Alan barely had time to recover from his shock before the same Shee, bleeding from mouth and nostrils, was fighting hand to hand with a massive legionary.
The soldier’s helmet had been partially cloven in some earlier confrontation, yet still he engaged with the Shee, his teeth clenched and a fanatical hatred in his eyes. Taking advantage of her distraction with the Garg, the legionary had taken a fierce grip of the Shee from behind, his left arm encircling her throat and his sword burying itself deep in her flesh, rooting for arteries and windpipe.
Alan plunged the Spear of Lug into the legionary’s side, but only managed to wound him. With a howl of pain, he continued his attack on the Shee. Alan forced the blade deeper, even as, with a deft twist and sidestep, the Shee swung her own sword backward and upward, piercing the legionary’s throat. Without waiting for the corpse to fall, she stepped forward to place her body before Alan’s as another shrieking Garg plummeted down through the air, its taloned feet directed at his heart.
The strike was lightning quick, with no time for the Shee to protect herself. She took the venomous thrust, impaling the creature with her sword even as she herself was killed.
Stumbling sideways so he wouldn’t make such an easy target, Alan was confronted by another unequal struggle. A lone Shee fought two legionaries, striking sparks from their swords with her glowing blade.
With a roar, Alan struck the spear against the helmet of one of the legionaries, but his strike rebounded with barely a dent in the dense metal. At the same time as the Shee gutted the legionary in front of her, the second brought his short sword upward in a two-handed lunge, piercing the woman in the small of the back and then tearing, rending, bisecting bone, flesh and spinal cord, yet still continuing the upward lunge, tormenting the Shee in the very moments of her death with its hacking, ever-deepening wound.
Alan gritted his teeth. He was so confused by the events taking place around him that he was behaving stupidly. The oraculum pulsated in his brow. He closed his eyes for a moment, directing its pulsating force to his right hand. He felt the union of power with weapon. Anger rose in him.
With a throaty moan, the legionary was dead at his feet, the Spear of Lug transecting helmet and the head within.
Suddenly two Aides were by his side. They tried to fit him with armor, capping his head with a helmet of steel and attempting to sheathe his body, from shoulders to knees, with armor. But he tore off the helmet and thrust the Aides away. The armor would only have weighed down his spear hand. Alan heard his own voice roaring in his ears as he stumbled forward, forcing his way deeper into the conflict, gaining strength with every step as the oraculum blazed to white power, the swell of his anger ramifying and spreading into his muscles. Dead bodies of Shee lay scattered about him now, intermingled with lesser numbers of the Olhyiu, their flesh overrun by the green slime, which flickered and danced over their wounds as it devoured their tissues.
The oraculum registered Ainé somewhere to his left. He spun in that direction, through rubble and carnage and the oppressive closeness of evil.
Before he had taken twenty paces he heard the screech of tormented air as another sulphurous missile cast its fetid arc to crash into the ancient walls somewhere behind him. He cast a wave of power to avert the concussion of thunder and flames from his face.
Two legionaries materialized out of the smoke to challenge him. Alan touched the metal head of the spear against the oraculum in his brow. He felt the shockwave as the amplification of the power descended into his arm and infused the Ogham his grandfather had cut deep into the cutting edges of the blade, causing the spearhead to blaze with power. In an explosive blur of motion the legionaries were lying dead at his feet. Finding a small mound of broken wall, he sprang up onto it, standing above the drifting smoke and flames, and he peered around him through the continuing clash of swords and armor.
An old Aides woman with a twisted spine was crouched over a dying Olhyiu, offering him healwell. A moment later she uttered a dull cry and fell like a sack of bones, half her chest destroyed. He saw how her body was already oozing the slimy glow of the Legion’s poison. Rage took possession of him, roaring through his mind and honing the speed of his thinking.
Alan held the Spear of Lug aloft, its blade effulgent like a miniature sun. Through its aura, he searched for Ainé and Qwenqwo, the two other oraculum-bearers, finding them fighting back to back in the smoking ruin at the bottom of the breach. They were trapped within a throng of legionaries, grossly outnumbered.
