by Sarah Rayne
The Collector was chuckling evilly, but now it was a thick, clotted chuckling, and Rumour knew his mouth was filled with the fresh warm blood. Despite her resolve, her stomach lurched, and she thought: he is severing his leg. He is doing it slowly … I cannot bear it! thought Rumour. If I am to save him — if I am to save either of us, I must move! She braced herself, ready to throw off the Almhuinians, drawing in a deep breath and reaching desperately for the shining, Amaranthine power, even the thinnest vein of it … There must be a chink in these creatures’ dark carapaces! If only I could find it, I believe I could save us both! Her mind touched on and rejected a dozen enchantments. To defeat the Crimson Lady and her servants, she must use a spell that would turn the darkness upside down and inside out.
From deep within the Castle came the sound of light, soft feet, dancing and whirling, approaching the blood-smeared chamber. And over the sound, the unmistakable chanting of a grisly Hunting Song.
‘O give us skins for murdering in Cloaks of pale and Humanish shale.’
The Fomoire were in the Castle with them.
The great double doors to the slaughterhouse burst open, and the baleful red light that Rumour remembered so vividly streamed in. Silhouetted against it were the grinning, capering figures of the Fomoire, their cloaks of Humanish skin flying wildly about them, their tiny goblin faces grinning wickedly and lasciviously through the slits.
‘O give us skins of Humanish thin Husks to hide our evil in.
Murderers’ cloaks and child-eaters’ hair.
Robes of hide and fur and vair.’
They streamed forward, malevolently triumphant, and the Almhuinians fell back, clearly terrified, plainly unable or unprepared to fight the evil goblin creatures from Chaos’s dark Armies. The Fomoire came swarming forward, filling the blood-tainted slaughterhouse with their own terrible darkness, dancing and shrieking with malicious glee, chanting their grisly Hunting Song.
‘Fleeces of crimson, blood-soaked skin;
Pelts with trims of silken sin.
Give us fur and Humanish hair,
Rodent cloaks and rattish fur.’
They surrounded the Crimson Lady and the Almhuinians, leaping and jeering, their wizened claws reaching out, grabbing the razors and the thin iron rods and the knives from the cowering Almhuinians.
‘Spies!’ screeched the Lady, falling back against the stone table and staring up at them with distended eyes. ‘Spies and snooping, prying vermin! Chaos’s evil, sneaking spies!’
‘Rats and jackals and bloodied fur,’ shrieked the Fomoire.
‘Paws and claws and whiskers and hair.
Hides of Rodent and weasels’ skin,
Husks to hide our true selves in’.
The Collector jerked back from his grisly work and, whirling about, melted into the swirling shadows in a vortex of blood-tainted darkness. At once, the Lady gave a howl of fury, and turned this way and that, her huge eyes blazing with fury.
‘Coward! Back to my side and help me fight! Bailitheoir! I command you!’
‘Bailitheoir is not to be commanded, madame!’ cried Rumour. ‘The biter is bitten indeed!’
From the whirlpool of crimson-streaked darkness, there was a breath of a whisper, a soft polite murmur. ‘I do not fight for my prey, madame … Farewell …’ And then he was gone in truth, leaving only drops of dark blood splashing to the floor where he had been.
The Fomoire fell on the Crimson Lady, dragging her by her hair to the stone tables, shouting their glee, their empty-eyed heads lolling and jerking, the skins of several of them falling back, exposing their horrid wizened pates and their evil, shrunken, goblin faces. On the stone table, Andrew was barely conscious, blood pouring from the dreadful gaping wound in his leg, his skin waxen and grey. There are probably no more than a few minutes left if I am to save him! thought Rumour frantically.
The Lady was still trying to fight the Fomoire back. She was screeching and hurling imprecations at them, and Rumour thought that, if ever there was a moment to rescue Andrew and get out of Almhuin Castle, then this was the moment.
The Almhuinians were penned in the circle by the leaping, cavorting Fomoire, and the others were closing in on the Lady, their glinting, inward-slanting eyes avid.
