Not a soul ran. This interested them.
The Tiger-man stood panting, staring at the crowd of Mac Tier and Mac Sanglair. He raised arms to air, tried again. “Flee!” he shouted.
“Why?” asked someone.
The Tiger-man stamped a foot. “All the horrors of the castle fall upon us!”
The Jackal-head sat by the hearth, nursing bruises. He groaned. “Ah, what of ‘em?” he asked.
The Tiger-man rolled great green eyes, in terror or pique. He looked to the dark doorway as if for prompting. On cue, a blood-chilling scream sounded. Another. Then came a mad laugh. Silence for a bit, then a cough, a low stuttering groan.
The Tiger man nodded. “Do ye hark to that? Monsters! Aberrations! Abominations! An army of ghosts led by Fulgurous himself! Run for the ship!”
At that some did eye the castle exit. But most hesitated. If this demonic army waited to take the stage, the majority desired to first enjoy the sight. As well, there rang a certain falsity to the cat-man’s delivery. The scream, the moan and the mad laugh tolled thin as a tin bell.
He crossed his arms, entirely vexed. His high ears folded back to emphasize annoyance. “They ate poor cousin William’s head clean away,” he declared. “Bit it. Clean off.” His stare defied anyone to deny this horror. Another scream from the doorway.
Most blinked at that. Mattie Horse cursed, hurried past the Tiger-man to seek his brother’s head. But the Tiger considered the room, absent a large looming figure, a mocking voice that should have spoken, seizing attention.
“Where is the Laird?” he demanded. And then sighted the beaten body upon the table. The Tiger-man blinked those green eyes, then turned them upon Howl, who stood beside his father’s unstill form.
“Your work, young Mac Tier?”
“Why this ‘young’?” sighed Howl. “You aren’t a year older than I, Bram, you posturing cat.”
Bram the Tiger shrugged to say ‘that may be’, brushed at his fur. A most feline gesture. He peered at the wounded Laird of the Mac Tier, shook his head. Turned towards me, considered my bloodied person awhile, at last turned towards the dark doorway to the inner halls. He shrugged to the moaning ghosts offstage, unsure what line to next deliver.
Lalena stamped gentle lady-foot. “Where is Billy River, Bram Mac Tier? And answer truthful, else I give you this very night to my roses.”
The Tiger-man bowed head in meekish surrender. “Keeping his word, Lady Mac Sanglair. He fetches young Vixen, with no move to rouse the least of your own.” Grin. “But there was never such restraint put upon me.”
On cue, through the opened door marched some ten Mac Sanglair, kilts red, incisors white. They lacked the individual wonder of the beast men. But more than matched the Moon Tartan in air of quiet violence. Their cousins in animal form stood as children in costume.
“You betray your own, Bram Mac Tier,” declared the Jackal-head. Some of the Moon Tartan growled agreement. They shifted together, taking position to match the Sanglair.
The Tiger-man threw back his head, laughing. A victory, by family standards. He’d seized attention, angered and frighted all he loved. Behind him, more entered the hall. Ah, the sea-folk. These did not disdain spear and sword, knife and club. I wondered how well they fought on land. Then I wondered how well I fought beneath waves.
I had a vision of fencing beneath the sea. Blood would twist red ribbons through green water. Hmm, but saber or rapier would move far too slow. Even a foil would be hindered. Point of blade then, or short-knife…
Thus sea-dreaming, I did not mark the Laird of the Mac Tier rise up, draw dagger from belt. Nor did the rest, their attention focused upon the newcomers. Not even Howl, who stood close where his father lay. Only the seal-girl sharing the table marked the resurrection. Ha; she hadn’t been a bit asleep, not through invasion, declamation and wolf-ride. Canny creatures, your mermaids. She leaped now upon Mac Tier’s arm, gnawing with teeth. He growled, tossed her high and hard with a scream to the stones.
Howl turned, face reshaping to muzzle of wolf-fangs. A long second Father and son stared, each to each, a stare in which they exchanged all they had to say of love and hate, courage and fear, madness and humanity. Then Howl lunged forward and bit through his father’s throat.
The silence of old stones and held breath filled the hall of Gathering.
Then, “Did I not say?” whispered Vixen from the balcony above, into the silence below. “The love of death has come to the Mac Tier.”
