The Return of the Arinn

by Frank P. Ryan

  ‘They dream of eternity.’

 

  ‘Communion with you?’

 

  ‘What is eternity?’

 

  ‘The Fáil?’

 

  ‘I . . . I can’t. I wouldn’t dare—’

 

  ‘I have disappointed you.’

 

  He chose this moment to withdraw from her mind and manifest again. His hands cradled her face. His figure, for all that he radiated power, now appeared so curiously frail – almost vulnerable. She watched him, every line and plane of his face, the slight smile about his lips, as he spoke:

  ‘Would you share eternity with me, Penny?’

  She wanted to deny it, but she wasn’t strong enough. She dropped her head as she whispered: ‘Yes.’

  The Nature of Mo

  Alan lay sleepless in his tent in the Shee encampment, but it wasn’t Ghork Mega that kept him awake. He was thinking about Mo. He knew that Mo was changing. He also knew, without question, that Mo was important. She was different from the other three friends. Nothing he had experienced since his arrival on Tír was down to chance. Therefore, these differences in Mo – the changes that were so disturbing her – were not happenstance. They had to be important. He reflected on the strange, sometimes terrifying events they had experienced on their journey down the Snowmelt River. He revisited the moment Mo had been dashed overboard, during the attack by the Storm Wolves . . .

  Mark’s mind had been turned by a succubus. He had been told to push Kate overboard, yet it had been Mo who had ended up in the moiling spate of river. It had seemed an accident, a mistake – but had it really been a mistake?

  At the time, Alan had assumed that Kate had been the target. Mark had described how he had resisted the succubus – there had been a battle within Mark for his own will – and yet it had been Mo who had been put in jeopardy. Alan had saved Mo’s life, but then, in the confrontation with the Legun at Ossierel, it was also Mo who had put herself between Alan and the Legun and she had returned the favour, saving him. In his mind’s eye, Alan was back at that horrifying confrontation.

  The Legun reached out and picked up the still unconscious former Kyra, then extended two great talons towards her eyes . . .

  Alan was struggling back onto shaky legs, challenging it, keeping its murderous focus upon himself. Then, he heard Mo’s voice.

  ‘Stay your malice, Septemvile!’

  He recalled how she had stood, erect and fearless between them. She held her bog oak talisman aloft in her right hand. He heard her speak, but her lips did not move. He heard her voice through his oraculum, but the voice he heard was growly and deep – not Mo’s voice at all. It was enough to switch the focus of the Legun to his friend.

  Alan had sensed a powerful force behind Mo’s words as he struggled to get to his feet. He had called out to her, his voice hoarse with exhaustion:

  ‘Mo – get out of here! Save yourself!’

  He thought, This is crazy. How could Mo think she could deflect the rage of the Legun? Then Alan heard the Legun speak, in a voice like the crackling of thunder:

  ‘What pretty spoil are you?’

  Through his oraculum, Alan glimpsed something dark and shadowy behind the slender figure of Mo – a triangular shadow that silhouetted her from behind. A figure, impenetrably dense and resolute, cowled in spider’s web.

  Granny Dew!

  Even as Alan regained his feet, he saw Mo glowing with spectral light. Mo spoke again, in the same deep voice.

  ‘Your master will know me by my true name. I am Mira, Léanov Fashakk – The Heralded One.’

  The Heralded One . . .

  Alan sat upright on his pallet, his face bathed in sweat. Mo . . . Mo was vitally important. Special. And now this business with the Akkharu in the Valley of the Pyramids . . .

  It was hard to think logically about the situation, but the question that perturbed him most was: Who is Mo?

  In the beginning she’d been just another of the four friends – strangeness aside – but now she had changed so much, Alan wasn’t sure that he really knew her. Perhaps the question wasn’t so much, who was Mo, but what was Mo?

  An hour or so later, Alan was joined by the two friends he trusted most in the world: Kate and Qwenqwo Cuatzel. The air in the tent was already filled with the aromatic scent of Qwenqwo’s pipe.

  ‘So, tell me exactly what she said, Alan.’ Kate sat in front of him and reached out to take his two hands in her own. ‘What happened to her when she travelled as a soul spirit to the Valley of the Pyramids?’

  ‘She told me there’s a labyrinth, very complex and deep, under the valley floor. She told me she was discovering the fate that brought her through to Tír from Earth. She was terrified by what was expected of her.’

  Alan thought back to the conversation with Mo. Magtokk had been there in an invisible form – a soul spirit. He remembered how pale she had been, and how fiercely she’d gripped his hand. ‘She said that Magtokk had told her she needed to make another dream journey in the Valley of the Pyramids. She said she had to “become one with the minds of the Akkharu”.’

  Kate frowned. ‘How would she do that?’

  ‘Beats me.’

  Qwenqwo asked: ‘Are the Akkharu those winged creatures guarding the towers of skulls?’

  ‘She told me that the skulls are those of dead Akkharu, but the winged creatures we saw are just guardians. The Akkharu live underground in the labyrinth. She also said that the Akkharu weren’t just warning us, but urging Mo to act.’

  ‘Act how – by going back to the valley?’