‘Weaklings!’ cried the Lady, on her feet now, facing them with her eyes wild, her naked body caked with the blood of her victims. ‘Goblins, creatures of ancient filth and earth! Does your Master think to insult me by sending such puny creatures against me! Get from my Castle!’ She hit out at them again, but the Fomoire leapt and darted, grinning and jeering.
‘No power!’ they cried. ‘The Crimson Lady of Almhuin cannot even call up a spell to protect herself!’ And then, with one of their abrupt changes of direction, ‘Get the Rodent one down, chaps!’ they shrieked. ‘There’s a creature up there with a good skin!’
‘A skin of Rodent fur!’
‘We’ll sew the veins!’
‘We’ll sew the nose!’
‘And then we’ll hang it to cure!’
‘Rodent fur, chaps!’
‘Rats and jackals and bloodied fur,
Hides of Rat and weasels’ fur
Paws and claws and whiskers and hair.
Coats of hide and murderers’ vair.’
They swarmed up the ladders and across the beams to where Black Aed’s body still hung, swinging slightly in the movements from below, the head drooping, the huge black hook still protruding through his shattered nose.
The Lady was cowering in a corner, and Rumour stood for a moment, summoning courage, reaching for strength, knowing that even as she stood there, Andrew was bleeding to death, and knowing with a terrible clarity that there was barely any time left.
And then the Fomoire lowered Aed’s drained body, and began their strange Chaunt, the Chaunt that had marked the entry of Chaos into the Cadence Tower; and with the words, Rumour felt light exploding within her mind, and knew, in that instant, what to do.
The Fomoire were singing the fearsome Chaunt mockingly.
‘Carpet the world in Human misery,
Strew thick the harvest of the creatures of night.
Lay down the gleanings of the soul eaters.
Kill the veil of the world of light.’
Rumour knew the Chaunt as well as she knew any other incantation, for it ran like a sticky black snails’ trail of evil through every Book of Magic Lore, and every Sorcery Chronicle ever written. The Entry of the Dark Lords … Unutterably ancient and immeasurably potent.
The words fell on the air as if they were tangible things, a creeping dark slime entering the castle.
But for every darkness, there is light, thought Rumour. For every dark spell, there is a counter-spell. The age-old law.
And they are pronouncing the Chaunt of the Entry of the Dark Lords, and there is a counter-spell, and I know that counter-spell. It was the original Chaunt, the true and dazzlingly beautiful incantation written and spun for the first Amaranth sorcerers by the sidh, bestowed on them by Aillen mac Midha. And I know it! thought Rumour, exultantly. I can pronounce the Chaunt as it was written and as it was planned before the Fomoire stole it away and warped it to their own evil ends. It was the chink in the dark armour of Almhuin that she had tried so desperately to discover. And I have discovered it! she thought. A great surge of confidence filled her, and the Amaranth light, the ancient pure flame of her ancestors, streamed into her mind.
She moved to the centre of the chamber, and lifted her arms above her head, palms upwards in the age-old gesture that reached for the power, that harnessed it and turned it into pure living magic.
‘O give us skins for dancing in
And give us veils of Humanish pale.
Fleeces of fur and silken skin
Ivory bones for living in.’
And this time the power was there. As if a door had opened and permitted the ingress of a sliver of light from another room, the marvellous mystical power began to flood her mind.
It was a
slow trickle at first; it came to her in rivulets and thin runnels, glittering and silken-smooth. But as she reached for it and seized it to weave into the Chaunt, it intensified, until it was a pouring torrent, a huge, almost overwhelming fountain of cascading light.
But I must be quick! thought Rumour. I must be quick, for I do not think there is very much time left if I am to save Andrew! The door is open, but I must be sure that it is pushed wide. But the Fomoire were already falling back, screeching in furious pain, their clawed hands scrabbling frantically at the air in front of them, as if blinding white light was swooping at them. They tumbled backwards, falling over one another, shrieking and wailing.
‘The light, the Chaunt of Light!’
‘The creature knows it!’
‘It will kill the Darkness!’
‘Slay the Amaranthine!’
‘Slay her and skin her!’
