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by A. A. Attanasio

  Twelve riders more fly past the archers. Merlinus'

  heart, already swollen huge with hunger for air, very nearly bursts at the sight of them—terrifying, leather-hooded soldiers with wolves' muzzles—the Y Mamau, conjure-

  warriors indifferent to death!

  Five fall to the maniacal attack of the desperate

  fiana, and the remaining seven advance and trample the fallen bower.

  Merlinus gasps, trying to muster his wind to form a

  barbarous cry and manages only a squeak as the horses hurtle past. Sid fighters pursue in the turbulent wake of the chargers, their translucent bodies blistered and tattered by Ethiops's poisonous lariats.

  Prince Bright Night scrambles among them, his pale

  flesh torn and fluttering like leper's rags in his frantic effort to reach the fallen queen. The pale people, all their magic sucked from them by Ethiops's attack, have no strength to stop the mounted wolf-soldiers. The elf-folk shred apart like so much mist among the violently churning stampede.

  Swords flash and fiana fall under plumes of blood.

  Then Merlinus gapes at two wolf-soldiers, who swoop

  down and seize the unconscious Ygrane. Uther shouts and falls back senseless where he lies. One of the raiders raises a javelin to pierce the king and an arrow transfixes him through his throat.

  In a blur, the six surviving invaders fly off, the queen draped across one of the horses like a dead hart.

  For a spelled second, no one moves. The Y Mamau

  have employed no magic until this crucial moment, and all who remain on the field are surprised by the abrupt

  paralysis cast over them.

  In the anguished interval that the stunned and angry

  fiana struggle to shrug off the conjure-warriors' spell and run for their steeds, the kidnappers have already flung themselves into the forest and are gone.

  Choking, Uther thrashes and sits upright with a

  horrified expression.

  Amazed shouts sound from across the havoc of the

  wedding site. Most of the villagers have already fled, scurrying back to the city gate, and only soldiers and priests remain.

  Shocked onlookers still on their feet fall to their

  knees. The bishop, a war veteran and doughty soldier of Christ, rises from where he has been administering last rites to a fallen archer, seizes the cross-staff from a stunned cleric, and brusquely shoves through the

  astonished party guests.

  Anxious to protect the king from sorcery, Riochatus

  descends upon the sorcerer, thinking that somehow

  Merlinus has caused the whole disaster. In defense,

  Merlinus blocks the blow of the cross-staff with his Stave of the Storm Tree—and for a shocking moment, the bishop

  partakes of the wizard's sight and can see the spiritous

  pale people, transparent in the afternoon's late light.

  Cankered with wounds, the elfen troop limps past on

  their way back to the brambles and the hollow hills. Prince Bright Night himself is there, embroidered with gruesome lacerations. He has spun about to protect Merlinus, and now his cut face looms close to the bishop's.

  "Devils abounding!" the churchman bawls. He falls back in a crimson flap of robes. "Merlinus, damn you! The gates of hell asunder!"

  The wizard orders the clerics to lead their bishop

  away, enfeebled and sputtering as he is, and Merlinus nods his quick thanks to the elf prince before turning to his king. The archers have helped him to his feet. He puts an arm out for Merlinus. "Who are they? Who took Ygrane?"

  "Y Mamau," Merlinus tells him. "Morgeu's men."

  "Not men, they are," Falon says grimly, crouching over one of the fallen enemy. He has peeled off the grisly leather mask and reveals a freckled woman's face. "The Y

  Mamau—they are priestesses of Morrigan. Conjure-

  warriors, eager to die in battle. The people fear them. Only we fiana dare stand against them."

  "Where have they taken Ygrane?"

  "I fear—to Morrigan," Falon answers, grief-struck.

  "As sacrifice." He reels away to find his steed.

  Uther stands pale and stiff with anger. "Horses!" he calls. "My horse!"

  "Lord—" Merlinus holds the king's furious gaze. "We cannot ride against the Y Mamau alone."