Chapter 14
Of Keys in Storms
“Honeymoon,” I whispered into Lalena’s ear. “Bed.” I traveled a finger across her temple, down the white, white path of her neck.
She closed eyes, shivered and whispered low “go away.” The rest of the conference table grinned, frowned, or glanced away as prurience or politeness so moved their souls. I tried again, tracing the curve of my bride’s ear with a whisper of breath. “Bed,” I muttered. “Us.”
Again that shiver, again that denial of desire. “Rayne Gray, can you not leave a body in peace?”
I leaned back in my chair. Fine. I didn’t want to go to bed anyway. I considered my wife with cold eyes, recalling how only days past she’d been a mad thing for coupling. She’d craved my touch. Also my blood, somewhat. Though no serious attempts to drink it since the wedding night. A few nips, no more. But now? Ha. I might lay myself beside her naked, a scratch across my jugular perfuming the bedroom with salt red seduction. And she’d lie a’back to pillows, peering at bills of lading, letters of credit, muttering of excise taxes. Else turn to me and ask my opinion of some lunatic tribe of relatives I had no knowledge of, no interest in.
“Let us say it clear,” declared the Laird of the Mac Mur. The sea-people, if you grow lost among the names. And really, why not just designate each tribe by their medium of life and love? The Beast-clan, the Sea-clan, the Blood-clan, and all the other mad collections. Scales and Harlequins and Clockmakers. I wondered about that last. But names are only of use when designating peoples with no more separation among the globe’s crowds than a label. For the family, such need counted naught.
“Let us say it clear,” declared the Laird of the Sea-people. “Shall Ranulf Howl Mac Tier take his father’s place as Laird? The Moon Tartan are become a danger to themselves, and to all the family. They must have a leader. Someone of strength who can repair the evils done by the former laird.”
“You would see the son who slew the father, become chief of the Mac Tier?” asked Lalena. “How shall that stay any thirst for violence?”
The Sea-clan Chieftain sighed. “Hardly the first laird to do so. And what young Howl did deserves no shaming. The Old Wolf came here bent on murder.”
“You speak ill of the dead,” interrupted the Jackal-Head. “You insult those who saw in him exactly the strength you say now is needed. You speak of madness. But the curse of kin-strife and death-love is rife through all the clans. And all the races of mankind besides. We Mac Tier do but make ourselves strong, that we might oppose the madness within and without.”
“You came with a prison-hold of common-blooded crofters,” spat Billy River. “You treated the creatures like cattle, and sought to buy our favor with their blood.”
“You are Sanglair!” shouted the Jackal-Head. “Children of the cold brides. You drink life. If you now declare yourselves tea-totaling milk-sops, you canna complain we served what once you favored for feasting.”
That went too far. Lalena stood from her chair at table’s head. She did so in slow and measured move, as if drawing sword before the sound to charge.
“Take great care, Jacque Mac Tier. If you say our clan ever treated commoners as kine, or drove folk from their homes, or took innocent folk as food –“
Some of the Sanglair turned gazes casually aside -
“ then you insult the Mac Sanglair before their faces.”
“Before their teeth,” offered Mattie Horse.
“Or between?” suggested Billy River.
Jacque Mac Tier
retreated not. “See, milady? Your folk threaten. To bite, to slay. I do but note, yours is a more feared and warlike clan than mine. Ever ready to throat-bite upon slight or dispute. Yet you speak as though the Mac Tier were pox-infected with a special love of violence.”
Silence followed. The man had guided the exchange to make the point he wished. This Jacque was wily. I wondered whether one must learn to be subtle, when the vagaries of magic and nature gave one a face symbolizing scavenger and hypocrite. Again I reminded myself. These were family, playing parts; and always more than the sum of the parts.
I suddenly felt dull. Common clay, good for waving sharp metal about. Useful for family quarrels, the occasional wolf-ride. I needed a louder touch of magic than mere Seraph spadassin. Would I could learn the art of turning to beast. If only Howl’s change-fire could burn my common blood. Who to say not?
