by Sarah Rayne
Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys … Fly open, bars, dissolve, untie, unchain, unfetter … Nothing was happening yet. The whole spell would have to be chanted, of course. And there was something farther on about cutting … That would be the salient part of the spell, surely … Fenella, her mind spinning, concentrating for all she was worth, reached deeper into her memory.
CuRoi was smiling now, his arms folded on his chest. ‘The ancient Ebony Throne of Tara,’ he said. ‘The Seat of the High Kings of Ireland.’ He paused, and looked deep into Nuadu’s eyes. ‘How you would have liked it,’ he said. ‘How you have coveted it, bastard Wolfprince, for all your cynicism and for all your rejection of your ancestry. Well, now you shall have it, you shall feel its cold embrace and you shall feel its burning maw. For it will only accept the True King of Ireland,’ he said. ‘It will burn and it will consume all those who have no claim to Tara. You will burn from within, Wolfprince, and you will burn slowly.’ He smiled and turned to sign to the Robemaker to draw Nuadu forward to the throne.
Nuadu had stopped struggling and was standing very still and very straight. It seemed to Fenella that a different look had come into his eyes. Without warning, the words of the enchantment slid into her mind, whole and clear, and with them was an unexpected strength. She thought, and then was sure, that Nuadu was pouring the pure pale radiance into her mind and she experienced a feeling of such spiralling power that for a moment her mind was filled with nothing but the strong white light.
She stayed where she was, held by the crimson rope-lights, but she lifted her head slightly and repeated, in ringing tones, the words of the spell that had freed Nuadu and the other slaves from the Robemaker’s treadmills.
Open, locks, to the Human’s hand …
Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys …
Fly open, bars, dissolve, untie, unchain, unfetter …
Slash and gash and carve and gnaw.
Pluck the splinters of iron and slice the thews of steel,
Scission and sunder, steal and plunder …
There was a moment, terrible, never to be forgotten, when the most profound silence blanketed them, as if the ancient castle was poised between two worlds. Fenella thought: it is in the balance. I believe that the spell is warring with CuRoi’s evil. It is fighting it. I can feel that it is fighting it.
CuRoi had thrown back his head and stretched his hands out before him and Fenella heard the low, rhythmic chanting they had heard on their arrival. A dark, swirling vapour began to form on the air, fetid and suffocating.
There was time to think: CuRoi’s dark servants! and to remember the grinning, bony-fingered creatures in the dungeons. There was a fleeting moment of sheer terror as the darkness, crimson-streaked and menacing, advanced towards them.
And then, at the centre of the room in front of the ancient magical Ebony Throne of the Wolfkings, Fenella and Nuadu saw the two enchantments collide and the white-hot sparks fly outwards.
The strong, incisive Robe of Human Hands glittered and sliced across the darkness, blue-grey and made of razor-sharp edges, cleaving the air with ease, scything through the dark turgid mass of CuRoi’s terrible chant as it surged forward to where they stood. For a moment, the Human Hands faltered and at once the darkness reared up triumphantly, like heaving black waves. It will swallow us up, thought Fenella. It is like a muddy river, like a swamp that has boiled over. Like a slimy riverbed, veined with crimson, palpating and threatening. It will smother us and suffocate us and we shall drown in it …
And then the blue-grey steel of the Robe of Human Hands scythed the darkness again and the seething black slime parted and seemed to hesitate and there was the flash of scissor-edges and sawteeth and of axe blades and knives and of every sharp thing ever known or dreamed or imagined.
Open, locks to the Human’s hand …
The crimson rope-lights dissolved and fell to the floor, and Nuadu, freed, at once bounded to Fenella and grabbed her arm, pulling her from the dungeon, along the stone passage, past the six doors where CuRoi had laid his series of fearsome secrets.
They half ran, half fell up the narrow stone steps, gasping and struggling, and Nuadu pulled Fenella with him, through the firelit dining hall, and into the immense central stone hall.
