireland. He looked at Raynor and Rinnal and Bee; at the other creatures of the Beastline, and knew the white light to be of their making; he knew that they were mobilising the beasts; the Eagles and the Foxes and the Hares; the Chariot Horses and the Deer; the Hounds and Gazelle and White Swans and Stags.
Ireland’s greatest army of all, the ancient Enchantment rediscovered …
And only one thing is needed to complete it, thought Fergus, and as he drew breath to commence the charge on Tara, he heard, faintly and from a great distance, the sound that no one in Ireland had ever thought to hear again.
The howling of Wolves.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The chanting in the Sun Chamber had become a throbbing rhythmic sound that made Grainne’s head ache and her senses swim. At the centre of it all, something gold and solid and incredibly powerful was forming, and Grainne and Erin both knew that Crom Croich was very nearly with them.
The Twelve Dark Lords were circled about the almost-born god, and from behind their visors, evil intelligence showed. Decadence, Debauchery, Lust, Perversion, Selfishness … Grainne could identify them all now; she could recognise the corruption in each figure.
Conceit, Avarice, Hatred …
Damnaithe was writhing and growling deep in her throat, her eyes glinting redly, her face a snarling mask. Grainne looked at her, and l
ooked away immediately, feeling a deep loathing, and hating herself for feeling it.
There was a final convulsive movement from the thing at the centre of the Sun Chamber; a wet sucking sound, and a moment when Grainne actually felt within her own body a wrench as the creature tore through the birth sack. The now thick and horny surface of the sack split and began to fall from the heaving thing within, and the creature clawed its way out.
The dull, golden skin was smeared and matted with blood and with a thick, glutinous fluid, and the face was clotted with gore. There was a short squat neck and a low brow, and a blunt, tumescent skull. Grainne had seen carvings in old caves of ancient civilisations, and she remembered how those early humans, said to have evolved from apes, had possessed the same low brow and hulking shape. But in Crom Croich’s features, there was a terrible intelligence; the eyes were small and slit-like, but they glowed like rubies catching the light; there were broad flattened nostrils, and beneath them was a wide gaping orifice, a maw, a yawning gullet.
All the better to devour you with, my dear …
Medoc had moved forward and was standing before the great rearing shape of the god. With not the slightest trace of subservience, he went down on one knee and placed his left hand on his breast. There was a movement from the god; Grainne thought that its hands gestured, and then Medoc stood up again, and turned to where the Conablaiche and the Lad of the Skins were watching. The Twelve Lords fell back, and Medoc stepped over the circle which had imprisoned the Conablaiche.
At once the creature bounded forward, and stood surveying the company, its beak opening and shutting, its talons curving, its remaining eye swivelling and searching.
Medoc turned back to Crom Croich and said, “We are all ready to serve you, Master. We have the sacrifices here,” and as he spoke, the Conablaiche snapped its beak with a horrid harsh sound, and its restless claws rang out on the silver floor. At Medoc’s heels, the Lad of the Skins gave his low, bubbling chuckle, and scuttled across the floor to where Grainne and Erin half lay against the wall.
The Twelve Lords moved as well, silently and swiftly, Damnaithe in their midst; they suddenly seemed taller, and as they formed a half circle about Grainne and Erin, their shadows fell starkly across the two prisoners.
Medoc stood looking down at them both for a long moment, his lips curved in the beautiful, terrible smile, his eyes shining darkly.
“Kill them,” said Damnaithe, and crouched low on the floor, panting slightly. “Kill them, and let the blood flow.”
“She is impatient, you see,” said Medoc, never taking his eyes from Grainne. “She is impatient to see Crom Croich served. But so am I, my dear,” said Medoc in his beautiful caressing voice. “So am I.” He stayed where he was, his eyes still on Grainne. “The Crown Princess and the Wolfprince,” he said, and there was a lick of pleasure in his voice that made Grainne shudder. “The worthiest sacrifice I could devise for my Master.” And then to Damnaithe, “Keep back,” he said coldly. “Your worthless hungers will be appeased later.” As Damnaithe cringed, Medoc nodded to the nearest of the Lords.
“Make them ready. Prepare the altar. Light the sacrificial fires.”
*
Annabel had not been aware of the moment when the people of Tara began the final great sweeping charge down the hill. She had ridden cautiously, unused to being on horseback, but finding it surprisingly easy.
“The easiest thing there is,” said Bee, next to her, and Annabel was grateful for Bee’s presence.
Taliesin, a little ahead, turned in the saddle, his eyes narrowing suddenly. “Look ahead, Annabel. You see? The Shining Citadel. The Bright Palace.”
And Annabel managed to slow down the horse, and stood with them all looking down into the saucer-shaped valley with the huge sprawling palace.
Tara, the Bright Palace, the brilliant citadel, the radiant lodestar of all Ireland, which drew travellers and pilgrims and scholars and poets to its centre. The Aurora of the Western World, shrouded and smothered in the darkness of the necromancer.