The thought pleased. I’d been bitten. It ached for a burn. Perhaps the magic passed twixt creatures like the froth of mad dogs. In the morning Lalena would wake, turn sleepy eyes to behold beside her a great lazy… lion. Wonderful. She’d shriek… I considered. No, not my wife. She’d smile, and blink, and clasp arms about her clever man. Fascinating possibilities abounded. She’d need be careful I restrained my beastly self from biting her.
How to direct oneself towards a lion? I wondered. Surely it followed the rules of disguise. More than mere costuming. One might wear the skin of a lion, and yet be an ass. No, the Mac Tier must throw mind and heart into the part, as stage-board stompers become king or god, fool or lady-in-waiting, how-so-ever script demanded. Perhaps I need only think as a lion would.
I knew as much of real lions as real lions knew of me. A mutual ignorance, exchangeable with supposition. Lions were hairy, fierce and fast. And Lordly. I was already fierce and fast. Modestly hairy. How nice to be lordly to complete the triumph. A kingly mane, gracile tail for scepter. I wondered what use one found for tails. Did Vixen or Bellow have them? I had not noticed such before. Probably not then.
The room’s silence caught my ears. I realized all the conference stared at me. I shook daydreams from my head, strove to remember what last words troubled the table. Nothing. Had they even been speaking English? I turned to my wife.
“We discuss Fulgurous,” sighed Lalena. “You saw him. Kin have slain kin in his hall, a thing that he may object to. And the objections of Fulgurous are lightning and dragon-fire. Should we flee?”
“How would an outsider judge?” asked Jacque. He spoke in no disdain, but genuine inquiry. A valid question. What did I know of these people’s mad ghosts and ancient curses? I spread hands to show them empty of answers.
“I saw a statue,” I reminded. “Or your fearsome ancestor sitting to feign stone. A silly thing to do, and entirely within the keeping of your dramatic blood-line.”
My colonial honesty was not received with grace.
“Best not mock Fulgurous, Master Gray,” intoned the Laird of the Sea-clan. “Not when we await his fire to fall upon our heads.”
“If he pretends to be stone in a hall of statues, why then he mocks me,” I pointed out. Mattie Horse voted for my view with a grin. The man suffered no fear of God, Devil nor ancestral lightning. I nodded my leonine head in return.
“And if he objects to that ravening beast of the Mac Tier being given just due, then he mocks again.” I said these words with certain pride. Lordly, even. The table received this lion-like defiance by stirring restless, staring about for dragons.
“Perhaps it were best we continue this discussion entirely between family,” said the Jackal-head. The Laird of the Sea-Folk concurred. So also Lady Vixen. Even Lalena bit her lip, holding back words.
Excellent. I had no place here, but to assure the crofters brought as vampiric gift, were not forgot. Soon as bandaged, I’d gone to the Mac Tier schooner at anchor. With Chatterton and Billy River, Howl and Vixen. We informed the crew that the Mac Tier were no longer a pack of beasts, but a tribe of men again. Quick men or cold, was the crew’s choice.
Within the hold waited some two dozen men, women and children. Frightened, weary, despairing. Much coaxing required before they dared climb up into light. Ah, but they trusted Lady Vixen. That told me much, for all the sluttish grins she favored for a mask. She saw them to quarters in the valley beyond the castle. Promising most solemn, they would neither be eaten nor shipped across ocean. The very crimes against the commons I’d set myself to fight before wandering north, before wandering away…
I felt the old fury squeeze my heart again. At what I raged, I pretended not to know, no mirror being at hand. Instead I gazed about at these strange creatures, players of parts. What solace there is to have family and tribe. Whether loved or hated, you are watched and answered. You bear meaning to other hearts, share in the stage-play of their lives. But common folk held no lines in the world’s script. Mere bodies for a battle-scene, parts for a mill-machine.
I could sit no longer. I had no place at these interminable conferences. I stood, nodded to all. “It is for you to settle your clan-quarrels. Great grand-fathers’ intentions have naught to do with me.”
Complete silence, and faces of shock. At what did everyone gaze? At me, clearly. Why not? I spoke. But now came an air of attention not granted before. A touch of awe I’d missed. At last they realized I was the famous Seraph. Before linking with Lalena, I had been used to stares of admiration. I considered making a bow. Alas, it was not the Seraph’s person they admired, but his belt.
