by Sarah Rayne
The salamanders were flowing effortlessly on and on, and they could see Fael-Inis, his wild golden hair whipped by the wind, standing at the prow, urging them on, forcing a path down to the dark valley. Annabel gasped and saw that the Wolves were immediately behind Fael-Inis, keeping up with the Chariot with ease, their eyes gleaming redly, their long lean bodies bounding forward, their fur sleek and dark.
The Wolves of the Royal House of Ireland, converging on Tara, ready to tear apart the adversary who held the Wolfqueen captive …
Annabel thought that Taliesin was shouting to her to be careful because they were nearing Tara’s outer boundaries, and she thought that close by Conn and Niall were calling to Michael to keep back, and the thought just formed that she ought to try to look after Michael, who was brandishing his sword and shouting, and then they were down the last stretch, and the massive ancient trees that stood sentinel along Tara’s great western avenue were all about them, and Tara itself was rushing upon them, dark and massive and shrouded in Medoc’s evil, and they were going to do it, they were going to ride straight in through the legendary Western Gate unchallenged, and it was going to be all right … One glorious sweep to victory, death or glory, and they would be inside the Palace and they would rescue the Wolfqueen and Ireland would be safe … They were going to win …
And then the Wolves checked in their headlong flight, and the salamanders reared up so that a fiery glow poured upwards into the dark sky directly over the Palace. Fael-Inis swerved and the Chariot shuddered to a halt, sparks of heat shooting from its wheels.
Directly in front of them, barring their way, were the Three Guardians from the mountain halls. Spectre, Reflection, and the Sensleibhe.
*
It seemed to Grainne that the howling of the Wolves had stopped. Fear caught and held her, and she half turned her head towards Erin.
A light shone in his eyes that had not been there before, but he did not speak, and Grainne thought that perhaps after all she had been mistaken. Perhaps she had misheard that dim distant howling, and perhaps it had been too much to hope for. And then the gentle pure light of the Samhailt flowed into her mind again, and with it the strength and the confidence.
It was not too much to hope for and you did not mishear, madam. It is only that the Wolves are not so close as we need them to be … I do not know if they will reach us in time. And then, with more directness than he had yet shown: But we dare not give them our attention, lest the necromancer and his servants sense their approach …
The Twelve Lords were ranged about the Chamber now, intoning the sacrificial incantation, and four small braziers had been brought forward and placed at each of the four corners of the altar. As they watched, Medoc set fire to the braziers, and a sharp, pungent smoke leapt up.
The monstrous figure of Crom Croich moved at last. It lurched and waddled as if its short stump-like legs were unused to movement. Slowly, tortuously, it dragged itself to the altar and settled there, crouching and lowering, the blood and gore still smearing its dull gold skin, its tiny red eyes unblinking.
Grainne thought that that movement, that shuffling gait, that slow ponderous walk to the altar, had been as bad as anything that had yet happened, because while the god had been motionless, it had been very nearly possible to think of it as a graven image, a statue, something inanimate. Graven images and statues did not demand sacrifices; they did not watch, slavering, while the hearts of their victims were torn out, and they did not reach down with their great muscular arms to the silver platters held up to them, and scoop up steaming, still-fluttering hearts and convey them to gaping wet maws …
Crom Croich was seated at the centre of the altar, and Grainne, unable to look away, her heart racing, thought, Am I to die here butchered by the Conablaiche, sacrificed to the greatest evil Ireland has ever known …? Would the ancient altar witness the ritual deaths of the Crown Princess and the Wolfprince?
Medoc turned to smile at that, and for the first time there was true affection in his eyes. “Very soon now, my daughter,” he said, “very soon, you will be given in libation to my Master.” As he spoke, the Conablaiche gave its hard cawing sound, and the Lad of the Skins chuckled and began to reach for his knife. Grainne thought, The Knife of Light. Our souls to be hurled into the Prison of Hostages. And then there will truly be no escape, and there will be nothing any more, ever.
Medoc was watching her. “Flesh of my flesh,” he said, very softly, “does that hurt, Grainne? Blood of my blood and of my bone. Tainted stock, my dear. You and your son both.”
