by Sarah Rayne
The cell door was flung open and the grinning figure of the hunchback stood in the opening, with eight guards behind him.
The prisoners stood up, and Cormac said, “Is it time? Are we to meet your master, serf?” and the hunchback grinned and cracked his whip.
“You are,” he said. “Upstairs with you all. And quickly, my Master does not like to be kept waiting. And tonight he has a guest.” He loped across to where Joanna was standing, and looked her up and down. “Nice,” he said approvingly. “My Master will enjoy you, my dear.” He chuckled with a low bubbling sound. “I shall enjoy you as well,” he said, “for my Master allows me his victims when he has done with them.” His face swam nearer, pock-marked and swart.
“Something for you to look forward to when you are strapped down to the Table,” he said, and reached out his hand.
At once Cormac slammed him against the cell wall, his hands reaching for the hunchback’s throat, and for a moment Joanna truly thought he would tear the hunchback’s throat out while the guards stood helpless. But the guards suddenly moved as if pulled by a string; they dragged Cormac away, and the hunchback, fingering his throat, spat venomously, “Chain the wolf. He’s dangerous.”
Cormac backed into a corner of the cell, snarling and lashing out, and Joanna caught a glimpse of his face, and thought: he is all wolf. There is no human blood in him at all at this moment. And then caught the tail-end of a thought: all part of the plan, Human Child. If I can make them think me more dangerous than they had believed, they will keep their attention on me all the more. And all the more chance for the rest of you to get back the Nightcloak …
The guards advanced cautiously, trying to surround him, and Cormac’s eyes gleamed red. He bounded across the cell and leapt on the nearest guard, his face a wolf’s mask of bloodlust and ferocity. The guard went down, and Cormac fastened his teeth into the man’s throat, tearing and clawing.
Gormgall, who was being held by two men shouted, “Sire! No! There are too many of them!” and as he spoke, the guard gave a choking retching sound, and blood spurted out on to the cell floor. The guard sagged and his head fell back, eyes glazing. Cormac snarled again and stood back, and turned to deal with the others.
The hunchback was hopping up and down in blind rage, the leather-tipped whip cracking out across the tiny cell. “Seize him! Chain him!” he screamed. “Or are you a pack of spineless cowards that my Master keeps to serve him! Seize the wolf!” The whip snaked out, laying open one of the guards’ faces, and the man flinched.
The guards had recovered themselves now; they drew their swords and advanced, and for a moment there was confusion and struggling and the sound of blows.
Cormac fought with every ounce of energy. He clawed and bit and growled and Joanna and the others, unable to move for their captors’ firm hands and the hunchback’s whip, held their breath. But as Gormgall had known, there were too many of them — the chains clanked coldly on the stone floor, and Cormac was fastened, his hands behind his back, his feet shackled, the blood of his victim still spattering his shirt.
To Joanna it was dreadful to see him like this — chained and defeated — but Gormgall’s hand closed on hers, and she saw in the dim light, the glint that still showed in Cormac’s eyes, and she felt a tremendous uplifting of courage. We are fighting to the last ditch. We have a plan to defeat the adversary. And you are not counted dead until all is done.
They left the guard lying in his blood, and were half pushed, half dragged out into the low-ceilinged rock passage.
“Watch the wolf,” said the captain, “or he’ll have your throat and your lungs all over the floor.”
“Nothing new for this place,” said another, but the prisoners noticed he’d said it quietly.
As they were taken out, Gormgall said to the captain, “You have seen that one of our party is dead?”
“Yes.” The captain glanced round, and then said softly, “Merciful. You understand my meaning, friend?”
“Yes,” said Gormgall.
“Nothing to be done,” said the captain, and then, in a louder voice, “Go along with you. Don’t tarry. The Gentleman does not care to be kept waiting. Keep the wolf ahead. No tricks.”
They filed out, with Cormac held firmly, and the hunchback leading, carrying the lantern aloft. Muldooney was at the rear. In fact, he was beginning to feel just the smallest bit excited about what lay ahead. Gormgall had spoken truly when he had said softly that Muldooney was in the grip of a confidence born of ignorance, for Brian Muldooney, stolid solid pig-farmer of little or no imagination, could not begin to comprehend the smallest part of what lay ahead. He thought, if he thought about it at all, that they were being held captive by some minor tyrant, and he had long since settled with himself that they would all be allowed to go free, because anything else was unthinkable. Muldooney’s world did not allow for evil, and it certainly did not allow for sorcery. He thought they would all very likely be free before the night was over, and wouldn’t there be a grand tale to be told then! He had a major part to play in it all, and he was going to play it very well. Ah, they should see that Muldooney was not so no-account as they all seemed to think! On this cheering note, he loped off along the corridor in the opposite direction to the others, and assumed the idiot-stare he had practised in the cell, rolling his eyes and emitting a few grunts.
The guard caught him at once. “Ho!” said the captain. “Another escapee! Into line with you now!”
“He’s the witless one,” said one of the others. “A bit wanting up here,” and tapped his head significantly.