  ‘What do you think, Qwenqwo?’

  The dwarf mage pulled at his beard. ‘Was Mo frightened of these Akkharu?’

  ‘No. Not at all. She was more frightened by what was expected of her – her fate.’

  Alan recalled Mo’s look of fierce determination as she’d squeezed his hand. Her words . . . ‘I have to do it, Alan. I came to Tír with a purpose, just like you. If I must face danger, then I have to find the courage to do it.’

  Kate said: ‘Can’t Magtokk help her?’

  ‘That was what I suggested, but she told me that it was Magtokk who was advising her to do this. She also told me that Magtokk was a True Believer.’

  Qwenqwo took the pipe from his mouth and looked down into the glowing embers within the bowl. ‘Mo thinks it vital, this link to the Akkharu?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Qwenqwo mused: ‘Then she believes wholly that her fate is inextricably linked to these beings, or she would not believe it to be so vital.’

  Alan hesitated. He studied Qwenqwo’s face, and waited for the dwarf mage to speak again.

  ‘When I first met Magtokk, I assumed that he is, or perhaps was, a mage, but now I think he is more than that. I believe that he is a manifestation of a True Believer.’

  ‘The True Believers have been helpful to us – they protected Mo and Kate from the rage of the demi-god, Fangorath, so should we trust Magtokk?’

  ‘There are many different kinds of True Believer. And not all are benign.’

  Alan sighed. He didn’t know what to believe. What could he do?

  Kate hugged his arm. ‘Mo was always different.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Do you remember ho
w Padraig reacted to her?’

  ‘Yeah!’ Padraig had seen something different in Mo from the moment they first met. How had he known she was different? Was there some clue in those Ogham runes he had pointed out to them? Some lesson from the ancient history carved over the walls of the barrow tomb of Feimhin?

  Kate hugged his arm again.

  ‘Do you remember her gathering all those strange things around the den?’

  ‘Her arcania.’ That had been Mark’s word for it.

  ‘Padraig acted as though he had been expecting her.’

  ‘He saw something in her notebook.’

  ‘And Granny Dew – she treated Mo as if she were different.’

  ‘And you too, Qwenqwo. You said she was different.’

  Qwenqwo lifted the pipe from his mouth, and then he nodded. ‘Indeed I did.’

  *

  The sky was illuminated by the glow of evening as Mo walked along the bay, returning from another exhausting day helping Turkeya treat the sick and injured. She had left him as he’d headed for the small encampment of the Olhyiu, where he was looking forward to meeting his parents, Siam and Kehloke. It had lifted Mo’s heart to see her shaman friend so happy and excited. The Olhyiu were more useful as sailors than warriors in this dreadful battle, and Mo wished them well. They had been driven so close to extinction by the Tyrant’s ruthless tactics back in Monisle that it had taken the Shee and the indomitable courage of Alan, with his gift of the First Power, to save them. And now, as her tired limbs brought her closer to the camp of the Shee, she heard the ritual prayer of the spiritual leader, Bétaald, and the answering chorus of tens of thousands of purring voices.

  Mo’s eyes searched the shadow-strewn landscape, looking for the orang-utan manifestation of Magtokk, who might carry her in his long arms, but instead she caught the eyes of the dwarf mage, Qwenqwo. He had a puzzled look on his face. Was Qwenqwo, who had been her friend ever since her imprisonment in Isscan, a little jealous of her growing intimacy with the magician? Mo decided she would have it out with him.

  But, upon approaching him she found herself confronted by those gentle emerald eyes in that redoubtable bearded face, and she changed her mind.

  How could she ever offend Qwenqwo, who had been such a fearless and supportive friend to her? She felt ashamed of her impulse to rebuke him.

  ‘Qwenqwo, I’ve neglected you.’

  ‘So you have, young lady.’

  Mo was discomforted to find herself on the receiving end of his rebuke. ‘Please forgive me.’

  ‘Only if you will let me advise you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You have become somewhat oblique in conversation of late.’

  ‘Oblique?’

  ‘Secretive, my princess.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘You know you have.’

  Mo clasped his burly arm and they walked the short distance that would allow them to view the sunset over the ocean.

  ‘You know that your friends are deeply concerned about you.’

  ‘I know Alan is worried.’

  ‘Should I be worried too?’

  This unexpected kindness immediately reawakened her affection for him. She should have spoken to him more, and she wanted to speak to him now about what was happening to her, about her anxieties about her own courage and worthiness. ‘I – I—’

  ‘You fear what is expected of you?’

  ‘Oh, Qwenqwo, I’m terrified I will let you all down.’

  He placed his gnarled hands on her shoulders and looked up into her face, now a foot higher than his own. ‘I have always had the utmost faith in you. You have the heart and spirit of a lioness.’

  ‘Then,’ she smiled back, ‘perhaps I should have been a Shee?’

  He squeezed her, gently. ‘Be your own brave self.’

  ‘You know who I am, don’t you? You have always known my true name? When you comforted me in the captivity of the false mage in Isscan. You told me the false mage was attempting to discover my secret.’

  ‘Indeed I did.’

  ‘You must have known that the eagle, Thesau, was not protecting you and your runestone, but me?’

