by Sarah Rayne
Yes, but to walk here, to rule from the castles in the mountains, to hold sway over the powerful enchanters of this land …
There was a dull humming everywhere, and there was a heavy drugged feeling to the air. You could very easily surrender to it, you could easily allow it to overtake you. It could be very sweet, this heady, spell-laden world …
“You see?” said Medoc softly at her side. “There are enchantments and bewitchments here. There are spells and charms and curses and incantations without end. You could rule here, and you could have all of this, Grainne.”
If you will bow your will to mine and relinquish Ireland to me …
“No,” said Grainne, not daring to look at him. “No.”
He turned to face her then and, as she looked, he towered above her, his eyes filled with malevolence, power streaming from him. “I could compel you to do it, Wolfqueen,” he said, his voice cold but his aspect forbidding. And then, in a softer, more insidious tone, “Shall I compel you, Grainne? Shall I take you to the furnace houses where we burn the flesh and boil the bones of the humans we draw in through the Doorways? For we have ever used humans in our work, Grainne. Or shall I show you the Nightfields where we hunt Men and tear the flesh from them for our enchantments? Shall we travel across the Lake of Darkness into the River of Souls, and see below the surface of the water the trapped souls of humans? And shall I let you see the spinning of the Dark Looms, which would make your famous Silver Looms appear like children’s playthings? They would burn out your soul,” said Medoc softly. “To look on the Dark Looms calling down the force would burn out your soul. But you could command them, for I would give you the power.
“Rule with me,” said Medoc, and now he was no longer the menacing necromancer, but the beautiful, dark, slender being, and his voice was caressing and seductive. “Rule with me,” he said. “Become one of the dark sorceresses. I could teach you, Grainne. I could spend long evenings and lazy afternoons with you, teaching you.” The smile was that of a lover now and, without warning, there was a sudden sexual pull. Medoc reached out and traced the line of her face, and there was a moment when his hands brushed the thin stuff of her gown, and she felt her breasts respond. “Help me to rule both of these lands,” said Medoc, “and you will see how great are your rewards.”
Grainne drew in a huge breath, and sought and found the clear light cord of the Samhailt. Erin! she thought, and the cord strengthened.
Still here, Madam. Do not let him overpower you …
Grainne looked at Medoc coldly, and said, “Turn your mindless creatures on to me, sir. I do not care for your world,” and at once saw icy fury in his eyes.
But he only said, “I wove deep and dark enchantments so that the accursed Wolfline would die. I lured the creature who is your mother to my bed, and ensured that you and your brother would be born.” He leaned closer to her. “Twins, Grainne,” he said. “I ensured that the creature who calls herself Damnaithe would give birth to twins, in order that the ancient curse would revive, and the Beastline Enchantment would die. I do not intend to have expended those enchantments in vain, my dear. If you will not renounce Tara, then you and the Wolfprince must certainly die.” He turned about, the dark cloak swirling angrily, and Grainne felt herself sucked back through the terrible land over which he ruled, across the Nightfields and the Seas of Darkness, back to the Doorway, and back into the Sun Chamber.
She felt herself thrown back on to the altar stone, and she felt Damnaithe’s eager hands on her, tying the cords, binding her down again. Frustrated anger welled up in her, for she had been free, for that short time she had been free, and surely she could have found a way to defeat Medoc.
He will be defeated, madam … the Wolves are nearer; if we can but keep him at bay for a little longer …
Hope surged up in her, but she quenched it, for Medoc, with his dark powers, would certainly hear her.
Medoc was standing looking at Erin now, his face in shadow. “If you knew,” he said softly, “how many years I have spent searching for you. They hid you well, Erin.”
“But not well enough,” said Erin coolly.
Medoc laughed. “You could never have escaped,” he said. “They gave you to the humans, but you would always have been noticeable.” He studied Erin, and Erin stared back. “After all my planning,” said Medoc, “still you were born. Still you have survived.” He walked round the altar. “You understand, do you, that you must die? That I can risk no pretenders.”
“I understand.”
Grainne said quickly, “Medoc, if you would release him — allow him to grow up somewhere far from Tara …”
“To lead an army against me in ten years’ time?” Medoc smiled. “Come, my dear, you have more intelligence than that. You know that this one would never rest until he had tried to regain the Ancient Throne of his ancestors.”
“But if he could be made to promise — to renounce his claim …”
“I do not need to claim what is mine!” Erin was watching Medoc through narrowed eyes. “For all you have gained Tara by your sorcery, Medoc, you will never really be Ireland’s true Ruler. You are a usurper.” He smiled. “I think you fear me,” said Erin.
“Let us say I prefer to dispose of irritations,” said Medoc, and Erin smiled as if he found this understandable.
“While you live, Wolfprince, you will always be a threat,” said Medoc, and his eyes went to the monstrous waiting shape of Crom Croich. “And my master is expecting sacrifice tonight,” he said. “I have summoned him, and I have brought him into the world of Men, and for that alone I must appease him.” As he spoke, Crom Croich’s little red eyes glinted greedily, and a smile twisted the thick wet maw.
