by Sarah Rayne
The creature backed away at once, with a dreadful high-pitched screech that reverberated round the cave. Blood and thick white fluid gushed from its eye, and Annabel, shuddering, but still holding the stick, shot back, because the smeary liquid was spurting from the creature’s eye socket, and it was one thing to puncture an eye, but it was quite another to have the eye fluid spew out all over you. She crawled across to where Taliesin and Fergus were struggling to their feet.
The Conablaiche was staggering about the cave, its clawed hands clutching its gaping eye-socket. A horrid wetness oozed out and trickled between its talons, and it bellowed in agony. Annabel, glancing frantically over her shoulder, shook Taliesin, and reached to take Fergus’s hands, because it was not to be thought of that she should be here on her own, with the Conablaiche screeching in agony … And at any minute it would turn back and it would vent its fury on her, and this time she might not be able to get to its other eye …
Taliesin groaned, and seemed to half revive, but Fergus still lay supine, and Annabel, her heart racing, sent up a prayer that he was not dead.
And then, as she clutched at Taliesin’s hands — because he must wake up, they both must wake up! — she heard another sound, beyond the Conablaiche’s raw screaming, and beyond the inexorable ticking of the Clock.
The marching of a second Drakon patrol.
*
The patrolmen fell on them with such swift and cold efficiency that Annabel had just time to think, So much better organised down here! and to wonder whether, the closer you got to the Cavern of the Clock, the more efficient the Drakon became. They overpowered her easily, and although they glanced warily at the shape of the Conablaiche, they did not seem particularly surprised by it.
Two of the men took the unconscious Fergus, and a third half carried Taliesin. Two more picked Annabel up bodily, and the three of them were carried, silently and swiftly, into the dark tunnel.
As they moved away, Annabel heard the thick, treacly chuckling of the Old Woman of the Mountains, and the whirr of her terrible spinning wheel.
It is not easy to think clearly when you are being carried through a dark tunnel, alongside lapping water, to an almost-certain death. Annabel was by now very frightened, but she thought they could still fight.
She was dizzy from the suddenness of the Drakon’s attack, but as the patrolmen waded into the River, Annabel glimpsed lights ahead and heard the clank of machinery, and heard human voices.
The lights were not the warm, familiar half lights that Annabel had known for most of her life. They were brilliant and rather cold, as if nobody cared any more about dwindling supplies. Because they knew that time was now so short that there was power and to spare for what was left to them?
The patrolmen bent low to pass under a narrow arch of rock, and then flung the three of them down on the floor. Annabel heard Taliesin groan, and knew that at least he lived. She felt ridiculous tears of gratitude prick her eyes and reached up to dash them away angrily.
They were in a vast mountain hall, lit to cold brightness by the power supplies that the rest of the world had been forbidden. Annabel, unused to such brilliance, blinked and waited for her eyes to adjust.
There seemed to be dark-clad men everywhere, coming and going, severe and absorbed. Annabel knew them at once for Drakon patrols. Directly ahead was a long, low table with several men seated behind it, and Annabel stared at them and knew that they had been brought into the presence of the powerful all-seeing men who controlled the world. This was the Drakon, and these were the men who had written the stringent laws which people called Draconian, and who sent out the patrols and incarcerated people who broke them inside the Cuirim. These are the people who are the laws, thought Annabel. The Drakon sees all and the Drakon’s law is absolute.
The man in the centre was watching her, and Annabel shivered, because he had the coldest eyes and the most humourless features she had ever seen. He was tall and thin and the bones of his face stood out, and his eyes were the colour of a bleak November sky when it is going to snow and blizzard, and when he spoke, his voice was like being caught out in a snowstorm.
“Come here.”
Annabel went at once, because despite the coldness and despite the humourless eyes and mouth, the man possessed unquestionable authority. You might dislike him very much; you might fear him to an extreme degree, but it would not occur to you to disobey him.
She stood in front of the table and looked at the men and thought, So these are the real Drakon. I am face to face with the people who manipulate the world and who cause us all to be shut away from one another, and who make the laws and send out the patrols. She put up her chin a little and looked down her nose, which was something courageous people in old books had always done. It did not make her feel any braver, but it probably made her look fairly brave, which was better than nothing. And, because attack was supposed to be the best form of defence, she said, quite clearly, “My friends are injured. That creature you employ has injured them. I should be glad if you would have their wounds attended to.” And was pleased that at least she sounded unafraid.
“If they are injured,” said the cold-eyed man, “it is their own fault. The Claw is allowed to roam the mountain at will for the express purpose of catching trespassers and those who stray into places not meant for them to know about. You have been very foolish, Miss O’Connor. You and your friends will be thrown into a cell.”
“And later?”
The man studied her. “There will not be any ‘later,’” he said. “You are inside the Cuirim. The headquarters of the Drakon. Looked at from one viewpoint, you have done very well. You have tricked two of the Guardians and nearly reached the torchlit Cavern of the Clock. That is something very few people achieve.” He made a brief dismissive gesture with one hand. “The Guardians are unpleasant creatures,” he said. “But they serve us well enough.”