Tainted blood … the dark blood of the necromancer … This evil beautiful being lay with my mother and rendered her witless and Fergus and I were the results … Something dark and serpent-like slithered in Grainne’s mind, and she thought, After all, would it not be better to let the Ancient Line die out? After all, is it not better to cut out a canker? Tainted stock. And Erin too. Would Ireland not be the better?
At once there was a fierce response from Erin. Do not think it! It is what he wants you to think! It is part of his sorcery! There is no taint, madam, save the taint that enters the mind, and there is no shame, save that which enters the heart! The Wolfline must never be allowed to die!
I am sorry, rejoined Grainne, and blinked and shook her head, and felt the dark slimed thoughts dissolve.
Medoc was facing them now, the monstrous rearing figure of Crom Croich directly behind him, its red glistening eyes never leaving them. The Dark Lords were moving in and the incantation was becoming louder and stronger.
Crom Croich … the blood … the life and the heart and the core …
The ritual chant was humming and pulsating in their ears, and the Sun Chamber was becoming heavy and the air was dark and sluggish. Grainne thought it was the miasma of the evil that the Twelve Lords carried with them now.
Decadence and Perversion, Avarice and Debauchery … all of the sins and all of the frailties and all of the failings ever committed and dreamed of and feared …
She thought, And the Wolves? Are they nearer? and tried to hear and could not. Had they after all imagined it?
We did not imagine it, came Erin’s instant response. They will not fail us. But Grainne caught for the first time a note of fear in him, and she remembered that he was only six years old. Six years only, and soon he might be butchered and mutilated on the altar and his soul taken to the Prison of Hostages. He will be the Lost Prince in truth then, thought Grainne, for there is no rescue from the Prison.
Medoc’s dark eyes were shining with hard unnatural light and the Dark Lords were still chanting, and she could feel the power irradiating from the altar, dreadful waves of malignity. The Lad of the Skins was scuttling across the floor towards them, and for the first time Grainne saw the lumpish dragging sack he wore on his back.
For the gathering up of souls, Wolfqueen …
The Conablaiche was at his side, a nightmare shape, grinning and emitting harsh, cawing sounds. The Conablaiche was standing with its legs slightly apart, thrusting itself towards Grainne, grinning and snapping its beak, the fish eye gleaming.
Medoc looked at it and then down to where Grainne lay. “Well, madam,” he said softly, “shall I give you to this creature first?” And smiled. “Well, we shall see. It is an impatient creature.” He directed one of his dark shining looks at the Conablaiche, and said, “Wait, you.”
Erin said very clearly, “If you allow that, Medoc, I shall surely kill you.”
Medoc laughed, and it was as clear and untroubled a sound as Grainne had ever heard.
“Threaten away, Wolfprince,” he said. “Soon you will be lying on the altar, and soon you will feel the Conablaiche’s claws tearing open your chest, and you will feel your lungs and your mouth filling up with blood. It is an honourable death, Wolfprince, although I do not expect you to see it like that.”
The Conablaiche was so close that the stench of rotting meat and bad fish was making them feel sick. For a really terrible minute, Grainne thought s
he would, to her humiliation, be sick and then she took several trembling breaths and felt better.
The wolves? Erin, the Wolves?
Nearer, I think, came the rejoinder. But Grainne thought she could no longer feel the Wolves. Because Medoc’s enchantments were so strong now that they were sealing off the Sun Chamber? Yes, perhaps. And then she could not decide if this had been a good thing to think or not.
The fires in the braziers had burned up strongly now, and there was a pungent scent of incense and herbs, which mingled with the stench of the Conablaiche. Mist swirled and the altar was humming with magic, but Grainne knew it was not the strong good magic of the real true Ireland, but the tainted magic, the diseased enchantments and the malevolent bewitchments of the Dark Ireland that Medoc led. She thought, The Sun Chamber, the beautiful, almost-sacred heart of Tara, is tainted and it is thick with malignity, and I am not at all sure that it can ever be pure and beautiful again.