“The Crown Princess and the Wolfprince are worthy offerings,” said Medoc. “My master will grant me so much power for that, and so much strength, that I shall have all I ever wanted.”
He stood back and signed to the Conablaiche. “And now,” said Medoc, “these creatures are yours, my trusted servant.” And then, to the Lad of the Skins, “And they are yours, my devoted follower,” he said. “Rip out their hearts so that we may feed them to the Master. Take their souls and carry them to the eternal light of the Prison of Hostages.”
The Conablaiche’s claws rang out on the silver floor as it came scuttling forward, its beak clacking, and the Lad of the Skins moved as well, a quick darting movement, the Knife of Light gleaming in his hands.
Grainne thought, So after all we are to die at the hands of this dark, beautiful, evil one. After all, Fergus and Raynor and the others have failed, and after all the Wolves will not reach us. She looked up to where Crom Croich was towering above them, its monstrous bulk heaving and panting, the thick lips beginning to stretch.
Tear out their hearts and let me taste them, for I am greedy tonight, and this is the Crown Princess and the Lost Prince …
And through the great double doors of the Sun Chamber came streaming the Wolves of Tara, sleek and beautiful and filled with avenging fury, and behind them were Fael-Inis and Fergus, Raynor and Taliesin …
*
The evil crimson light became instantly shot with streaks of pure white brilliance, and Medoc fell back at once, one hand flung up as if the light had seared his eyes. A great roar went up, and the Wolves erupted across the silver floor, their teeth bared and their faces masks of blazing hatred. They fell on the Dark Lords in a snarling, whirling mass of fur and teeth and black armour, and the Dark Lords, taken unaware, reeled back. Fael-Inis shot forward, an arrow of pure light, to where the Lad of the Skins cowered and, as he did so, Fergus, Raynor, and Taliesin, with the Cruithin and the small army at their heels, surged forward. Grainne, helpless, unable to move, felt delight explode in her heart, to be followed by an entirely new fear as Fergus and Raynor, with a single purposeful movement, made for the Conablaiche, their swords glinting angrily in the baleful red light.
The glowing brilliance was shifting and changing, and the crimson aura of evil was struggling against F
ael-Inis’s light. The Sun Chamber became a moving whirling tunnel of crimson and silver and white and orange as the two forces fought for mastery. There was the ringing sound of steel against armour, and the Sun Chamber seemed to be filled with the High Queen’s avenging armies and with the legendary lost Wolves of Cormac, so that Grainne, fear and delight and confidence and terror all tumbling about together, thought, They are going to do it! I truly believe they are going to succeed! And forgot about the cold hard altar slab and the monstrous towering bulk of the terrible creature that Medoc had summoned, and was certainly not aware of anyone at her side until a soft, rather hesitant voice spoke.
Annabel, whose own world had certainly not prepared her for anything like this, and who was not at all sure how a High Queen ought to be addressed, said rather breathlessly, “Madam — that is — Your Majesty … ” and Grainne turned her head, and saw Annabel, and smiled with such warmth and such interest that Annabel blinked and understood at once why Fergus and Raynor were both prepared to fight to the death for the Queen and why Tybion had died happy, and why the armies had gone without hesitation into the necromancer’s lair to rescue her.
“Could I somehow untie you?” said Annabel, and Grainne said, “Oh, yes, if only you would, and Erin as well,” and quite suddenly it was perfectly easy to explain about how they had all stolen along the western avenue, and through the Palace, and how they had been afraid they would not be in time, and about Fael-Inis and the Wolves and the sidh. Grainne listened and, once her hands were free, helped Annabel with the chains that bound Erin, and seemed to know about Fael-Inis and all the other things.
“But we knew the Wolves were coming,” she said, and her eyes went to the snarling angry Wolves with such delight that Annabel blinked again, and remembered that after all this was the Wolfqueen, and that the blood of the Royal Wolves was in her veins.
“It was only that we were unsure how long they would be and how close they were to us,” said Erin gravely, and he and Grainne exchanged a smile, and then turned back to Annabel, and Annabel smiled back and knew that there was no question but that they must win this battle.
“Can we fight?” said Erin, suddenly and disconcertingly a small boy now, his eyes bright as he turned to survey the armies.
“You would be cut to pieces at once,” said Grainne. “And so would we. But we will watch our chance and there may be something we can do to help.” And then Annabel felt Grainne’s hand come down over hers in a painful grip, and Grainne said in a whisper, “The Dark Lords. Look at them.” And Annabel, who had actually been trying not to look at them (and who had been trying very hard indeed not to look at the Conablaiche), looked and said, “What is happening to them?”
“They are changing,” said Grainne, staring to where the Lords had moved back from the fight. “They are sending forth their dark inner selves.”
Debauchery, Decadence, Perversion, Hatred, Avarice …
Fergus, with Raynor and Taliesin, had cornered the Conablaiche, and Annabel thought the creature must already have been disabled by Fael-Inis’s bolt of light, because it was backing away and very nearly cowering. Its jelly-like eye swivelled and glared and, despite its cringing mien, it was clawing out at them. Annabel saw Fergus bring his sword slicing down on to the creature’s gristly jointed arm, and a pale viscous fluid spurted from the gaping wound. There was a stench of rotting meat and old blood and decay, and Annabel shuddered, and held on to her courage, and remembered about it being a battle they must win at all costs, and tried to see what they could do to help.
