by Sarah Rayne
Great gaping pits opened up before the army’s feet, in which snakes writhed and monsters crawled and gibbered. The landscape shifted and became dark red and menacing — The colour of nightmares, thought Annabel wildly, and strove to remember that they were only nightmares, that nothing that Reflection could conjure up could physically harm them, only their fear. Giants with no faces strode silently over the surrounding hillsides and stood looking down on the armies … There were bubbling lakes of slime with grasping, struggling hands coming out of them to drag you down if you went too near; claw-footed harpies who flew through the air and fastened on to you and would gouge out your eyes and squash them to the ground; grinning skeletons, cauldrons of boiling blood, sea monsters and oceans of oily water … Annabel, gasping and trying very hard to hold on to her sanity, was suddenly plunged into a swirling underground river. At any minute the dark greasy waters were going to close over her head, and when that happened, there would be no escape, because overhead were hundreds of tons of solid rock …
Great lumbering nightmarish machines came crawling out of the forest, massive mincing machines that had cavernous human faces, which would scoop up human limbs and human torsos and mince them into blobs and gobbets of raw meat …
The army was in chaos now. The horses were stampeding, and most of the men had been unseated. The Beastline creatures were in the midst of their animals, rallying them, sending out furious white sparks of light that were the ancient mystical Samhailt taking shape. Everywhere the creatures were snarling and whining and yelping. Annabel saw Raynor standing at the centre of a whirling golden storm of Eagles, his hands outstretched to them; near to him, Rinnal was half hidden by leaping, snarling Foxes. Fintan and Cermait and the Cruithin were laying about the nightmare creatures, slicing at scaly heads and raining blows on writhing snake-like beings. Cathbad, incredibly, had gone running off to the dreadful lumbering machines, and was scattering stones in their path in an attempt to disable the clanking grinding metal. He was rather green about the gills, but he was shouting at the machines and daring them to come down in the midst of the armies.
Tybion the Tusk had not hesitated. He had seen Conn and Niall and the boys firing arrows at Spectre and Reflection, and he had seen, as well, that Spectre and Reflection had both been able to deflect them. And then he had seen the sidh, led by Aillen mac Midha, go streaking down on to Spectre, and he had seen Spectre fall and begin to liquefy, and he had thought, So that takes care of her! And had turned to survey the other two Guardians.
He realised at once that Fael-Inis was waiting for them to finish off the two minor creatures, and that when that was done, he would deal with the Sensleibhe for them. Tybion, who had never before seen Fael-Inis, but who knew the stories, found himself understanding exactly what Fael-Inis was doing. It was as if the golden fiery creature was telling them that they must help themselves first before he would help them. They must use their own strengths and their own weapons, and only after that would he come into the fray. All right, thought Tybion, setting his jaw firmly; all right, we shall see. And he looked at Reflection, who was standing wrapped in the Cloak of Nightmares, surveying the tumult she had created. Nasty, thought Tybion. Yes, extremely nasty. I daresay she will send out something perfectly unspeakable and entirely unbearable before I can get near to her. He shuddered and tried not to remember his own nightmares, and tried very hard to visualise the good dreams: the soft rain of a spring morning, and the blazing colours of autumn, and peaceful hillsides and firelight and mulled wine, and revels in the Tusk family, and the music of the sidh and the Queen’s smile. Oh, yes, that above them all. He could do it. He would ride straight at Reflection and somehow he would kill the creature, and that would leave only the Sensleibhe.
And, thought Tybion, if Fael-Inis does not deal with the Sensleibhe, then I think we might as well hand over Ireland to Medoc anyway! He gathered up the reins and dug his heels into his mount’s flanks, and rode straight at the pale glittering figure of Reflection, unsheathing his sword as he did so.
It was more difficult than he had thought it would be. Spectre’s tempest had almost died, but it had not quite died, and from the corner of his eyes, Tybion could see the swirling mists of the sidh still busy about Spectre’s decomposing form. There was still the breath of an icy wind on the night air, and Tybion knew that Spectre was not quite dead. He narrowed his eyes against the cold, because a cold wind was always at its bitterest when you rode straight at it, and concentrated very hard on autumn-lit forests and Grainne’s smile.
