by Sarah Rayne
He paused, to draw in a sobbing breath, and Cormac, his eyes never leaving the great spider, said, “Empty threats, I think. He is disabled by his own terror.” He nodded to Gormgall and Muldooney, who made haste to shoot the bolts of the door, Muldooney reaching for the topmost ones, because wasn’t a bit of height needed for such a job.
The silken threads were lengthening now, they were sliding across the floor, leaving sticky snail trails in their wake. From the corner of her eye, Joanna saw Gormgall begin to inch his way to where Morrigan stood, still chanting useless spells.
The web strands had reached the Erl-King now. Three of the strands whipped round his body, and three more took his legs. As they watched, he was lifted, a struggling squirming prisoner, and drawn nearer to the great spider.
Morrigan began to scream imprecations now, calling on the Dark Ireland to come to her aid, calling to the necromancers and the Black Enchanters; calling on the first sorcerers who had created the terrible Stróicim Inchinn.
“Useless, Morrigan!” cried Cormac, and the undiluted delight and the pure confidence in his voice was like fresh rainwater, like a spring dawn, to Joanna and the others. “You are beaten, you are bested. Dierdriu has triumphed!”
Begone adversary …
“My sisters will feed on your blood for this, Wolfking!” cried Morrigan. “They will make you suffer their hag embraces and their greedy love-making! You will see, Wolfking! You will see!”
“Look to your master!” cried Cormac. “Oh, Morrigan, look to the terrible Erl-King who has held the people of the Walled City in fear and terror ever since he came out of the North! Caught and held by a giant spider! Spitted on the end of a nightmare!”
The rudimentary lips of the spider’s food canal were gaping open now. All the better to eat you with … As the lipless mouth opened wider, there was a terrible sucking, lipsmacking sound, and a wet gobbling noise that made Joanna feel quite dreadfully sick.
The Erl-King was fighting every inch of the way, but he was being slowly and inexorably drawn closer to the gaping hole in the spider’s body.
“Kill it!” screamed the Erl-King, beside himself with fury and terror, and Joanna suddenly saw that he was no longer a dark and sinister figure, he was no longer the powerful and evil Gentleman of the Walled City; he was a struggling writhing puny creature, spineless, but made up of tiny brittle bones which were beginning to snap and crunch in the spider’s steely grip. When the Erl-King screamed again to the guards to kill the spider, to cut its web and free him, Joanna felt only a rather distant revulsion, as if none of this could really have very much to do with her.
The guards had not moved, and quite suddenly the five friends realised that the guards were waiting for the Erl-King to die. For then they, also, would be free …
Cormac reached for the bunch of keys that would unlock his chains, and the guard, meeting Cormac’s eyes steadily, handed them to him. “Is he dying, Sire?”
“He is dying,” said Cormac and began to unlock the chains.
“Praise the gods,” said the man quite quietly, but very fervently. “Then we shall be free of him at last.”
The spider’s maw was gaping wide now, and the Erl-King was being drawn against the creature’s body. There was a liquid swallowing sound, and Dubhgall turned away and vomited violently on to the floor. Joanna’s own stomach lurched, for the spider was doing to the Erl-King exactly what the Erl-King had done to the young boy earlier; it was sucking the juices from his body while he lived. They heard the small frail bones snap. In moments, the Erl-King would be flung, dried out and shrivelled and most mercifully dead at last, on to the stone floor.
As they watched, rivulets of not-quite transparent fluid spattered the stone flags beneath the spider.
Gormgall had not been sick, he had not even felt sick. He had inched his way slowly and stealthily to where Morrigan stood near to the brazier, and as he did so, Muldooney reached for the dead guard’s sword and passed it to him. Muldooney had not the stomach for killing, but he would not scruple to help someone else, not when it was a creature like this terrible woman, who was probably not a woman at all.