“Is he now? Well, see he stays with the rest.” He eyed Muldooney who grinned vacantly and blubbered his lips. “At least he doesn’t understand what’s ahead of him,” said the captain, unknowingly hitting the truth square on.
“The wolf knows,” said the other guard. “Keep your eye on it.”
The guards kept a very careful eye on all of the prisoners as they conveyed them through the narrow passages. It would not do to let a single one of the Gentleman’s prisoners escape. They all of them had wives and children down in the village. They escorted the five prisoners through the Citadel and up to the stone Banqueting Hall of the Erl-King.
*
The great iron doors of the Banqueting Hall clanged to, shutting them in, and for a moment, pure and undiluted panic threatened to overwhelm Joanna. She felt her senses swim and her vision blur, and she tried very hard not to faint. She must be alert to regain her cloak. It was their only chance. Gormgall and Dubhgall came to stand on each side of her, and Joanna was grateful for their presence. Cormac was nearby, half sitting, half kneeling on the floor, his eyes like burning coals, his hands curved dangerously. The guards were standing very close to him, but Joanna could see that he was so heavily chained that he could not break free. It was up to her. Muldooney had gone wandering off, uncaring or unnoticing of the guards, swinging his arms in vaguely simian fashion, mumbling to himself, his eyes vacant. Occasionally, he pulled at his lower lip; and when the doors were bolted and barred behind them, he seemed not to hear, but stood lost in contemplation of an apparently blank spot on the stone floor. Joanna felt a rush of gratitude, because truly, had any of them suspected that Muldooney would be able to put up such a grand show? She glanced at the guards, and saw them look at Muldooney with a kind of shrugging tolerance.
And then at last she looked about her, and her confidence ebbed away completely, and a cold and deadly fear took possession of her.
The stone Banqueting Hall and the Stone Table of the Erl-King had been written about and sung about down the ages. It had formed the base for every dark legend and every malevolent fable ever recounted, and it had figured for centuries in Ireland’s folklore as the ultimate place of fear and despair and pain, and the strongest evil ever known.
Cormac, seeing it with an unwished-for clarity, knew at once that the legends had not lied, and that the songs and the tales had told the truth. This was the place of fear and pain and desp
air; if he closed his eyes, he could feel the immense suffocating weight of all the suffering that had taken place here.
The two Cruithin, nearly as sensitive to atmosphere as their King, felt it as well, and both of them turned pale. Close by, Joanna, child of that brave new world where places such as this had no meaning and, indeed, no name any longer, knew a terrible sense of recognition. So this is the place of the nightmares, and this is the place that we all, in our innermost souls, fear.
Only Muldooney, blessed with that lack of imagination which had been carefully bred in the survivors of Devastation, saw and felt nothing especially sinister, other than that the candles up here smelt rancid and that it was rather dark and narrow. But Muldooney was by now well caught up in the task allotted to him, and he was by this time only concerned with telling the tale of an idiot, full of sound and vacuity, signifying nothing but a profound witlessness. Muldooney it would be who would save the day! He lumbered back over to the corner, and bent over to study the blank spot on the floor with intense concentration.
The Banqueting Hall was not as large as Joanna had expected; it was a rather narrow chamber with small windows set very high up, which admitted little light. The walls were rough and scarred and they gave the Hall the stifling appearance of a massive coffin. Here and there, crimson hangings brushed the stonework, and the floor was bare.
At the far side, stood two waist-high, oblong tables, hollowed out in the middle, and fitted with thick strong leather straps. Culverts ran down each side and out to a central drainage outlet.
For the golden goblets will be filled to overflowing tonight …
At the head of the room, directly facing them, was the Stone Table, set with highly polished cutlery and with plates and chalices … Golden goblets and silver platters … Before the Table was a small brazier with a glowing fire burning, giving off a pungent unfamiliar scent.
All the better to flavour you with, my dear …
Behind the Stone Table was a flight of stairs, framed by crimson curtains that half concealed a shadowy archway. A miasma of darkness seemed to hang in the archway, like heavy black smoke, and then, as they looked, they saw the figure that stood on the steps, as still as if it was carved from stone.
The Erl-King.
Joanna, who was nearest, felt horror flood her body, because the candles were very bright just there. She could see him quite clearly, and she could not believe that her eyes were not playing some malevolent trick on her, because she had thought that the Erl-King would at least have the semblance of a human, she had thought he would be in some way a man, but he was not, he was not …
He was not human in the least, he was the most dreadful being she had ever seen.
He was an insect, a monster with a man’s narrow-waisted body, and huge black fly’s head.
The moment lengthened and Joanna shook her head, but the figure on the steps did not change.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Erl-King wore black, some kind of soft material that might have been velvet, and that was moulded to fit him tightly. His body was frail-looking — no spine! thought Joanna, and shuddered — and his arms were thin with pale clawlike hands. He wore a great ruby ring on one finger. Even so, thought Joanna, even so, they are human hands and they are human arms, and therefore he must have human blood in him somewhere.