I considered my belt. The sight returned me to the Channel, years past. We were fresh soldiers on a troop ship running from storm, hoping to get safe to war. Two masts, and the tips of both wrapped in blue flame. Sailors prayed, soldiers cursed; much the same words. The ring of iron keys jangling at my belt now burned that same ungentle blue, twined in pale storm-fire.
“As I said,” I continued. “Naught to do with me. I leave you lot to it.” And I departed the family conference.
Chapter 15
Night Reflections
Lalena and I sit at table after a long night of love. I wear uniform of war, clean and pressed. She seeks to make me smile with country-wife costume. I do smile, thinking it plain by itself. But upon her it becomes a master-work of joy and desire. We sit in morning sunlight shining upon us for the smile of God.
I sip tea, she sips tea. Far from the dark of the mad castle, its whisper of curse and mystery. How much better to be here in sun and country air. Through the farm-house window I watch a girl play. Flower, I think happily. She seems younger. Why should she not. The folk are who they want to be. So also, the dog Lucy who barks happily, catching the blue ball, white-starred.
All is sunlight and peace, a gentle contentment after long strife. We have come through war and storm to this bright morning. I sip tea, Lalena sips tea. The farmhouse is familiar. I have been here before. The memory is a shadow I can’t quite touch.
Then a step at the doorway sends a chill through my heart. I know who I will turn and see. Too late I remember. This farmhouse, this kitchen, this dream is no place to be. Not with Lalena, not Flower, not the dog Lucy. I turn to the door and there stands the Striker. Huge bear of a man, yet moving with the grace of a dancer. Scarred and courtly, he nods for a solemn visitor on business he regrets.
“Get out!” I shout to Lalena. “Run!”
She sips her tea, puzzled, staring between the Striker and her mate. She smiles, means to greet this new version of myself. But he lunges, puts war-saber through her heart..
I scream, stand, catch her as she chokes on blood not for drink. Her eyes blink, unsure why she beholds the world fade. The red lips struggle to grant last words. I lay her down and draw sword, facing the Striker. I lunge, he parries, ripostes impossibly fast. Doubt overcomes me, facing myself.
The man stands so assured, so at ease. He’s a master craftsman considering a minor challenge, tip of tongue stuck to side. I feint a thrust and he expects it, being me. Slashes towards my face, causing my retreat. I slip on Lalena’
s blood and he is upon me corps a corps, hand at my throat. I struggle. This man is monstrous, a thinking wall. Holding me with one hand, he takes knife and slashes my forehead. Then tosses me across the kitchen. He turns, leaves.
I struggle to rise, put hand to forehead. The wound prints in blood on my hand, and I stare at the letter ‘C’ a striker carves upon those who abandon their duty.
* * *
“That was quite awful,” observed Lalena. She sat up in bed, feeling her chest where dream-thrust slew.
I rose, hand still at my forehead, covering shame. I stumbled to the mirror. In the faint dawn light I saw the red C upon my forehead. I touched finger to it. No blood. More like a flush of fever, drawing the letter.
I stared at the man before me. “Coward?” I asked. Not a label I take from many. Well, from none, actually. God’s sake yesterday I rode a giant wolf. And yet… A striker sends a man to face his duty. Else face a mirror showing this red letter ‘C’.
Lalena appeared in the mirror, naked as I. She wrapped an arm about me, not in pity but companionship. “You’ll be going south then.”
I gaped at her reflection. “How can you know so much?”
She laughed, low and sad. “Ah, man. I sleep in your bed, in your arms, breathing your breath, taking you within me. Walking in your dreams as you in mine, as you in me. You suppose I don’t know you want to go fight your bankers?”
I denied it, idiot that I am. “I don’t. I want to stay with my mad bride and ravening in-laws in our haunted castle. Who would not?” Her mirrored head tilted, expressing disbelief. My reflection tried again. “I would stay with my soft warm wife in our soft warm bed.” I stretched out a hand, watched its reflection trace her arm’s reflection. Her mirrored self sighed, in time to mine. Well, she knew better. I surrendered.
“But I have a duty,” I admitted. There. It was said. Finally. It was release great as the click of key to my former shackles. “Those crofters. They expected to be eaten. They are fortunate they were not. The poor are food nowadays. Devoured by nobles and banks and mills and work-houses...”
The Moon Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans Page 11