Gormgall grasped the sword, and moved nearer to Morrigan. He heard behind him the dreadful sucking feeding sounds of the spider, and he heard as well the fading cries of the Erl-King. Nearly dead, thought Gormgall. But there is still this one. How near are her sisters? Are they back in the house at Muileann? If so, then she may be less strong, thought Gormgall. And although he had no idea whether Morrigan needed the Morrigna to work her evil sorcery, he thought there would never be another opportunity like this again. And with that thought, came another: she could not banish the spider! Hope surged up in him, and he edged nearer.
As the Erl-King sagged and a driblet of thick smeary liquid stained the floor beneath him, Gormgall lifted the sword and brought it point-down on Morrigan’s skull.
Her head burst open as if Gormgall had halved a ripe melon, and white fishblood and grey matter spurted. Morrigan fell to her knees and Cormac, who was frantically unlocking the padlock of his chains, shouted, “Harder, Gormgall! Again!” And as Gormgall struck again, Cormac cried, “For Ireland!”
“And for you, Sire!” said Gormgall very quietly, but very fervently, and took a firmer hold upon the sword.
Morrigan had fallen in a blind boneless heap and was squirming on the floor, not quite dead. As Gormgall began to lift the sword again, Morrigan raised her hand and pointed at Gormgall. “My sisters will avenge —” And then Gormgall brought the sword flashing down again, this time severing what remained of the creature’s head from her body. As skin and flesh and muscle parted, he turned very white, but there was a determined look in his eyes, and the others did not doubt that he would strike her again if it was necessary.
“And now,” said Cormac, turning to the guards, “is there any man who will try his strength against us? Or,” he said, his eyes blazing with triumph, “have I adjudged you all correctly? Will you ride out with your King and rid Tara of the usurpers?”
“Sire,” said the captain, falling to his knees, “you must know that now we are free of that creature’s malevolence, we will follow you into hell itself.”
*
The Wolfking’s company lay spent and exhausted in the chamber, uncaring of the congealing body of Morrigan, barely noticing the shrivelled thing that had been the Erl-King.
Joanna thought: we are safe — safe! And was conscious of an immense inner peace.
They fashioned a more comfortable dressing for Dubhgall’s arm, and Gormgall produced his flask. Dubhgall, who was white about the lips and clearly in a good deal of pain, drank gratefully, and managed to say, “As well fight for Your Majesty with one hand as with two.”
Cormac smiled and gripped Dubhgall’s sound arm. “Quite as well, my friend,” and was turning to say something to the guards, when Gormgall sat up.
“Listen, Sire. Can you hear it?”
Joanna, who was more tired than she could ever remember being, was just framing the thought that she could not bear anything else to happen, when Muldooney, who had got up to open the door of the stone chamber, said, “It sounds like cheering. Some kind of celebrating.”
“It’s the people of the Walled City,” said Gormgall, his face alight. “They have heard that the creature is dead. Sire, you must come out and speak to them.”
Cormac looked very tired indeed, and Joanna thought he must be more tired than any of them. But he did not hesitate; he at once stood up and said, “Of course. Come — all of us.” He led the way down to the great stone hall with the massive iron-studded doors that opened directly on to the drawbridge. Gormgall went to the winch, and Muldooney stepped up to help, because wasn’t a bit of good solid muscle needed for a job like this? Slowly and protestingly, the great gates folded back and light poured into the Erl-King’s dark Citadel, blinding them and sending dust motes dancing in and out of the rays of blue-tinged light.
“Twilight,” said Cormac softly. “Th
e Purple Hour.”
The others fell back, and Cormac moved forward into the soft blue light that was pouring in through the doors, and stood there, a solitary figure, silhouetted against the night. Far below him were little pinpoints of moving light, a torchlit procession, and as the cheering grew in intensity and as the shouts of gladness and wild joy floated up to the Citadel, Cormac stood, framed in the great gateway, waiting for the liberated people of the Erl-King’s city to start the ascent to the Citadel.