  "The fiana will fight for their queen," Uther says, stepping past the wizard, toward the city wall. "With them, we shall track these Y Mamau." His scowl sweeps over the havoc of spilled tables and toppled tents. "What a fool I am!

  We should have been married in the mansio, inside the city walls. Look how many have perished!"

  "The Y Mamau have magic, lord," Merlinus says fiercely, winding among the fallen bodies. "We dare not go after them. Soon, it will be night."

  " You have magic!" he yells, stopping to confront the wizard. "We are going after these witches."

  "Yes, of course. I realize Ygrane's peril. But do you truly not you see? We need more. What powers I have are insufficient." Merlinus stops the king's protest with a hand on his shoulder. "You saw the demon. There are others, Uther. I cannot fight them alone. We need help."

  "Aye, we all saw the demon!" someone angrily shouts from the confused crowd. Merlinus looks toward the cry, at the figure of the bishop shrugging off his

  companions and striding toward the king. "That was Satan himself! Is there any doubt of it? God has cursed your

  marriage to this heathen queen—"

  Uther spins on him angrily. "Shut up! You know

  nothing."

  "I know what I saw," the gaunt man rails. "A sign from God that your marriage is unholy—damned in God's eyes!"

  Dun Mane, white Druidical robes torn and streaked

  with mud, rises woefully from where he comforts a dying Celt. "Guard your tongue, Riochatus. This is Cymru, and you will not besmirch our queen with your ignorance!"

  Uther clamps his jaw to keep from hollering and

  appeals to his wizard with an anguished look. "Merlinus—"

  With staff raised to guide Dun Mane's advance,

  Merlinus sends the Druid to fend the bishop, and he draws the king aside. "There are terrible powers arrayed against us," he warns. "We need help."

  "Seek not the Devil's aid . . ." the bishop begins.

  Dun Mane cuts him off and speaks up loudly.

  "Myrddin is right, Lord Uther. We dare not track the Y

  Mamau by night."

  "I will not sit idly by!" Uther protests.

  "No," Merlinus agrees heartily. "But first, we must seek aid from Ygrane's allies—from the Daoine Sid."

  Falon and his surviving fiana, who have come running with their horses, understand what the wizard means, and they mutter among themselves and look

  intimidated. The archers and the king frown,

  uncomprehending.

  "Sid warriors have already died here today to defend the queen," Merlinus says, and he points his staff west, to the red doorways of the forest. "Those that survived are returning now to the hollow hills and their king. We must follow them and petition their king for help."

  "Will they... Can they help us?" Uther asks the fiana.

  The Celtic warriors hesitate, afraid to speak aloud of the pale people, then nod sheepishly. Falon alone speaks:

  "They are older than Morrigan herself, and their magic is greater."

  "Then let's go!" Uther runs for his horse, and Dun Mane hurries after and takes his arm, stopping him. "Lord Uther, none who has gone into the hollow hills has ever come out the same. The pale people make madmen of

  mortals."

  "You are trespassing Hell!" the bishop cries.

  "Then stay if you like," the king says, budging past him. "I'm going alone if need be. And I will not return—sane or mad—without Ygrane."

  Dun Mane stands aside to let him go. He has made

  this queen; he will make others. Falon sneers at him in

  disgust b
efore following Uther, who already sprints toward the horses being led from the city gates. The archers hurry after their king, and the fiana exchange nervous looks and follow their commander begrudgingly.

  With an effort, Merlinus joins them. The terrible sight of the demons has damaged his confidence. Yes, God

  Herself wants him to burn brightly before the coming dark age, yet even She cannot stop that thousand-year-long night from descending. Who is to say that Lailoken can succeed at all, even in so small a task as polishing a single destiny lustrous enough to reflect Her radiance?

  At the depth of his despair, as he picks his way

  across a field littered with collapsed tents and the remains of the feast scattered in the panicked flight of the villagers, he spots the unicorn. It is a fog shadow in the forest. Just a glimpse of it is enough to embolden him.

  The king scowls impatiently at the wizard from atop

  his mount. "Which way, Merlinus?"