A pulse of force erupted from the oraculum in Alan’s brow. With a surge of his mind, he made contact, power for power, with the Kyra’s Oraculum of Bree. He used the direction of contact to lead him to her, sweeping the blazing spear through the cordon of enemies. The flame of his rage consumed them, danced in an instant from helmet to helmet, passing through shields and armor until their bodies burst into flames.
Ainé and Qwenqwo looked on in shock, unable to believe what had happened, but then they sprang to join him, where his spear was still held high above his head, its pulsating light reflecting off the corpses.
The weariness of Alan’s limbs was forgotten as he grasped Qwenqwo’s shoulder, the dagger of Magcyn trailing from the dwarf mage’s bandaged left arm and the bloodied battle-axe trailing from his right. Qwenqwo returned Alan’s hug. Ainé stood back, staring at him in open astonishment. He felt the quick probing of her oraculum, assessing the power that must be visibly glowing on his brow. Then she did him the greatest honor, offering him the fleeting wrist and arm embrace, in the manner of an intimate Shee greeting.
“Our cause is grave. Already there are a great many injured and dead. Our scouts believe that all the southern battalions of the Death Legion are close by in the forest, and the Gargs are attacking from the opposite side of the river. Our enemies outnumber us perhaps fifty to one. But most grievous of all, our enemies are led by a Legun incarnate.”
Alan nodded, recalling Ainé’s earlier advice when they were resting close to the waterfall. In spirit we may fight it. But if it attacks in the flesh no mortal force will prevail against it. His voice was tense but controlled. “You were right to fear the dream journey, Ainé.” He couldn’t help but blame himself for what had happened to Kate.
Ainé shook her head. “This is not the time for recriminations. One more cannon hit and the hall will be destroyed. We must return to the plaza and organize a new defense.”
The scene, when they got there, was desperate. Alan wheeled around, taking in the brave fighting against increasingly overwhelming odds. Into his consciousness came a dreadful foreboding. Before he could see it through the green pyres and the smoke and the stench of death, he heard its obscene growl, as if the veil of light and air had been rent apart and something dreadful was willing itself into physical form nearby.
Duuuvaaalll!
A storm of malice flickered and swirled around the smoking ruin that surrounded them. Ainé began the chanting battle hymn of the Shee, calling back the survivors of her scattered army through the breach.
Duuuvaaalll! I, the humble servant of my immortal master, challenge your feeble powers in combat!
Alan turned to Qwenqwo, who was standing to his right, his feet wide apart, the battle-axe spinning in his right hand. “Go, Qwenqwo! Run! I want no foolish sacrifices here. Find Milish. Help her to protect Kate and the others.”
“My friend—I will not desert you!”
“If you truly are my friend, you will do what I ask of you.”
For just a fraction of a second the disgruntled face of the dwarf mage glared back, furious at being dismissed from the field of battle. Then he disappeared, as if the smoke had swallowed him. Ainé remained, crouched to his left, with her oraculum blazing power to her sword arm. He sensed the malevolence of the Legun nearby, probing his inadequate defenses.
Then Alan saw it—a dreadful creature, gigantic in size, with a skull-like face, sat astride a giant battle charger, horse-like in its form but with fangs for teeth a
nd a frame as powerful as an elephant. Though its rider had the skeletal leanness of death, the spine of the charger was bent under its weight. Alan guessed it had to be the same Legun that had killed Ainé’s sister-mother and scarred her face.
He hoisted the Spear of Lug level with his shoulder, its Ogham ward pulsating strongly.
The charger reared in front of him, half emerging from the flames and ruins. Talons sprang from the Legun’s claws, raking the sweat-streaked flesh of its steed in a brutal determination to force it under control, and now the red gleam in its eyes was wholly directed at Alan. Power glimmered and streamed about the Legun, as if a dark sun were continually reforming out of the voids of space. Splinters of loathing glinted in the red pits of its eyes.
Alan held his ground.
Through the white flare from his own brow, he searched the enemy for the vestige of a human heart. But he found none. From this close, the issuing voice was an assault upon his hearing, a harsh hiss, like red-hot lava polluting fresh water.