The wind was still very cold indeed. The thin sheet of ice had almost melted from the ground, but there were still treacherous patches which had not melted at all. Twice his horse skidded and almost fell, but each time Tybion managed to keep it going on. If only he could get near to Reflection, if only he could fight his way through the nightmares and reach her; it was important to remember that the scaly monsters and the slithering snakes and the clutching sinewy hands could not hurt him. Once Reflection was dead, the Cloak of Nightmares would cease to be activated, and the nightmares would all vanish.
He was within yards of Reflection — “Within feet,” Fintan was to say afterwards — when Reflection turned and saw him. She seemed to study him thoughtfully, and then there was a vibrant sizzle of light, and a hydra-headed creature, whose head was a writhing mass of snakes with teeth and claws, darted at Tybion. Tybion knew it was only a nightmare, but it was a particularly horrid one; he had often run from the thing in his dreams, and in every dream he had tripped headlong and lain panting, the breath knocked from him, helpless as the creature hovered above him. He glanced at it uneasily and tried to remember about the soft waterfalls and the bonfires in November and dew-drenched dawns.
He swerved instinctively, and as he did so, the creature darted at him again, and a gristly arm shot out. Claws ripped at Tybion’s shoulder, and there was a white-hot sizzling. Tybion gasped and clapped a hand over his left breast, because it had felt exactly as if a burning hot wire had pierced right through to his heart. The chaotic scene about him tilted, and when he could see again, he thought that Reflection had called up another of the nightmares, because now he was seeing everything through a dark, wavering, ripply light.
He would not heed it. It would be a flesh wound; the claws of the hydra-headed monster had torn his shoulder, and it was nothing to pay very much attention to. Anyone could be wounded in a battle. He would deal with Reflection, and then he would get it bound up. He took a tighter hold on the sword, which was quite difficult suddenly, because his hands and arms were feeling a bit numb, and his legs were growing heavy. He was not entirely sure that he could feel his legs any longer; he was certainly not sure if he could see where he was going, because of the darkness and the way in which his vision was blurred and wavy.
But Reflection was directly ahead of him now. He could see her pale, nearly pellucid figure, and he could see the Cloak swirling and hissing as if it possessed a life of its own. He remembered that the Cloak of Nightmares had been one of Ireland’s most treasured possessions. It had been woven by the sorcerers for the first High Queen of all, and although it had many times been lost to the Royal House, it had always been found again. Tybion, riding straight at Reflection, trying to keep a tight hold on his sword, thought it would be a truly great thing if he could restore the Cloak to the Royal House now.
He was riding hard across the nightmares, and he found he was no longer very much afraid. All about him were boiling cauldrons of blood and lakes of slime and faceless giants and creeping rodents and huge gobbling machines, and his ears were ringing with dreadful clanging sounds: echoing thunderclaps, and giant nails being drawn across tin surfaces, so that every nerve in your body winced and your teeth were all set on edge; but he knew that these were other people’s nightmares, and although the snake-headed thing had wounded him, that had been his own nightmare. Other people’s nightmares would not harm him. It was important to remember this.
He rode straight at Refle
ction, lifting his sword high, and then bringing it down in a sweeping arc. Reflection darted out of his reach, but as she did so, the Cloak slipped from her and fell in a soft pool of silk. At once the nightmare creatures vanished.
Tybion thought that Reflection had moved back to where the last and most terrible of the Guardians — the Sensleibhe — still waited, but he could not be sure. He was finding it difficult to stay in the saddle now. He knew he had been wounded, which was a very honourable thing to have happened, only it was beginning to hurt so very much. Someone would attend to the wound quite soon, and then he would be able to join the others, and they would be inside Tara, and he would see the Queen again. It was unthinkable that he should not see her, not when they had all come so far and endured so much. Yes, he must certainly see her again. But it was growing darker by the minute, and he wondered if the dying Spectre had somehow darkened the night air, or if Reflection had hurled a last nightmare before the Cloak slipped from her shoulders. In another minute he would not be able to see anything at all.