And again the dark insidious thought stirred: Why not, then, let it all go to Medoc?
With the thought came the whisper of sound in her ear.
“Why not indeed, my dear,” and she turned sharply, and saw one of the Lords close at her side.
“Why not let it all go to Medoc, Grainne?”
Conceit? Yes, it was the sly insinuating voice that could somehow get inside your head and inside your most private feelings before you realised it. Grainne frowned and tried to close her mind.
“It would be so easy, Grainne,” said another of them and, this time, Grainne thought it was Selfishness. “So easy to give in, and let Medoc take it all. And then you would see our Land, Grainne, and it is far more beautiful than ever you imagined.”
“All of your senses served, my dear …” whispered Decadence.
“All of your hungers fed,” said Greed, and chuckled wetly.
“No restrictions … do what you wish, my dear,” said Hatred, and there was the red flare behind the visor as he moved closer.
“No restrictions, Grainne …” The whispers were magnified, and the Lords were all about her, pressing closer.
“You would be a Princess of the Dark Ireland, Grainne, for Medoc is your sire, and Damnaithe your dam … You would rule from the Black Mountains that look across the Lake of Night, and you would be revered by our people, Grainne …”
Grainne put up her hands to cover her ears in an attempt to shut out the dreadful whisperings.
“You would walk in the Nightfields and you would reign from the Ebony Throne …” said Avarice. “And all the dark, glistening jewels would be yours.”
“All the beautiful young men of the world would be yours,” whispered Decadence.
“To do with as you wished,” said Perversion.
Grainne, her hands still covering her ears, said loudly, “No! No, I won’t listen! Stop it!” And stared at them, her eyes distended.
There was a contemptuous laugh from Damnaithe’s corner. “She is of no interest to us,” said Damnaithe. “She is insipid and colourless, and we do not want her. Fling her to the Conablaiche, and then offer her and the child to Crom Croich.”
“I would liefer by far be given to Crom Croich than rule in your Realm, madam,” said Grainne and Damnaithe laughed again and tossed her head, and turned her back.
“You were offered the choice,” she said, sounding bored.
“Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven?” said Grainne. And then to Medoc, “Well, sir?”
“You are offered the choice,” he said, his eyes watching her.
“There is no choice to make,” said Grainne. But she was aware, deep within the innermost recesses of her mind, of a tiny, insidious voice.
You would rule there absolutely … all the dark glistening jewels would be yours, and all the beautiful young men would be yours …
And you have never seen the Dark Island in all its terrible and fearsome beauty …
Grainne said again, more loudly, “There is no choice to make,” and then looked at them all steadily, and felt Erin’s hand in hers, and knew that he was still listening for the Wolves.
And then she was aware that Medoc was standing over them, and in the crimson pulsing light he seemed to tower to twice his normal height, and he seemed to be wrapped in the dark malevolence of his own evil. There would not be any escape, there could not possibly be, for the altar was glowing and ready, and Crom Croich was rearing above them, and the Conablaiche was moving into his place, with the Lad beside him, and the Lad had drawn the glittering Knife of Light to take their souls when it was all over …
Medoc bent down to lift Grainne, and she was aware through her fear that there was an unexpected gentleness about him, and she remembered that in all of the stories Medoc was said to be a gentleman. As he carried her across to lay her on the altar, two of the Dark Lords lifted the struggling Erin and followed.
And then Grainne felt the cold hard stone of the ancient sacrificial altar beneath her, and felt them lay Erin next to her, and saw the monstrous gold shape of the terrible hungry god-idol blot out the light, and knew that they were truly and completely lost.
*
Fergus had not hesitated. The minute he saw the Guardians, he knew that the only way to fight them was to ride straight at them. With the thought came a movement at his side, and he turned to see Raynor with Taliesin bringing their horses alongside. Gratitude flooded Fergus’s mind, and he thought, These are the ones I can trust! And felt the fragment of a thought from Taliesin: Never trust a Tyrian, my friend, and remember that I am most regrettably sober today!