“You make use of strange servants,” said Annabel.
“We make use of whatever comes to hand,” said the man. “The people who discovered the Doomsday Clock also discovered that these mountains house stranger things than man has dreamed of for some time.” He leaned forward. “Our ancestors believed in gods and devils and dreams and nightmares, Miss O’Connor,” he said. “We do not. But I will admit to you that down here, buried in these mountains away from the world, we have come to believe in creatures and forces and powers that we would once have dismissed as primitive superstition. Twentieth-century credulity, Miss O’Connor … Perhaps earlier, for the later years of that century were quite realistic.”
“Still,” said Annabel, “the creatures exist. They are here inside the mountain. I have met them.”
“And defeated them, it seems.” Again he studied her. “That is to your credit,” he said.
“You serve an ancient and hungry god,” said Annabel scornfully.
“Superstition again, Miss O’Connor.”
“You are trafficking with the devil,” said Annabel.
The man laughed. “Your expressions smack strongly of medieval naïveté, my dear. I begin to think we should have kept a closer eye on you. You know the penalty for reading forbidden books and for studying the ways of our ancestors …? Yes, I thought you did. You are too inquisitive, Miss O’Connor. Your inquisitiveness has brought you to a place not meant for you to see.”
“Why not?” said Annabel defiantly.
“Because the world is dying,” said the man. “We do not want people to know. You are not without intelligence, you must know what is happening. Worlds do sometimes die.”
With a whimper or a bang, and after all what does it matter in the end …?
“But until the very last hours,” said the man, “it has been necessary to preserve some kind of balance. To safeguard people from this terrible knowledge.” He leaned forward. “You are not without imagination either,” he said. “You must be able to visualise what would happen if men and women were told or found out how close we are to the end: rioting and looti
ng; despair and drunkenness and hysteria; mass suicides. Isn’t it safer, isn’t it kinder to leave them in ignorance for as long as possible?” He sat back. “Admit it,” he said softly. “Admit that we are right.”
Annabel said nothing.
“Do you suppose,” said the man after a moment, “that it has been easy for us down here? Knowing, counting, measuring the time left? Seeing time run out, and unable to do anything.” His eyes were distant and suddenly they were not cold any longer. “The worst part,” he said, “oh, by far the worst part, is not knowing where the end will come from, or how it will happen.”
Annabel said rather hesitantly, “The faceless statesmen. The secret countries. The weapons of the twentieth century —”
“Yes,” said the man. “That is the likeliest. Some kind of demand, some kind of threat. Do what we ask, or we will unleash all our power on you. And the world retaliating. Yes, that is the likeliest way. But we do not know!” he said, bringing his clenched fist down on the table. “We know that it will happen, for the Clock is approaching Doom Hour, and we have come to believe the Clock. But not knowing — I think that has been the worst part. You have no idea,” he said softly, “of how great the burden is.”
After a moment, Annabel said, “You are the head.”
“Yes.” He looked at her. “I am the Drakon,” he said, and smiled suddenly. “An ordinary businessman with grey hair. That is what you are thinking.” The smile vanished as if a slate had been wiped clean, and the cold cruelty was back. “You understand that we cannot possibly let you and your friends go, of course. We shall put you in one of the cells.”
He regarded her. “I am afraid you will not come out again. The end is not so very far distant now, you see.”
“You are very calm,” said Annabel.
“I have lived with the knowledge for a long time, my dear.”
“But surely —” Annabel stopped, and then went on. “Surely something will survive?” Because it was unbearable beyond words to imagine everything dead or dying, to think that Man would no longer walk the earth …
“We believe,” said the Drakon, “that Man will survive,” and Annabel looked up, because she had not expected him to sense her thoughts so very exactly. “Man will survive,” he said, half to himself now, “but it will be in a different form, perhaps. He is an adaptable creature, Man, after all. And perhaps after the fires have cooled and the Disease has dispersed, he will emerge, a little changed, a little different. But still in the world.” He stood up. “I am a realist, Miss O’Connor. I make use of whatever instruments come to hand. The Claw and the Three Guardians will continue to work and to serve me.” He stood up and nodded to two of the men. “Take them to one of the cells,” he said. “And give the Claw its reward.” And then, turning back to Annabel, “In any case,” he said, “your incarceration is of little account now.”
Annabel stared at him, her heart thudding painfully. “Midnight,” she said softly. “The Doom Hour.”
“Yes, midnight. If the secret countries unleash the forces that our ancestors were so proud of, then the world will burn, and this entire mountain may be rent asunder.”
Annabel said softly, “‘And Four Horsemen shall come into the world to announce the Beast Apocalypse … they shall stalk the earth and lay it waste in their several ways, and after their coming, the skies shall darken and the seas shall boil and the world shall burn for fifty days and fifty nights … ‘” She stopped and looked at him and thought that a gleam of approval showed in the cold, grey eyes.
But, “An even older superstition, Miss O’Connor. But in the main, you are right,” was all he said.
“We are close to the end?”