But his head was not human at all. It was disproportionately large for his body, and it was the head of a fly, bloated, magnified, swollen to a hundred, a thousand times the size of any ordinary fly. There were the enormous, slightly protruding, shiny black eyes taking up most of the face; there was the pointed black mandible, the fly’s jaw. An insect, thought Joanna, repelled. Oh dear god, a crawling, spiny-skulled insect. An insect that walks upright and eats men. This is far worse than anything I had imagined.
The Erl-King stood watching them for what seemed to be a very long time, the terrible head turned sideways a little, so that the unblinking eyes could survey them better.
All the better to see you, my dear …
All about them, the Citadel seemed suspended in a waiting silence, and the weight of all the years and pain and helpless torment that the chamber had witnessed, seemed to descend about them.
Morrigan sat at the head of the Stone Table, her eyes as unblinking as those of the creature on the steps, and Joanna saw with a rush of gratitude that the Nightcloak was flung over the back of Morrigan’s chair. She thought: oh thank you! Thank you! My father’s death is justified this far at any rate.
They stood helpless as the Erl-King continued to inspect them, Cormac still half sitting on the floor, a wolf crouched and ready to spring; Muldooney standing a little apart, twisting at his lower lip and making bubble-blowing sounds, every few minutes shambling back to study the same spot on the floor, and bending over to stare at it.
The burning coals in the brazier settled with a little hissing sound, and at last the Erl-King moved, walking down the steps towards them with a jerky uncoordinated gait, as if his body was gristly and ill-designed for walking upright. Joanna wished she had not had that thought about insects having no spine. Morrigan leaned forward, her eyes slitted with anticipation, a beautiful, cruel snake-smile on her lips. Joanna’s courage almost failed. Even if she got the cloak away from Morrigan, how could it possibly be strong enough to defeat these two? They would fail and they would die, and Tara would be in the power of the Erl-King, and Ireland would be forever lost.
The Erl-King said, “You are welcome to my Citadel, Your Majesties,” and the prisoners jumped, for it was not the harsh ugly voice they had all expected, but a soft caressing voice; a gentle velvet voice, belonging to a creature who understands about poetry and music, and enjoys good wine, and talks with scholars and philosophers. Cormac, of them all, knew the name given to the Erl-King by the people of the Walled City, and he understood for the first time why, in his own domain, the Erl-King was called the Gentleman.
“We meet at last, High King,” said the Erl-King, studying Cormac intently. “You have eluded me for a very long time, just as your ancestors did. But I think I am not unknown to you.”
Cormac snarled and tried to spring forward, but the chains held fast. The hunchback and two of the guards moved at once, alert to a possible attack, but the Erl-King waved them back and went on studying Cormac.
“That was unwise and useless, High King. You must know I am protected.”
“With the Girdle of Gold,” said Cormac. “My family’s gift from the sorcerers. I did not know that stolen enchantments were so potent.”
“It was not stolen,” said the Erl-King, quite calmly and seriously, as if they were discussing a minor matter. “I bought it from the sorcerers. A price was named and paid.” He regarded Cormac unblinkingly. “Did you really believe your sorcerers to be incorruptible, Cormac,” said the Erl-King. “Then you are trusting indeed. You are certainly unfitted to be High King. Enchantments are available to all, Cormac. The Solemn Oath is worthless.” Unbelievably, the fly’s jaw stretched in an approximation of a smile. “I expended many years in obtaining the Girdle of Gold,” said the Erl-King softly. “And you will never get it back.”
“We shall see. The battle is not yet won.”
The Erl-King smiled again as if he found Cormac’s threats amusing. He passed on to Gormgall and Dubhgall. “Servants,” he said dismissively. “But they will serve for an hour’s pleasure. And the High King will writhe to see the uses I shall put them to.” He ran his eyes over the two Cruithin thoughtfully. “Well enough,” he said, and then looked to where Muldooney was seated by himself, legs asprawl, engrossed in an inspection of his toes. “The mindless hold no interest for me,” said the Erl-King.
“You prefer to have your victims fully able to understand what is being done to them?” said Cormac smoothly, and the Erl-King looked at him for a long moment, his huge black eyes unreadable. At length, he spoke.
“Everything you have ever heard about me is true, Cormac. Every story, every legend, every tale
told round a night fire by stupid men and women is true. Presently you shall see it all for yourself. And let us have no mistake about it, Cormac of the Wolves; you are my prisoner and you are my victim, and I shall do with you what I wish.” A glitter lit his eyes. “I have waited a very long time for tonight,” said the Erl-King, “I shall savour it.” He turned to where Morrigan sat quietly listening. “My mistress and I will savour it together,” he said, and incredibly there was a sexual flavour to his tone now.
Morrigan smiled the snake-smile and said very softly, “I have sent my Sisters away, Master.” And then, to Cormac and Joanna, “They are greedy, you see. And I do not wish to share you.” Again there was the sly reptile smile, and when she said share, Morrigan opened her lips, and the forked tongue flickered. “They will return when I call to them,” said Morrigan. “But for tonight, you are both my Master’s and mine.”
Cormac said scoffingly, “Golden goblets and silver platters?”