  ‘I suspected as much, though I did not know for certain.’

  ‘But you never spoke of it?’

  ‘You were so young, so very vulnerable. You were not ready yet for that burden. My self-appointed role then, as now, was to protect you.’

  ‘I still feel so vulnerable and unready.’

  ‘Let me assure you that I am still here, ever ready to protect you still. You may count on me no matter what the occasion or the threat.’

  ‘I have always known that I could depend on you.’

  ‘Here I am, Princess. Here I will stay!’

  The Rose

  Mark peered through a clinging fog to where Brett and Padraig were standing in huddled conversation before the Black Rose. They were still a good half mile away from the monstrosity, but even from this distance, its threat was overwhelmingly oppressive. Overhead, snow continued to fall out of a sky as heavy as lead. Mark observed Brett taking a measurement with an electronic instrument – most likely a GPS device. Brett looked up to where the towering structure disappeared into the fog, then moved about fifty paces nearer to it to repeat the measurement before pulling back again. His lilting Kentucky accent was audible even from fifty yards distant: ‘My, it sure is awesome!’

  ‘A fearful construction,’ Padraig coughed in agreement.

  ‘You feel the increasing cold as we drew nearer?’

  ‘One could hardly miss it.’

  ‘Like it’s soaking up heat out of the air?’

  Mark turned to glance back towards the Mamma Pig, its bulk a pallid shadow within a misty world of shadows.

  When, on impulse, he put an arm around Nan’s shoulders, he felt her shivering even under several layers of clothing. Brett was right. There was something unnatural about the cold air around the Rose.

  Mark thought it was extraordinary that they’d made it here at all, and the fact that Padraig was now well enough to be studying the ominous structure with them made the situation all the more remarkable.

  He and Nan had spent hours explaining what they knew to Padraig last night. He had wanted to know everything that had happened to the four friends after their arrival on Tír. He had been very relieved when Mark had assured him that, as far as he was aware, the other three were all alive: Kate and Mo, as well as Padraig’s grandson, Alan. Now, watching Brett and Padraig examine the Rose, Mark wondered if he’d know if the situation were otherwise, and the others were dead. Was their friendship really so deep he’d have sensed it even though they were a world away? Would the Third Power really help him in this? He didn’t know the answer to that vitally important question.

  ‘What’s Brett up to?’ Tajh’s voice came softly from the open cabin door of the Pig.

  ‘I’m not altogether sure. My guess is they’re making a tactical assessment.’

  Now he recalled, it had been the intensity of Padraig’s eyes – the purest, most disturbing blue that Mark had ever seen – that had warned him that there was something unusual about Padraig. Padraig’s grandson, Alan, also had strikingly blue eyes, but Padraig’s were like searchlights – you had the impression that when you became their focus, Padraig could see right down into your soul.

  Mark’s feelings must have shown because Tajh climbed down from the cab to join him and Nan. She said: ‘Oh, my god – what a journey! I don’t know how we made it this far.’

  Mark nodded. ‘Just what I was thinking.’

  *

  It had been pitch black, maybe a little after 4.00 a.m., when Mark and Cal had pulled up before a roadblock on a small arterial road inside the blocked-off London outer circular, the M25. Snow had been wheeling hard through the cones of their bike headlights, ill
uminating a background of ruined buildings and streets. Although the plan to get them through the cordon had been Cal’s, Mark was instructed to do most of the talking, since he could read the guards’ minds. That, and the package of war spoils they were carrying, was key. It was a decidedly risky plan. Mark took small comfort in the fact that Nan would also be listening to the conversation and relaying the gist of it to the others in the Pig. Even as he’d waited for the nearest of half a dozen Uzi-toting Skulls to challenge him, he’d received a message mind-to-mind from Nan.

 

 

  Mark hadn’t had a great deal of confidence in Cal’s plan, but they’d had no option. He’d lifted the visor of his helmet to spit out the gum he had been chewing, then he’d entered the mind of the man snoring in the back passenger seat of the black limousine. The passenger had been disturbed by a guard rapping on the glass. Mark decided that he would heighten the sense of confusion in the waking mind.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ one of the nearest of the Skulls had demanded, whilst aiming his Uzi at Mark. Mark had to switch his focus from the guy in the cab. He shook his head: ‘Special D.’

  ‘Special D my arse!’

  ‘Rations,’ he winked at the guard. ‘A present for the coming occasion from the big man’s friends up north.’

  The Skull shifted on his feet. ‘Wot occasion?’

  Mark looked from the Skull to the limo, and then at the Skull again. He entered the guard’s mind and planted a notion: Them markings on that truck is ours. Look at that fucking armoured thing – it’s a fucking safe on wheels!

  The guard spoke by radio to the waking man in the limousine. ‘You coming out, or you want us to deal with this?’

  The limo man now sitting up, only half awake. Mark entered his mind and he enhanced the hangover he found in that mind. He spiked the rage. He impressed the response: ‘I’m coming out.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at them, then – the rations,’ said the Skull.

  Cal spoke then: ‘You shouldn’t – you really wouldn’t want to spoil the big man’s party.’