Fenella, gasping for breath, holding tightly to Nuadu’s hand, knew that the spell had not been exactly right; it had not been a spell to find hidden doors, only to unlock doors that had been locked. But it is all we had, cried her mind, it is all we had, and it has worked so far and if it does not release us from this Castle, then we are lost and Nuadu will surely die and Ireland will be lost and there will be nothing, anywhere, ever again …
The razor-sharp lights splintered the air all about their heads and CuRoi’s Castle of Illusions began slowly to rotate.
‘It is rescinding the sealing!’ cried Nuadu. ‘The Castle is opening! Fenella, be ready to get out!’
‘Yes!’ cried Fenella. ‘Yes, as fast as ever we can!’
Great showers of angry crimson and purple sparks fell from the ceilings, starting up tiny vicious paths of fire all round them. The terrible chanting rose and heightened in intensity and, for a moment, the dark heavy clouds surged forward again. The Robemaker and CuRoi appeared at the far end of the stone hall and the Robemaker’s crimson ropes snaked out. Nuadu dragged Fenella back until they were both standing with their backs pressed against the wall farthest from the two necromancers and they both flinched and dodged away from the whiplash of the rope-lights.
The scything blades and the mowing saws and the churning, snipping scissor-edges whirled again and flung clean sharp spears of blue-grey light against the wall. As Nuadu and Fenella put up their hands to shield their eyes from the brilliance, the outline of a door appeared in the wall.
‘That’s it!’ cried Fenella. ‘It’s working! It’s breaking the seals!’
‘Yes, but quickly! Quickly!’ cried Nuadu, and pulled Fenella forward.
As they moved, the door opened, and they could see the black wastes and the seething Dark Lakes and the terrible Fields of Blood beyond.
Hand in hand, they fell through, out of the necromancer’s Castle.
Into the black night of the Dark Realm.
As they ran frantically down the hillside, they were aware, more strongly than ever, of the swirling eddying evil all about them. The skies churned and panted and great tongues of flame spat and curled out, so that several times they narrowly missed being consumed. Roaring winds whipped at them, snatching at Fenella’s hair, and icy rain hurled itself into their faces, so that they had to turn their heads to avoid it as they ran.
They could hear CuRoi and the Robemaker screaming imprecations after them, and there was not, surely, anywhere to hide.
As they neared the foot of the hill path, dozens of pairs of red eyes began to appear from the side of the path and the ground itself began to writhe and heave and throw them off balance.
Fenella said, ‘I … cannot run … any farther.’ And stopped, and bent over, helpless, doubling up over the stabbing agony in her left side. Nuadu, almost as exhausted, leaned against a tree.
‘A few — minutes only — ’
‘Yes. All the time in the world, Lady.’ Through the exhaustion and fear, the old grin slid out. ‘Ahead are the Fields of Blood,’ said Nuadu. ‘If we can reach them, we may be within sight of the door created by the Soul Eaters!’
‘But it vanished!’ said Fenella. ‘As soon as we were through it, it simply vanished!’
‘But it’s our only chance!’ said Nuadu. ‘Come now.’
‘Yes. All right,’ said Fenella, and gathered her strength, and they were running again, only now red-eyed creatures ran after them, bobbing and chuckling evilly, rubbing hands together, whispering and murmuring to one another as they ran.
Nearly there, nearly catching them … mustn’t let these two go … Cut out their hearts and roast them for the trolls if we can … Throw them to the Lake people … Turn them into the Nightfie
lds and hunt them down for sport …
Nuadu lifted the glinting silver arm and pointed. ‘There!’ he cried. ‘The Crimson Fields!’ Fenella stopped, shading her eyes against the livid scarlet of the skies.
‘Are you sure? Nuadu, are you sure this is the right path?’ The thought of being lost in this terrible evil Realm, pursued by CuRoi and the Robemaker, perhaps never emerging into the true Ireland, was so unbearable that Fenella found herself unable to focus properly.
‘Yes!’ cried Nuadu, pulling her with him. ‘See the red glow rising against the darkness! And the figure of the scarecrow! Yes, come on, Fenella!’