Put aside your pathetic probing. You cannot hope to comprehend my master through me.
Ainé took advantage of its focus on Alan to attack. Crying, “De Danaan!” she sprang high into the air, her sword extended, every ounce of strength in her tall frame directed at the shadowy region of the Legun’s throat. But the blade, even though glowing with all of her power, made little impact. It struck the dark form with a blaze of green sparks, but there was no pause, not even a shudder in her terrible enemy. The Legun struck out with taloned claws while she was still in flight, catching her shoulder with an immense reach. Alan watched Ainé fall against the wrack of bodies. Then, with a growl of glee, the Legun reached down and picked her up by the hair, dangling her body high above Alan, as if she were no more than a figure of straw, then cut deep with an extended talon, reopening the scars on the left side of her face.
I tire of such trivial digression. Again I challenge you, Duuuvaaalll, vain hope of the Witch of Ossierel, to mortal combat.
Alan’s oraculum blazed. Assuming the First Power, he held steady against a second wave of the Legun’s malice, directing his own powers into the Spear of Lug, so that the weapon forged by his grandfather, Padraig, metamorphosed into a conduit of power beyond any that could be contained by any ordinary weapon. It became the force of his will.
“Come on then. See if you can take me!”
Moment by moment Alan felt the power expanding within him, finding consummation with his anger, ramifying to fill his entire being. If the Legun was truly an integral part of its master, then he could hurt the master through its physical being. He clenched his teeth.
“This is for Mom and Dad!”
With all of his force he hurled the Spear of Lug into the figure of darkness. The flame of contact exploded to the right of its chest, below the shoulder that held Ainé’s battered body aloft, the point of impact shimmering in a rainbow-hued implosion, issuing wave after wave of shock into darkness. The spear burst back out of the vile flesh, returning to his arm in a matrix of aftershock, recoiling further, like a counter-blow, causing Alan to reel backward.
With a roar, the Legun dropped the Kyra. Alan could see that even though he had attacked it with all of his power, he had not destroyed it. But he had hurt it—and hopefully its master.
You dare to profane the Almighty One! You are no more than a speck of dirt in His eye.
The Legun struck back, a glancing stroke of effortless ease. Alan attempted to parry it with the spear, but he hadn’t the strength to completely deflect it. A crushing pain exploded in his chest. He was tossed backward, landing with a bone-jarring concussion on the pile of broken stone and bloodied shapes. The Legun expanded until it became a thunderhead of power, above which the red splinters of eyes gloated in triumph.
Be assured I have a relish for inflicting pain that is beyond your imagination. On your knees and pray for death to release your torment.
Alan had to find some way of buying some time. Ainé needed to recover from the concussion. He struggled back onto shaky legs yet still challenged the Legun, keeping its murderous focus upon himself.
“In your dreams!”
Is this your measure, Duuuvaaallll—insufferable True Believer. I might have extinguished your mortal existence at a stroke, but you have insulted my Liege, so I am inclined to sport with you. I shall scourge you first through those you fawn over, so my ultimate satisfaction will be all the sweeter.
So saying, the monstrous form reached out and, picking up the still unconscious Kyra, it extended two talons at her eyes.
“Stay your malice, Septemvile!”
Through a mist of pain, Alan saw the petite form of Mo insinuate herself between the Legun and himself. In her right hand she held her bog-oak talisman aloft. He heard Mo speak, although her lips were not moving. Her voice sounded an octave lower, no longer girlish in its intonation.
“Mo—get out of here! Save yourself!”
Her show of force was foolishly brave in these circumstances. Mo couldn’t hope to defeat the immense power of a Legun incarnate.
What pretty spoil are you?
Through the oraculum Alan glimpsed the triangular shadow that silhouetted Mo’s figure from behind—a figure, impenetrably dense, cowled in spiderwebs. Granny Dew! Against the shadow, Mo’s face glowed, spectral with light. The voice appeared to come from Mo but it was too deep and calm for the friend he knew. “Your master will know me by my true name. I am Mira, Léanov Fashakk—the Heralded One.”