‘Take her fleece for the Lord of Chaos and his henchmen!’
‘You dare not touch me!’ cried Rumour, confidence filling her whole body, because she had forced open the door, she had let in the light and the strength and the power. She felt it streaming about her like a shimmering mantle, and when she flung out her hand, light sizzled and spat from the ends of her fingers.
‘You dare not even approach me, evil, snooping creatures!’ cried Rumour, and even at such a moment, she felt a tiny inner spurt of amusement at the sheer extravagance of the gesture. ‘Back to your lord!’ cried Rumour in ringing tones, and thought: well, if you can’t be dramatic at times like this, I don’t know when you can be!
‘Back and report your failure, Goblin spies!’ cried Rumour, and although it would be too much to have said she was enjoying herself, she was aware of a sudden relish and an uplifting of her spirits.
‘Back to your wretched Master, and tell him that you were vanquished by an Amaranth!’ shouted Rumour, thinking she might as well bring out all the rhetoric while she was about it.
The Fomoire squeaked and shouted in shrill and angry fear, but they were already tumbling across the floor, scuttling and scrabbling, climbing over one another in their haste to be out of the reach of the sorceress who had been able to defeat their Chaunt.
The Almhuinians were huddled against the far wall, trembling and cowering, and Diarmuit was fumbling with the door handles. As the Fomoire reached them, the door fell open, and Almhuinians and Fomoire tumbled through it in a seething, frightened mass of skin and fur and claws and flying skin-cloaks.
Silence fell over the slaughterhouse, and Rumour saw with infinite thankfulness that Andrew had revived a little, and had even managed to half raise himself, and reach down to press the wadded folds of his woollen robe to the terrible wound. Blood still flowed, but it had slowed to a sluggish trickle now.
Rumour looked at the Crimson Lady. ‘So, madame,’ she said, softly, ‘it seems that we are evenly matched at last.’
The Lady was on her feet, thrusting bloodied fingers through her tangled hair, combing it roughly into place. When she addressed Rumour, a semblance of the former cold authority had fallen about her.
‘We would never be evenly matched, Amaranth,’ said the Lady in a cold, contemptuous tone. ‘My powers are greater and darker and more ancient than anything you could ever hope to summon.’
Rumour said, rather as if it was a matter of minor importance, ‘Oh, I don’t think so, you know. Although it is a pity you did not make use of your ancestry, madame. I find it sad that the last of such an ancient line could not even turn back the Fomoire. I find it heart-warming that you cannot deflect this!’ cried Rumour, and flung a spear of light straight at the Lady, aiming it so precisely that it fell within a foot of where the Lady stood, following it with another, and then another, lining them exactly and deliberately, until the Lady was fenced in by dozens of spears of white, hurting light. She flinched and cowered, covering her eyes with her hands, her face contorted with pain.
‘A small revenge,’ said Rumour. ‘But it will serve for the moment. It will prevent you from being a nuisance to me while I see what has to be done here.’
‘How dare you refer to me so slightingly!’ cried the Lady, but she eyed the glinting light warily, and Rumour saw that she avoided looking at it directly.
‘Well, madame?’ she said. ‘Do you still say we are not evenly matched?’ And without waiting for an answer, went to where Andrew still lay, his face grey and his eyes closed, blood still seeping out from under the makeshift dressing.
At first Rumour thought that, despite his valiant effort to staunch the blood earlier, he was dead, and such cold desolation closed about her that the blood-smeared slaughterhouse and the caged creature blurred before her eyes. And then she remembered that dead men do not bleed, and saw that a tiny pulse was beating at the base of his throat.
Horridly conscious of ignorance, she pushed the gaping edges of the wound together, and bound it about with the makeshift wadding he had already managed to fashion from his robe. She thought it might be possible to effect a stronger healing, with sorcery, but it was one of the few magical arts of which she had little knowledge. And I cannot do anything here with that creature glaring! thought Rumour. Practical ordinary help first, and then she would think about magical aid.
Although she could not move him yet, she could surely make him more comfortable. She dragged off her own cloak and threw it over him, for although the bleeding was lessening he was icy cold and his flesh had taken on a grey pallor. As she did so, his eyes fluttered open, and although they were pain-filled and blurred, they were aware.