Forked lightning was splitting the skies over them now and Nuadu, glancing behind, saw that CuRoi and the Robemaker were not pursuing them, but were standing together with the towering Castle of Illusions behind them. CuRoi had folded his arms across his chest, and he was suffused with light; the light was burgeoning and swelling, developing great elongated fingers which would reach out and down and scoop up the two creatures who had somehow outwitted the Master.
The Robemaker was standing in shadow, the deep hood of his cloak hiding his face. But Nuadu could see that the crimson rope-lights were spinning and whirling all about him and that they were forming a mesh cage which would imprison them both if they were not quick and if they could not find the doorway back to the Cruachan Cavern.
For a brief, scalding instant, his mind acknowledged the thought that, once in the Cruachan Cavern, they would again be at the mercy of the Soul Eaters and then he pushed it aside impatiently.
They were nearing the Fields of Blood — Fenella, whose lungs were hurting, but who was somehow managing to keep running at Nuadu’s side, saw the deep red glow, like fire, like blood seeping into the skies. The faint charnel stench assaulted her nostrils once more and she shuddered, because the Fields had been so terrible, so pitiful and repulsive.
But this is the way we came, she thought doggedly; this is the road we took, and this is the only way we can take now.
The strong glowing clouds of light that CuRoi had spun exploded like a star bursting and, at once, brilliant fingers of light poured forth down the hillside after them, thin snakelike streams of reaching enchantment that would catch them up and sweep them aside. It was a little like trying to outrun a fast-flowing mountain river which has burst its banks, or the volcanic eruptions that Fenella remembered from Renascia. Crimson light sizzled through the air and rope-lashes whipped at them cruelly. Nuadu, caught by one of them, stumbled and half fell and Fenella at once dragged him upright.
As they drew level with the Fields, they could see the waving tatters of skin. The scarecrow’s arms moved in the wind and its sleeves flapped sadly, as ravaged-faced Harpies screeched at it in derision, before flying off to attack another part of the Fields.
Fenella, drawing breath for a final sprint, was just thinking that CuRoi would certainly order the Harpies to attack them when Nuadu suddenly gripped her hand in a tight painful clasp.
‘What — ’
And then Fenella saw where Nuadu was pointing, the silver arm glinting redly in the eerie light.
The scarecrow had turned its head and was looking towards them.
It was alive.
It was one of the most remarkable moments Fenella had ever known. The scarecrow was alive; it was watching them from sad, dark eyes, and it was so clearly not a creature of this Realm, that there was no question but that it must be saved. Fenella and Nuadu both plunged at once into the terrible waving fields and, as they did so, the streams of CuRoi’s molten lava poured harmlessly across the road behind them, leaving them unscathed.
Nuadu was ahead. He was waist-deep in the terrible waving fields, among the bloodied tatters of Human remains, the slithery fragments of Human innards. Fenella, trying desperately hard to close her mind against the reality of the Fields, followed him and, despite her resolve, felt the grisly harvests brush her thighs. The ground beneath the skin was wet and squelching; here and there it was slippery and slimed. Once, half-way across, she caught her foot in a root and half fell, and then looked down and saw that it was not a root at all, but a writhing length of white intestine, coiled deep beneath the necromancer’s crop of flesh, snakelike and gruesome. Fenella thought that if she once gave way to the lurching, shuddering revulsion, she would sink down in the Fields and the bloodied tatters would close over her head and she would drown in the heaving sea of Human gore.
Nuadu was moving purposefully ahead, hacking his way through the Fields, using his silver arm mercilessly. Twice he looked back and Fenella felt his warmth and strength touch her mind.
All right, Lady … ?
All right, whispered Fenella in her mind, and Nuadu grinned as if to say: Courage, Fenella, we are almost there! and moved on.
The scarecrow had been somehow fastened to two strips of wood, roughly nailed together at the centre, forming a cruciform shape. The upright strut towered above them, casting a dense black shadow. Fenella thought it must have been ten feet in height, and the ragged, bloodied figure was fastened high on it, so that its bound feet were barely level with Fenella’s eyes.
Its arms were extended the length of the cross-piece and even from the ground Fenella could see that the Robemaker’s rope-lights bound its wrists and ankles firmly in place. There were more of the rope-lights about its waist, and they had cut deeply into the skin, so that the ragged garments it wore were darkened with blood. The pity of it slammed Fenella across the heart and she saw Nuadu reach up and then stand back frowning.