The pain in his chest was quite bad now. He was beginning to gasp and struggle for air, because it was actually extremely severe. Something was filling up his mouth; a thick, gluey substance, and there was an iron band round his chest.
And then he was lying on the ground, although he was not sure how this had come about, and his head was in somebody’s lap, and he managed a smile, because of course it would be the Queen; this was how he had visualised it, except that he had not thought it would hurt so very much. But it would certainly be Grainne whom he had loved so very much and so very faithfully, and for whom he would happily die. When a voice said urgently, “Tybion,” he smiled rather waveringly, and said in a conversational voice, “I always loved you so very much.” There was a pause, and then a soft voice — it had to be Grainne — said very gently, “And I loved you, Tybion.”
This was so marvelous that it was very nearly unbearable. Tybion narrowed his eyes and frowned in an effort of concentration, because everything seemed to be slipping away, and he was finding it hard to remember where he was or what he was supposed to be doing. But Grainne was here with him, she was holding his head in her lap, and there had never been a happiness so great, and he would remember this moment for as long as he lived. When she bent over him, he could smell the clean scent of her hair, and he wondered whether it would be disrespectful to reach up and take her hand. She seemed to understand, and at once her hand closed about his, and the fingers were smooth and supple and reassuring. He tried to say something to her; he thought he was trying to tell her that he wanted her to be happy, because he could not bear to think that she would not be happy, but she seemed to understand again, and although he could not see her, he felt that she was smiling at him, and he smiled back, and held out his hands, and then the darkness closed about him and his head fell back.
Annabel looked up from cradling Tybion’s head, and Taliesin saw there were tears streaming down her face. “He’s dead. Taliesin, he’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“But he was only — he was so very —”
Taliesin said, “He thought you were the Queen.”
“I know.”
“Don’t think about it,” said Taliesin. “There is no time now. Later we will think.”
Annabel said, “Yes. Of course.” Because there was no time at all, not if they were to vanquish the Sensleibhe and gain entry to Tara, not if Tybion’s death was to be worthwhile.
Taliesin said, “There will be time to grieve later,” and Annabel looked at him gratefully, because of course there would be time and of course they would all grieve for Tybion. There was still a battle to be won, and there was still the last and most evil of the Guardians to be defeated.
Raynor had led the eagles into the attack on the Sensliebhe, and they were flying at the creature, aiming for her eyes, swooping down in great golden angry arcs of light. Fergus had ridden into the ranks of the soldiers and was gathering them up for a concerted attack on the Sensliebhe. As he turned his horse about, preparatory to leading the charge, he saw the Old Woman of the Mountains rear up and seem to become almost twice her size, and stand surveying them from a ledge of rock, her eyes flaming in her plain round face, her claws glinting in the twilight.
There was the cackling laughter that Fergus remembered from the Mountain Halls, and the light glinted again on curved claws and cruel talons, and caught and held the dark animal eyes.
“Such a lot of pretty dears,” shrieked the Sensleibhe. “Dear me, all grist for my spinning. Come along now, my pretty ones, come along, my lambkins, for there’s only friendship to be had here. Only friendship. Bless us all, I’m an old woman and I can’t hurt a hair of your heads.” The chuckle rang out once more. “And all that silken hair,” said the Old Woman of the Mountains greedily. “All that pretty soft hair, for the spinning, and all the white tender skin, all for shredding.”
Fergus cried, “On and at her!” and stood up in the stirrups and rallied the armies. The soldiers let out a rather ragged cheer, and dug their heels into their mounts’ flanks, and Fergus brought his own mount headlong across the terrain, riding straight at the Sensleibhe.
At once she lifted her hand and, as she did so, streams of crimson light shot from her claws, so that Fergus had the impression of riding directly against a stream of magenta fire. He flinched and crouched in the saddle, and the Sensleibhe laughed again and raised the other hand. The fire spat again and Fergus, looking up, saw several of the Eagles fall from the sky, and saw Raynor throw up a hand and half fall from his mount. Bee ran alongside and Fergus saw that Raynor’s face had been laid open by the sizzling spears of fire. Blood poured from the wound, and Raynor shook his head impatiently and pressed a cloth to his face before mounting again.