Ahhhhhh!
Alan found himself ignored as the gigantic shape shifted its focus to the diminutive figure of the girl.
This spectral Mo confronted the Legun and spoke calmly again. “Let him live. Let them all live and I will surrender to you.”
“No! Mo—get out of here!”
Thrusting all that remained of his faltering power between them, Alan was once more struck aside, hurled against the broken stones, the Legun barely registering his intervention, so absorbed was it with Mo’s challenge. Yet still the Legun made no attempt at a physical attack on her. Alan sensed a lightning-quick probe of the small figure, both in the Dromenon and in the flesh. And in the Legun’s consciousness he saw a new figure in place of Mo, tall even for a fully-grown woman, and hauntingly beautiful. He sensed great power within the figure. He also sensed the Legun’s desire to possess her, covetous beyond limit.
Why would I bargain with you, little sparrow? Your strength is but a sigh in the storm of my hunger. I shall take you and sport with them also.
Rage blazed in the triangle behind the girl. The Legun drew back from the challenge, as though reconsidering the nature of this new threat. Alan heard new words invade his mind, words that seemed to come from Mo, although he knew that they were really coming from a much older and wrinkled presence. Granny Dew was speaking through Mo’s mind.
Mira is but a child. She can only distract it briefly. Yet for such an eventuality did the De Danaan sacrifice herself. There is one among you whose destiny is manifest.
The Blood Rage of a Kyra
Mark was watching over Kate’s unconscious body, with Vengeance unsheathed, when he heard the words of Granny Dew invade his mind. He knew that the words were directed at him. But what did they mean? He couldn’t abandon Kate. Even so, the wider implications were abundantly clear. The battle was being lost in the streets of the ruined citadel. With a sudden dread, he also sensed another presence. The succubus was nearby. Leaving Kemtuk to nurse Kate he ran up the steps to the side-alley entrance and peered inside. His heart faltered. The three Shee who had guarded the entrance lay dead, their bodies hacked to pieces.
Immediately he heard the hated whisper. “My lovely boy!”
Her voice came from the air above his head. His eyes wheeling skyward, he witnessed an incredible sight. The succubus was floating down through the tormented smoke and green lividity of attack, her hair clasped by an enormous bat creature. Mark thrust Vengeance aloft.
Mocking him with the tinkle of he
r laughter, she alighted just feet away from him. “You will not harm me, my heart. Have you forgotten your promise?”
“You tricked me. Seduced me.”
She preened in front of him, her lips pouting in the doll-like face. Her scent was in his nostrils. She was already brushing her face against his, her pink tongue nuzzling against the cold, wet skin of his ear. “You will find that the promise is binding.”
“No!”
He pushed her away from him. Though his left arm trembled, he pressed the battle-axe against her breast. Behind him he heard the sound of fluttering leathery wings. The Garg!
Her sigh enchanted him. “A promise is a promise!” Her body curled around him, her warm softness overwhelming all of his senses. Mark felt faint with the promises she was whispering into his ear. But then, as her beautiful mouth extended toward his with lips parted, he imagined her face replaced with the ugly snarl of his adoptive father. He imbued that face with the pain of every unwarranted punishment, every mocking insult that had been directed at him and the sister he loved—the sister he had been unable to protect. His heart filled with a bitter guilt, a guilt that filled his entire being, the guilt of self-loathing. He no longer cared what happened to him. As her mouth closed on his, he thrust Vengeance through the heaving breast, burying the blade right to the hilt.
In death, the power of the succubus was broken, and Mark found himself in the embrace of a wizened creature centuries old, the mouth toothless except for the four fangs of needle-sharp canines. As he shook this obscenity off the blade, he felt a piercing pain in his back. He twisted his head around to see the Garg’s wing-talon withdraw, still dripping venom. Immediately he felt the poison enter his flesh and begin to spread. He wheeled through half a circle with Vengeance extended, severing the gargoyle head from the creature’s shoulders, a good two feet higher than his own. But in that same moment he heard the scratchy patter of more talons on stone as other Gargs descended the stairs into the cellar.
The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers) Page 45