Fenella said, softly, ‘We can’t reach it.’
‘No. And even if we could, it is bound with the rope-lights.’
‘The Robe of the Human Hands?’ said Fenella, a bit hesitantly. ‘Would it dissolve the rope-lights once more?’ At once the ravaged features of the prisoner — Fenella could see now that it was a young man, only a very little older than Nuadu — looked down at her with such trust and such blind faith that Fenella knew that they must find a way of ending his torments.
She did not stop to think if there was time to chant the Spell again before CuRoi redirected the molten lava, or whether the Spell would work. Nuadu, who had turned to watch their pursuers, saw that CuRoi had vanished — into the Castle? — but that the Robemaker was still screaming imprecations and hurling sizzling light-whips at them. He thought that both necromancers would hesitate to destroy the Fields of Blood and he thought it ironic that they should have found temporary sanctuary in the necromancers’ storefields, a place which might so easily have been their own last resting place — indeed still might be so, he thought.
Fenella had not moved; she was looking up at the thin ravaged face of the dark-haired young man — it was a pale, rather unusual face — and the words of the Enchantment formed in her mind easily and smoothly. She stood very still and pronounced, for the third time, the ancient strong Enchantment stolen from the Robemaker’s storehouse of spells.
Open, locks, to the Human’s hand …
Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys …
Fly open, bars, dissolve, untie, unchain, unfetter …
Slash and gash and carve and gnaw.
Pluck the splinters of iron and slice the thews of steel,
Scission and sunder, steal and plunder …
There was confidence in her voice, because although the Spell was still not complete without the robe, they had proved its efficacy inside the Castle and they had escaped and surely they would free this captive now? It worked for us and it will work for him, thought Fenella, fiercely. It will work, because it must work. I believe that it will work.
The rope-lights which had held the young man to the cross melted at once, dissolving and running into nothing, and the prisoner fell gasping from his terrible bondage into Nuadu’s arms. For a moment, neither of them moved and Nuadu and the young man looked at one another very intensely.
And then the young man said, in a choking weak voice, rusty with disuse, ‘How shall I thank you — ’
&
nbsp; ‘Do not thank me yet,’ said Nuadu, straightening up and turning to look towards the Castle. ‘Do not thank me until we have escaped.’ And then he looked at the young man, and added, ‘Your Majesty.’
Ireland’s High King. Fenella stood transfixed, staring at the thin frail form, the exiled Wolfprince, Ireland’s uncrowned King, who had been held in such terrible thralldom. She thought: he has been imprisoned out here, held by a necromancer’s vicious cruelty, reduced to this poor wretched frail thing. There were scars on his arms and neck — talon scratches from the screeching Harpies who would have mocked him and flown at him and whom he would have been unable to drive off.
Nuadu had not spoken, but his face was white with bitter anger against CuRoi and the Robemaker. He said, ‘There is much for us to say, Sire, but this is not the place. We must somehow get you out.’
‘No ceremony,’ croaked the young man. ‘My name is Aed.’
‘I know,’ said Nuadu, and they looked at one another again.
Fenella had turned to look at the Castle again and, as she did so, the drawbridge lifted and framed in it were the figures of CuRoi and the Robemaker astride rearing black horses.
‘The NightMares,’ said Aed, who was also looking. ‘Fearsome creatures who stalk the dreams of their victims.’ A shiver went through his thin body and Fenella said, urgently, ‘Sire-Your — ’ and at once the young man said, ‘We will dispense with the formalities, Lady,’ and Fenella heard the echo of Nuadu’s voice, the same timbre, the same way of arranging words.
‘I am in your hands,’ said Aed. ‘I have not the strength to do much other than follow you — ’ A sudden sweet smile touched his face. ‘But I believe I have sufficient strength left to walk out of this place.’
‘This way,’ said Nuadu, who had straightened up and was scanning the landscape. ‘This way, for we may still find the Gateway to the Caverns. Back on to the road and straight towards the swamplands!’