  "Into the west, lord," Merlinus replies surely, sliding his staff into the saddle straps, preparing for a long journey. "Into the twilight between the worlds."

  *

  Merlinus sights the wispy figures of Prince Bright

  Night and his soldiers against the swollen disk of the setting sun. He leads the king and his small troop

  southwest beyond the parkland and onto a vague, half-

  hidden trail in a woods too green for the season. Leaf litter and autumnal pods muffle the trod of the horses, even though the boughs still hang thick with summer foliage.

  Ahead, through crowded trees and brush, incandescent

  embers of the west cast the world in a curious light, both molten and translucent.

  They ride for hours, and the twilight's procession

  never darkens wholly to night. Whenever Merlinus hurries ahead to consult with the elf-folk, the elves retreat further into dusky Apocalypse.

  The trees eventually thin away, and they find

  themselves reduced to shadow specks against the gigantic flame-woven wall of the sun. Anxiously, they advance into a slurry of lurid fire and chimerical blearings

  The elvish scouts vanish, and in their place, a lone

  tree materializes on the ambiguous horizon. Leafless, the complication of its stark branches etches like webwork against the immense sun. It stands wholly in the void with flaring roots a reflection of its bare and numerous

  branches.

  The riders draw closer, and, as if in a dream, they

  watch the tree's heraldic shape widen, diffuse, and waver into serried columns of fire. Gradually, a conflagration surrounds them. Stately sheets of torrid plasma grained with thermal veins and hues arc in buttresses overhead.

  Flames mesh to igneous domes and cupolas.

  Blazing beneath the horsemen, marblings of fire

  seethe like living carnelian and agate in groutless

  floorplates. Feverishly and without heat, a royal hall looms, replete with a colonnade of tiered balconies. Arched

  windows open upon the silver reaping hook of a new moon and splashes of stars.

  A jagged luminosity appears in the distance. A

  throne of sunlight, with webbed claws for posts and a back rayed with sharp solar spikes. It sits at the far end of the dazzling arcade. There, the tattered troop of elf-soldiers that the riders have followed kneels before a human shape of such potent splendor it could rival the angels' star fire.

  Slowly, warily, the horsemen dismount and

  approach on foot. Out of the vivid starcore blindness, a regal presence forms. A nebular iridescence shapes itself to a towering, boar-shouldered man with a human

  reindeer's face and bony knobs of horns.

  The fiana kneel, and the others follow. "Your Majesty—" Merlinus greets.

  "Whenever has a demon genuflected to any god?"

  the animal king brays. "Lailoken, you are a devil, and you'll not deceive this old god. On your feet. I might as well bow to you. And here in my own palace, too!"

  "Majesty, I am now but a man—"

  "Haw! You want me to believe a demon can be

  made a man?" He howls laughter that rings in polished echoes from the palace's high recesses. "No magic can unmake a demon, Lailoken. Look at you hiding in a human pelt! I am not fooled."

  "God has given me a mortal form to do Her work

  among mortals," Merlinus says feebly.

  A trollish grin shows human teeth in a bestial face,

  and the elk-king peers merrily down at the wizard. "Oh, is it God we'll be appealing to now?" He bends closer and beckons Merlinus to rise. "God may well have blighted you with a human hide, Lailoken, but we'll have no help from God in saving Ygrane from the witches."

  Merlinus stands and finds himself eye level with the

  elk-king's mantle-clasp. He meets his own face reflected in its polished roundness—yet not his human face. The

  flanged jaws, adder grin, and hooded quartz eyes of his former demonic visage stare back.

  The wizard startles and glances down, expecting to

  see again the sleek shark's belly and muscular, frill-

  seamed legs of his old demon shape. Somehow he appears entirely mortal to his own eyes and to those

  around him.

  "King Someone Knows the Truth," Merlinus appeals once again to the grinning reindeer face, "I beg of you—

  help us save Ygrane from the Y Mamau."

  "The question, Lailoken, has long been—would you help us, the Daoine Sid, against our enemies, the Furor and his north gods?" The elk-king glares imperiously. "Not long ago, you were an ally of all that hates life. Now you serve the Nameless God and come into my presence with a worshiper of the nailed god. You are a demon, Lailoken."