No one quite knew how the news of the Gentleman’s death reached the town, and no one, to begin with, believed it. Wouldn’t that be just a rumour, a malicious tale, probably put about by the Gentleman’s faithful hunchback, just to see how they’d all behave. The Gentleman had the habit of testing his people’s loyalty now and then.
But the rumour persisted, and people began to gather in little groups, furtively at first, and then more boldly. Several of the Gentleman’s guard were seen walking through the town, not on the Gentleman’s business, but so far as anyone could see, with the intention of spreading the good news.
For the Gentleman was in truth dead. He was lying in his own Banqueting Hall, destroyed for ever by the great Wolfking and his lady. Morrigan lay with him, felled by a blow from one of the Wolfking’s loyal Cruithin servants.
At first they could not take it in. They dared not take it in, for hadn’t the Gentleman been there as long as anyone knew, one of the terrible band of Dark Sorcerers who had come out of the cold Northern Wastes to feed on Ireland? Wasn’t the Gentleman immortal?
But lights were flaring from the Citadel now; not the thick dull lights that meant the Gentleman’s candles of human fat, but joyful clear yellow lights that meant good honest tallow or wax candles and wall torches of applewood and bright log fires. And there was a feeling in the dusk as well; a fresh clean scent, as if rain had fallen on a hot summer’s day, or a fresh rose-and-gold dawn had appeared over the mountains.
The townspeople gathered in small groups, and the groups joined, quite naturally and easily with other small groups, until they were no longer small groups, but quite large ones. People came running out of their houses asking, “What has happened? Is it true?” And, “Dare we believe it?” because although everyone wanted quite desperately to believe it, no one yet dared. Because the Gentleman had his ways …
And then one, bolder than the rest, spoke out and said wouldn’t they prove the story one way or the other between them? and a rather uncertain cry of assent went up.
“Lights!” cried someone. “Fetch up the lights! As many as we can manage, for it’s nearly dusk,” and in the searching for the blazing torches, nearly everyone remembered the old hopeless dream of a torchlit procession up to the Citadel to destroy the evil Lord who lived there, and nearly everyone thought wouldn’t it be a strange old thing if that procession was actually to happen now, the dream come true, only the Gentleman not being there at the end of it.
As they began to walk up the hill, someone at the back of the line began to cheer, a bit raggedly at first, and then with more assurance, and the sound was taken up by those at the centre, and then by the leaders.
The sound grew in volume, for the people of the Walled City were finding their voices again, and finding as well a rich fountain of joy, that had been almost but not entirely quenched, bubbling over into the light again.
When Cormac stepped out into the huge high open gateway of the Erl-King’s Citadel, the townspeople of the nameless city of the Erl-King surged forward, cheering and shouting, and as Cormac stood there, a light rain began to fall, blurring the brave little torches, beating down on the uncovered heads of the people of the town. He saw them through a mist, and he tasted salt mingled in with the rain on his cheeks, and he thought: if I have done nothing else for Ireland, at least I have freed these poor souls from this unbearable weight of evil.
And as he held up both his hands in a gesture that was both supplication and pledge, a great shout went through the people.
“The Erl-King is dead!”
And then, from the heart of the crowd, “Long live the Wolfking!”
Cormac stood before them, his head bowed in silent acceptance, as the cleansing rain continued to fall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Flynn was not quite sure how he came to be riding out at the head of them all when they came through the mountains and looked down on Gallan, but at the head he undoubtedly was. He thought it had happened quite simply and naturally; he certainly had not sought it. And then, because he possessed a strong streak of self-honesty, he thought with some amusement: yes, but I could not have borne to have fallen into any kind of subordinate position.
Because you are anxious to lead them forward so that you may find Joanna? said a voice within him.
Yes, certainly it was that, although he was beginning, in some curious and inexplicable fashion, to feel very much closer to Joanna now. The danger she was in has passed … There was no value in trying to explain how he knew this, but he did know it. Somewhere, somehow, Joanna was safe. They would find her.