A great silence fell on the watchers, and Fergus, at the head, felt tears prick his eyes, and did not mind whether or not anyone saw them. He remembered how Fael-Inis had looked at him in Calatin’s house, and how he had known then that he had failed in allowing Medoc into Tara, and that he had continued to fail for not raising a strong and massive army and attempting to drive Medoc out.
But Medoc was invincible! We all knew that. I had not the resources then, thought Fergus, and at once came the answer.
It does not matter. You could have tried.
Fergus bowed his head in silent acknowledgement and, as he did so, felt stir within him the fierce resolve and the determination that, even if he lost his life in what lay ahead, he would put rout to Medoc and his evil, and he would restore Tara to the Royal House.
Even if Grainne is dead? said his mind.
Even then.
He turned to rally the people again, for this would be the final great battle charge, and there must be no fumbling and no falling back. They must go down the hillside in a single clean movement, and along the great road that led to the Western Gate; they must fall upon any of Medoc’s creatures that might be lying in wait, and they must kill them instantly. Only then could they reach the Sun Chamber, and only then could they rescue Grainne.
He paused, because there was never anything quite like this last on-the-brink moment, the final few seconds before going forward into a battle, and he felt himself filling up with energy and strength and confidence, so that he remembered every battle he had ever fought and every war he had ever won, and he thought, Yes, of course! This is where I belong! And he looked to the armies with sudden, all-embracing affection, because these were his people, and they would ride with him, they would fight to restore Ireland, and they would fight to return Grainne to Tara.
He looked to where the Beastline were waiting, the animals in line behind them, and he felt undiluted delight at the sight, because wasn’t it decades, wasn’t it several generations, since the Enchanted Royal Houses of Ireland had ridden in battle. There was the most tremendous sense of anticipation, and Fergus thought that he could almost imagine that all Ireland was waiting and all Ireland was poised to surge down into the dark, saucer-shaped valley.
And if only Grainne is still safe, then I believe I shall not care about anything else, he thought.
He looked back at the assembled armies; at the Beastline who were serious and intent; at the Cruithin, small and elfin and certainly possessed of the pure gentle magic of their people. The boys were there as well; Conn and Niall and the small Michael, and all the others. All with me, thought Fergus. All certainly ready to follow me. And with the thought came another: But will it be enough? Will there be sufficient of us to drive out Medoc and his evil?
I can’t do it! thought Fergus in a sudden agony of doubt. I don’t think I can do it! We are not enough! And: I cannot fight Medoc’s enchantments with people alone! cried his mind.
But then, over the far horizon, from the west, mingling with the twilight, as elusive as the mist over the Mountains of the Morning, came the swirling, sinuous shapes of blue-green smoke, and at the heart of the soft cool creatures which were nearly but not quite solid was the eldritch figure of the Elven King. Aillen mac Midha, the creature of chill faery blood, the being whose people poured music into the world, and who came up to the ramparts of Tara at the birth of a Wolfprince and sang him into the world, and wove their fragile enchantments to protect him. Music began to fill up the night, and there was a challenge in the music, as if the music-makers were girding themselves for a tremendous battle.
Fergus had just time to think: the sidh! Aillen mac Midha and his faery sidhfolk! Making good their long-ago promise to protect the Royal House of Tara. Riding into the centre of the High Queen’s armies. They would not materialise; Fergus knew this quite definitely, for if a human looked full upon the sidh, upon their awful cold beauty, it would burn out his eyes or scorch his flesh or d
estroy his mind. But he looked with delight at the blue and green radiance, because the sidh would have their own enchantments, and only by using forces other than swords and arrows and bows could they hope to defeat Medoc.
From the other horizon, from the eastern hills, came the rushing sound of chariot wheels. Red-gold fire shot into the sky, and Fergus stood transfixed, unable to believe his eyes, because it surely could not be, it surely could not happen twice in so short a space of time … he would not come to the world of Men so soon again … Over the crest of the hill appeared Fael-Inis, standing at the prow of the Time Chariot.
And streaming in his wake were the Royal Wolves of Tara …
*
Annabel was breathless and dizzy and the wind was rushing past her making a whistling sound, so that it was difficult to hear anything, and it was very difficult indeed to feel any sensation other than the speed of the charge, and the urgency that was driving them all. She thought that Taliesin was shouting something, but she could not really hear, and then she thought that someone was blowing a bugle, and this was such a marvellous stirring sound that she would have liked to turn round in the saddle and see where the sound was coming from, but she was swept on by the headlong gallop of the horses. And then she thought that the sound was not from within their own armies at all, but from the spinning maelstrom of light and smoke and colour that was the sidh.
The sounds of the beasts were all around; the night sky overhead was filled with the beating of wings, and Annabel, glancing up, saw the soaring golden creatures that were following Raynor, and a little behind them, smaller and darker, Hawks and Night-owls and, in their wake, a blur of white which was the Swans. She could hear the Hounds baying, and the Foxes, and the deep resonant note of the Stags.
And ahead of them all, pouring down the hillside, leading them on, was the immense golden Time Chariot, creating its own radiance, fiery light shooting from its wheels, lighting the hills and the forests and the valleys to golden life.