  "Demon he may once have been," King Uther

  speaks up, voice cracking with trepidation as he stands before the bestial height and breadth of the ancient god.

  "But he serves me. It is I, Uther Pendragon, who have ordered these men here before you." His mouth trembles, and he flushes to the brink of tears before this supernatural being. "I stand here for them—and for my God, who is no nailed god, but the love of the Almighty for His creation—

  you included."

  The elk-king's grin pulls into a menacing snarl. "You are an insolent man, Uther Pendragon."

  "Your Majesty." Uther shifts tone and bows his head. "God has clearly made you a greater being than I. I am only a mortal man." He touches the small jade crucifix about his throat, lifts his gaze to the elk-king's bestial stare, and speaks more steadily. "I have not the demon power of my counselor. However, God has seen fit to make me king of the Britons. Today, I married Ygrane, whom God has made queen of the Celts. Together we have joined to save this island from invaders. Your own warriors perished to save her—and me."

  The Celtic god nods acknowledgment to where

  Prince Bright Night and his wounded soldiers kneel. He watches Uther with mischievously slanted eyes, intently observant, as if seeing something new.

  "If I seem too forward, Your Majesty," Uther continues, his voice stronger, "that is only because I am afraid for Ygrane and for our people—and I wish for you to deal directly with me. Can you help me retrieve my wife?"

  " Deal with you?" The elk-king's sneer lifts to a cunning smile. "I will deal most directly with you, King Uther—if you've the stomach for it."

  Falon passes Merlinus an alarmed glance, and the

  wizard prepares to throw himself between the elk-king and Uther.

  "Come with me, Uther," the elk-king beckons. "You, as well, Lailoken. The rest of you, remain here." He strides

  toward the sweeping staircase of woven flames.

  With large eyes, Uther notices beneath the elk-

  monarch's emerald mantle, a pair of furry legs and cloven hooves.

  Merlinus reads his gaze and wishes that he had

  warned his king earlier that appearances among the gods, demons, and angels are always only apparitions,

 
; shapeshifting energies that can pattern themselves as they please.

  The elk-king begins to speak again: "What I am

  showing you, king of the Britons, few mortals see."

  Graceful as a wraith, he ascends the stairs, and the two men labor to keep up. Far below, the throne room

  diminishes as if behind rusty canyon walls.

  With each step on the winding stairway, god, wizard

  and king appear to glide long distances higher above the fiery contours and blazing promontories of the hall. Soon, the miniscule flecks that are their companions dwindle wholly from view in the adamantine deep.

  At the summit, they reach a mesa under the naked

  night, where stars gleam hugely blue and in unfamiliar patterns. The giant crescent moon displays all its alabaster flaws and rows of dead volcanoes on its silver limb.

  A wondrous otherland unrolls before them beneath

  this lunar night. Celestial lights cast a glittery shine over the hammered face of the plateau and sparkle on an oasis of willow groves and mossy swales.

  "Where are we?" Uther asks in a wispy voice.

  The elk-king casts a churlish grin over his bison

  shoulder. "This is the Land of the Dead, King Uther—and the unborn, too.

  Quickly, they advance through a rocky draw of

  boulders contoured like wind-shaped skulls. With solemn eyes, Uther reviews the ruinous grounds that sprawl

  ahead: a moon-blanched plain strewn with shards of

  smashed pottery, broken columns, dismembered

  statuary—a luminescent ossuary of some ancient,

  legendary world.

  "And this is the field of broken dreams," the elk-king explains. "Look and you will see modern Roman ruins among the lost dreams of the ancients."

  Wedged between a fractured stone effigy of a

  winged Assyrian king and a dune of polished bones clad in Egyptian armor, the eagle standard of the once-mighty Empire tilts atop a tarnished heap of battered Roman

  helmets.

  "Our cross—Celtic and Christian—will rot here too one day," King Someone Knows the Truth muses. His strong voice wrinkles into echoes among cypress caverns.