And so, although he wanted to reach Gallan and he wanted to waste no time in finding Cormac, who might very well be with Joanna, he thought there was more to it.
I am Finn of the Fiana again, and there is a battle ahead of us, and I know how it must be fought, and I know where it must be fought and if only, IF ONLY, they will give me my head, I know we can win …
Lethe arrogance, said the old, coolly amused Flynn, but, plain fact, said the small strong voice deep inside him. Finn had not won battles by holding back or being modest, and his descendant would not either.
Descendant? Of course I am his descendant, thought Flynn, riding along at Conaire’s side. How else should I know so many things. How else should I recognise the terrain, and have this aching sense of homecoming. Why else would I be already laying out the battle plan; choosing the ground, deploying the White Swans to the east and the Chariot Horses to the fore. And if only Joanna can ride out with me, then the two worlds will have been spanned at last.
The High Queen returned, Dierdriu fighting for Tara again, with the armies of Finn at her back … The High Queen and the head of the Fiana together again …
The two worlds, past and future, converging at last, and fusing naturally and gently.
Gallan lay below them, circled by the Mountains — “A marvellous protection, of course,” murmured Sean — Cait Fian’s palace was set into the side of the mountain itself.
As Flynn sighted it, he gasped, for he had somehow not expected such cool, elegant beauty. He had certainly not expected it to rival Tara.
“Well, not quite,” said Conaire. “But it is very lovely.”
“And it’s perfectly proper for it to be nearly as good as Tara,” put in Sean. “Because Cait Fian is nearly as powerful as the High King.”
“A sort of second-in-command,” said Midir.
“Only it doesn’t do to remind Bricriu of it,” grinned Etain.
The Mountain Palace of Cait Fian was a pale, graceful edifice, turreted and delicately carved; ice-on-blue and gently glistening. Flynn thought that a light frosting of snow lay on its highest spires, and then he was not sure. Mist wreathed the towers and the pinnacles, and Flynn thought it would be easy to imagine the mist to be cloud. It was a palace of the skies, and although it did not blaze and flame as Tara blazed and flamed, still it was coldly and regally beautiful.
They saw the Panthers as they approached the pillared gates — gleaming sleek black creatures who watched their approach disdainfully. At the rear, the Wolves growled and bunched together, and Sean and Domnall both said together, “Oh dear.” The Panthers blinked their hard green eyes, but Flynn and Conaire who were at the head, saw two of them unfold and go padding off.
“To tell Cait Fian we are here,” murmured Conaire. “He has them very well trained.”
“A pity the King’s Wolves aren’t half as well trained,” said Sean in a not-quite-whisper.
Conai
re said, “Oh do hush.”
Several Cruithin servants came running out to welcome them, and took the horses. “And the wolves,” said Sean with relish.
Conaire said, “You see? Efficient.”
“Our master will receive you when you have washed the dust of your journey off,” said one of the Cruithin, and Sean poked Flynn and said, “Cait Fian can’t abide dust or dirt.”
Flynn, who had just been thinking how much he would welcome a civilised wash and fresh clothes, said rather sharply, “Well, why should he? When you are in Rome, Sean, you must behave as a Roman.”
Sean, who had never heard such expression, said, “What?” and Flynn had to explain.
“Which,” he said to Oscar later, “all took time when I wanted to talk to Cait Fian’s Cruithin.”
The rooms they were shown to were furnished with velvet-covered couches and silk-cushioned beds.
“Oh for a day’s sleep!” cried Midir, stretching.
“Weakling,” said CuChulainn. “To the bath house with us both!”
“Yes, for we can’t appear before Cait Fian dusty,” reiterated Oscar seriously, and Flynn began to be rather curious about their host.
But he washed in the warm water brought to him, and donned the clean linen shirt laid out, and lay down to order his thoughts before being summoned.