The Sensleibhe was laughing horridly now, sending the crimson flames shooting into the night, surrounding herself with an aureole of angry light, so that none could get near her. Fergus set his teeth and swerved round to lead another charge, because they must destroy this one, there was no question but that they must get past her and gain the Western Gate of the Palace. Reflection did not worry him — bereft of the Nightcloak her powers were greatly lessened — but the Sensleibhe was another thing altogether. Fergus had not thought of what might be happening to Grainne, because he had not dared to think of it, but now, facing the Western Gate directly, he felt such a terrible cold despair clutch his heart that he thought he could have flung the Sensleibhe to the ground and stamped her into a jelly. He took a firmer grip on his sword again and tightened the reins of his horse. One last charge might disconcert the creature. Surely she did not possess inexhaustible powers?
And then a soft voice at his side said, “Captain! To the Time Chariot!” and Fergus turned sharply to see Fael-Inis at his side, perfectly composed, lit to blazing light by the Sensleibhe’s fire.
“The Time Chariot!” cried Fael-Inis again, and pulled Fergus with him. “It is our only chance against the creature’s fire weapons! Come with me!”
As they ran through the smoke and the heat and the confusion, Fergus shouted, “I thought you were to be only a spectator of this!” and Fael-Inis turned to look at Fergus, his golden eyes glowing.
“I cannot fight your battles, Captain,” he said, “you must fight your own battles. But when the adversaries are too great for you, and when the cause is just, then I am permitted — even I am constrained — to step in and do what I can. And the Wolfqueen and the Lost Prince must be rescued.”
Fergus started to say, “The Prince …” but they were at the huge Chariot now, and the salamanders were pawing the ground, and the Time Chariot was landing. Fergus had just time to think, I suppose this is the answer, and then the Chariot quivered and seemed to leap forward, and the radiance burst all about them, and the salamanders shot forward joyously, their fiery breath filling the night sky and spilling on to Tara, so that for a moment it did not seem to lie in such shadow.
Fael-Inis laughed and turned to look ba
ck at Fergus from where he stood at the Chariot’s prow, and his eyes were so wild and his whole bearing was filled with such recklessness and with such abandonment that Fergus said no more and concentrated on what was ahead.
The Chariot swerved to bring itself into direct line with the Sensleibhe, and Fergus thought, but could not be sure, that there was music singing on the air now; but it might only have been the rushing of the wind, and then again it might only have been the sidh, still busy about the dying Spectre. But I believe it is Fael-Inis’s legendary silver pipes! thought Fergus, and delight exploded within him, for surely there had never been a battle to equal this one, and surely they were going to rescue Grainne and destroy Medoc.
Fael-Inis seemed to gather up the salamanders for one last great effort, and the Time Chariot gave a great bound foreward, and the lights and the fireglow blurred, and they sped down to where the Sensleibhe was standing.
*
Fire streamed outwards, and Fergus, at the exact centre of the light, could no longer see anything with any clarity. He was blinded, gasping, dizzy and helpless with the sheer speed of the Time Chariot, and with the brilliant light, and with the fire and the radiance of the salamanders. He could only wait and cling to the Chariot’s sides, and trust the insouciant creature whose eyes were glowing with pure mischief, and who might certainly have walked away from the First Battle of the Heavens, but who was most definitely not walking away from this one.
The rebel angel was fighting on the side of the Humans, leading the Wolfqueen’s armies against Ireland’s enemies, against the terrible Dark Ireland…
And then Fael-Inis half turned and shouted, “We are nearly there! Hold tight now!” He grinned. “And be ready to deliver the death blow!” he shouted, and Fergus raised his sword and gripped the hilt with both hands, and fixed his eyes on the Sensleibhe, and prayed to whatever gods might be appropriate that he would not miss.
For if you do, Mortal, there will be no second chance…