Tybion the Tusk was riding hard across to join them, with Fintan and Cermait close behind. All of them to be trusted, all of them ready to follow Fergus into hell and beyond … And then he thought, And it may be hell we shall see before we are done.
Spectre was already standing a little ahead of the other two, her long pointed fingers outstretched, whiteness riming her silhouette. Instantly a howling icy wind rose and moaned and raged furiously about them, stinging their cheeks and bringing tears to their eyes. Ice formed beneath their feet, and the horses’ hoofs slithered and lost their grip. Panic swept through the armies as the horses fought for their footing, and people began to be unseated, and the horses whinnied in terror and reared up. The Beastline animals began to whine and bark, and Spectre laughed and lifted her hand again, and this time lightning split the heavens, and thunder crashed directly overhead. Several nearby trees were struck and fires flared up in half a dozen places.
Annabel flinched and saw Tybion start forward, and, to the left, Conn and Niall and the other boys were fitting arrows to their bows.
“Useless!” cried Spectre, and her shrieking laugh rang out. “Am I not winter night and freezing dawn, and am I not gale and blizzard and tempest? I can make the skies bleed and pant, and I can cause the heavens to rain torment on to your puny armies!” And once more she raised her hand, and to the scattered and tumbled armies it seemed that the night sky was torn open. There was a brief blinding glimpse of fiery light, as if the door to some immense furnace had been pushed ajar, and then as they flinched, trying to shield their eyes, a torrent of fireballs began to fall, searing the darkness and starting up great columns of fire.
Taliesin caught the end of a thought from Fergus: If we do not stop this, Tara will burn, and then Grainne will truly be lost! and he turned his horse about and tried to pinpoint Spectre’s whereabouts, because everywhere was smoke and belching flame now, and everyone was running wildly about, and those few who had been able to remain mounted could hardly see.
He thought that Fael-Inis had not moved; he could see the Time Chariot standing quietly a little way off, and he could see the slender form of Fael-Inis. There was time to think, Is he going to help us? and there was time as well to remember that in all of the stories, Fael-Inis had been the one who had walked away from the battle, “and never declared for either side.” Taliesin thought, But I do not believe he will not help us! and then he saw, on the outer edges of vision,
the blue and green smoke of the sidh, and as he half turned, he saw them pour into the battle, whirling columns of iridescent light.
The sidh did not form, but those nearest to them could see faint dim shapes in the coiling smoke. Thin sinuous arms and round, seal-like heads and slender, serpentine bodies. Here and there were long narrow turquoise eyes, greedy and avid … Spectre let out a piercing shriek and went down in a whirling mass of glittering wings and swooping mist creatures, and as she did so, it seemed that the raging storm and the terrible icy blizzard lessened.
Spectre seemed in some way to be shrinking; Annabel, who was clinging very hard to the idea of war being glorious and exciting amidst the horror, heard a terrible sucking sound, and remembered that Taliesin had said something about the sidh being greedy for the five senses — sight, speech, hearing, taste, touch. And although it would have been very much better not to have heard what the sidh were doing to Spectre, the sound echoed across the battlefield. Annabel tried very hard to remember that Spectre had been cruel, and that she certainly served Medoc, and that she had been trying to prevent them from entering Tara to save the Wolfqueen.
Spectre shrivelled and seemed to dissolve into pools of horrid grey slime on the ground. As the blizzard blew itself out and the fires started by the lightning and the showering torrents of fireballs sank a little lower, Reflection said, “Dear me, how tedious all this is. I suppose it is up to me now.” She stepped forward, and pulled the Cloak of Nightmares tightly about her. “Too boring for you all, my dears,” said Reflection, gazing at them with her great dark eyes. “And of course, Fael-Inis, the dear creature, would never dream that I might enter into battle against him.” A brief mischievous look was directed to where Fael-Inis still stood, holding the salamanders in check. “A spectator once more, Fael-Inis?” said Reflection. “I suppose it was not to be thought otherwise.” And the Cloak of Nightmares shivered and Reflection became enveloped in pale, translucent light.