“Yes. I do not think there is anything that can save us.” He looked at her. “The Clock stands at exactly five minutes to midnight,” he said.
*
Taliesin and Fergus came back to full consciousness slowly and painfully. Fergus started to say, “What happened —” and then stopped, because he remembered all too clearly what had happened. They had been defeated by the Conablaiche and by the Sensleibhe, and they had been thrown into the Drakon’s prison.
And the Clock was still ticking …
Taliesin, who had put one arm about Annabel’s shoulders, said, “Fergus, my dear, I beg you will not make use of such obvious questions. Or do you really not know what has happened? Would you like me to enumerate our various disasters in detail?”
“Thank you, no,” said Fergus. “I remember everything. I wish I did not.” And then, “Is either of us injured very much?” he said.
“We have suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, but I believe that in the main we have whole skins. I daresay that our wits are a bit astray, but I daresay they always were. And probably we shall be able to think of a way out,” said Taliesin, and Fergus wondered if anything discomposed Taliesin.
“Very little, my friend,” said Taliesin.
Fergus looked round. They were lying in a stone cell, barely six feet square. Three of the walls were solid rock and the fourth made up of thick iron bars. There was a faint spill of light from the tunnel outside. It was sufficient to show them that the cell was as solid and as secure as it was possible for it to be.
Taliesin said, “‘Iron bars do not a prison make.’ Or do they? I suppose we shall find a way out, shall we?”
“I hope so,” said Fergus. “I don’t think we have very much time.”
“Very little,” said Taliesin, and looked at the other two and thought, Oh, my dears, if only you knew that it no longer matters. We are trapped in this cell, but also we are trapped in this world now. Calatin’s spell was to last for seven days, and seven days will soon have come and gone: we have no way of returning to our own world.
Fergus was inspecting the cell carefully. “For,” he said, “every prison has its chink.”
“The floors and the walls and the roof are of solid rock,” said Taliesin. And then, “Fergus, we have to get to the children.”
“I know,” said Fergus, not turning round.
“We have to get to the Clock,” said Taliesin, half to himself.
“Could we somehow dig our way out?” said Annabel, trying the floor with her feet. “No, it’s solid. And there’s nothing to dig with.”
“We could bribe the guards if we had anything to bribe them with,” said Fergus thoughtfully. “Annabel, are the members of the Drakon bribable?”
“I suppose they would be,” said Annabel.
Taliesin, from the shadows, said, “Every man has his price. Are there any other prisoners down here?”
“There must be,” said Annabel. “This is the Cuirim. No one ever comes out.”
“I wonder,” said Taliesin thoughtfully, “what Fael-Inis would do in this situation?”
“Blast the lock with a bolt of light,” said Fergus at once.
“Lure the guards with his silver pipes,” said Annabel. And then, because the thought of losing Fael-Inis was unbearable, she said, “I daresay he will help us in any case.” And so strong, so violent was the hope, that she turned to look down the dark tunnel, half expecting to see him appear.
Taliesin said, “We could lure the guards ourselves. By calling them. And then we could spring on them.”
“Yes, for they must have keys.” Fergus turned back, his eyes alight. “Yes, listen, if we could —” He looked at the other two, horror dawning in his eyes. “It’s too late,” he said. “Annabel, Taliesin, we are too late. Listen.” And stared at them, and saw his own horror reflected in their faces, and knew that they had heard it as well.
Hoofbeats coming down the mountain tunnel towards them.
The Four Horsemen …
*
Conn and Niall, with Michael and the others close by, woke from a deep, warm sleep, peopled with soft, happy dreams, and with the memories of the world they had been driven from. They were nearly back there now. Fergus would take them back, and the others would be there as well: Taliesin and Annabel
and the strange, golden creature called Fael-Inis who had drawn them with him through the dark tunnels, so that there had been no time for fear, only a marvellous exhilaration, and a feeling that anything was possible and everything was within their grasp.
Michael, who had woken up first, sat up and looked round, because it had all been a bit muddled last night, and a person liked to know where he was.
The room was quite small and it was lit by a fire, which was very nice. Michael had always had a fire in his bedroom. It made you feel extra safe, and you could lie and watch the leaping flames make pictures on the walls and the ceiling.
He had done that on the night the creature came. He could remember it very clearly indeed. There had been rain outside; fierce, lashing rain that hurled itself against the windows and made you feel glad that you were lying inside warm and snug and safe with a fire. He had listened to it that night, but mixed in with the rain had been something else. Something outside. He had lain for a long time listening to it, but he had not called out, because the something might have heard him. He had known it was there, though. It had peered in through the chink in the curtain, and it had tried the locks. It had sniffed at the door — Michael had heard it — and he knew that it had claws and nails and teeth, and that it was trying to get in so that it could get to him while he lay in bed. He had pretended it was not there, because that was always a good thing to do if you woke up in the middle of the night and thought there was a something trying to get in. You pulled the covers tight over your head, and you shut out the frightened-ness, and quite often, well very nearly always, the next thing you knew it was morning and the sun was shining, and you were being called to hurry to breakfast, and everything was all right again.