He said, in a thread of a voice, ‘Rumour …’
‘I am here and the Lady is caged,’ said Rumour at once. ‘And you are safe, Andrew, and I shall heal your wound.’
She thought he whispered a thank-you, and then his eyes closed again and Rumour thought: well, I suppose he will gain strength from unconsciousness. At least while he sleeps, he will be free from pain. She glanced back to the Crimson Lady, but the creature was still held inside the light spears. Safe so far, thought Rumour, looking about her. But I believe I shall have to leave him here to get linen and water to bind his leg. Can I leave him? I think I have no choice. I cannot move him as he is. But she pronounced a further enchantment before she did so, this time surrounding Andrew with light for protection, drawing gratefully on the power that was still obedient to her summons.
And then she went from the terrible slaughterhouse with its stench of spilled blood and its taint of ancient evil, out into the dank coldness of the Castle.
*
If there had been a sunrise it would have been so much better. Rumour prowled through the great silent Castle cautiously, hating the darkness and the thick shrouding shadows, fearful of every creature that she disturbed and that went scuttling or slithering out of the wavering light of her flaring torch.
She thought that the knowledge that there would never be a dawn here made the desolate night a truly dreadful thing to endure. If I could know that there would be a sunrise in this terrible place, thought Rumour, prowling warily through the dark Castle, I believe I could explore with a better heart. It was a futile hope, of course. This was the Black Ireland where there was only endless night and perpetual dark.
She searched the Castle cautiously and swiftly, disliking the great empty rooms and the crimson-swathed chambers that reeked of dirt and decay; finding it necessary to summon every shred of courage to push open doors and venture into deserted and dusty wings that had plainly been disused for many years. The stench of ancient malevolence pervaded the whole Castle, so that Rumour felt sick. She thought, half amused, half fearful, that she might be hard put to it to call up any light, any powers out here, but she put the thought from her at once, because there was no time to be having doubts, there was only time to get Andrew out from the slaughterhouse, and imprison the Crimson Lady properly, and go on to find Theodora.
At last she found a small, relatively dry room near to the portcullis entrance, which was warmer and cleaner than
the rest, and which she thought was not as heavily tainted with evil. There was a small stone hearth where a fire could be laid, and a pallet bed near by. Perhaps a porter’s room? It was surprisingly easy to imagine this Castle humming with life, peopled by servants, nightly revels held in the great banqueting hall. The dungeons would be filled, and the banquets would be grisly, bloody feasts, for this was a necromancer’s citadel. But Rumour could see beauty in the carved plaster mouldings, and in the oak panelling in some of the rooms, and the crystal windows that must once have looked out over flower gardens and fountains and terraces.
The small porter’s room would do very well. It was close to the slaughterhouse, on the ground floor, and there was bedding in a cupboard at the side of the stone hearth. Rumour set light to the fire before she went back for Andrew, thinking that at least here they could be warm and dry and safe for a time.
She bound Andrew’s mutilated leg as well as she could, packing it with wads of tightly folded linen from the hearth cupboard knowing that this was crude and inexpert, but knowing of nothing else that could be done. And then she turned back to the Crimson Lady.
She had reinforced the light cage at regular intervals, not daring to leave the creature for more than an hour at a time.
‘For,’ said Rumour, regarding her captive, ‘although I think your powers are weak, and although I think you have built your reputation purely on your ability to coerce those poor weaklings of Almhuinians, still I do not trust you.’
The Crimson Lady snarled and lunged out at Rumour, but the spears of light held firm, and she flinched, nursing her hand as if she might have burnt it.
Rumour said, in a voice suddenly cold and stem, ‘For the moment, you are held, madame. For the moment you are under my enchantment, and you cannot escape. But we will devise something a little stronger presently, I think. We will ensure that you are imprisoned properly.’ And went back to Andrew.
‘I cannot carry you, Andrew, but I can act as a crutch,’ said Rumour, nearly in tears of frustration at her physical weakness.