At her side, Grainne said, “Damnaithe — look!” And they both saw that Damnaithe was creeping alongside the wall of the Sun Chamber on all fours, the Knife of Light held between her teeth, advancing on Fergus from behind. “Come on!” cried Annabel, and they flung themselves on Damnaithe, knocking her to the ground, wresting the knife from her hand, sending it clattering across the silver floor.
Grainne snatched up the cords that had bound her to the altar earlier, and tied Damnaithe’s hands and ankles; as she straightened up, Annabel saw that she was very pale. Annabel reached for the Knife of Light and, as her hand closed about it, it shivered and splintered and dissolved into a myriad of tiny glinting sparks that rolled and danced and disappeared.
“Another evil gone!” said Grainne, and looked at Annabel, her eyes golden and shining, and Annabel, caught at once in the exultation, saw all over again why Grainne’s people were ready to die for her without hesitation, and began to understand why people had fought for King and Country, and risked their lives, and courted danger and death.
Fael-Inis had surrounded the Lad of the Skins with dazzling glowing light, and the Lad was screaming and putting up his hands, trying to ward off the light and tearing at the air in front of him.
“What is he doing?” cried Annabel, and Grainne said, “He is blinding him with the light. He is sending pure white light straight at his eyes!”
The Lad was still screaming, but the sounds were quieter now. Blood was pouring from his eye sockets and, when at last Fael-Inis withdrew the piercing spears of light, and the Lad turned his face to them, they saw the great gaping holes where his eyes had been.
Annabel said, in a voice from which all expression had been driven, “You are quite right. He has burnt his eyes out.”
“It is a fitting punishment,” said Grainne, and her voice was so stern that Annabel turned to look in surprise. Grainne said, half to herself, “I wish I could feel pity for the creature, but I cannot. The children whose souls he imprisoned …” And Annabel looked at Erin, and understood, and remembered all over again that here were weapons her own world had never dreamed existed, and wondered whether the bombs and explosions that destroyed her world were worse or better.
Taliesin, his dark hair tumbled, his eyes brilliant, was leading the Wolves against the Dark Lords, striking out at them with his sword. Annabel could see that the Lords were changing, and that from within the armour and the dark visors shapes were beginning to emerge. Dreadful nightmarish shapes; things that were not human and yet which had, rather dreadfully, a vestige of human appearance. As Taliesin brought his sword glinting down again, one of the Lords — Grainne thought it might have been Deceit — made a sudden vicious clawing movement, and Taliesin staggered back and half fell against the wall on the far side of the Chamber, one hand clutched to his shoulder.
“Injured only,” said Grainne, as Annabel gasped and started forward. “Do not move — you will be dead in minutes if you attempt to force a path through the fighting. And look to the Dark Lords!”
Annabel looked and saw the hideous shapes solidifying, and shuddered. “What of Medoc?” she said. “Is he dead? Will he fight?”
“He is over there,” said Grainne, who had never lost sight of the dark slender figure of Medoc. “He has the god Crom Croich with him. See?” And pointed through the tumult and the smoke and the heat to where Medoc was standing a little apart from the fighting, in Crom Croich’s shadow, his dark cloak wrapped about him. “He will not fight,” said Grainne, “for no true necromancer would ever engage in hand-to-hand fighting. But he is calling up the Twelve Evils; those are his weapons, and it is those we have to fear now.”
Annabel, curled into the corner with Grainne and Erin, said, “But Medoc is — is he not one of the Lords?”
“Medoc is all of them rolled up into one,” said Grainne, her eyes on the twelve creatures. “He is every evil and every sin and every wickedness ever committed or dreamed or thought or planned.” And then, half to herself, “And I cannot let him have Ireland,” she said and, at her side, Erin, without taking his eyes from the terrible battle, reached for her hand.
He will not have it, madam.
The Twelve Lords had by now distanced themselves from the Queen’s people, and they were ranging themselves against the far end of the Chamber, seeming to grow in stature with every second. The black armour was glittering and writhing, as if alive, and although the creatures that emerged could not p
ossibly be human, Annabel saw again that here and there were human characteristics.
In another minute, in a few more heartbeats, they would all stand before the Queen’s people, in their dark and terrible majesty …
Grainne and Annabel were on their feet now, Erin between them. Annabel thought, I am extremely frightened. I am more frightened than I have ever been of anything in my entire life, but I should certainly be much more frightened if it were not for these two. And remembered what Taliesin had told her about the power and the light and the strength of the Wolfline. She glanced at Grainne and Erin, and for a moment she felt it, a golden strength, a soaring stream of pure courage, and thought, Yes, Taliesin was right. And then, on another note, Taliesin?
He was lying half slumped against the wall, his sword arm wounded and looking as if it might be broken, but, through the smoke, she saw him smile at her rather mockingly.
Not dead yet by a long way, lady. And she remembered that none of this would have been bearable without Taliesin.
And when this is all over, we will be together, Annabel … The thought came as clearly and as strongly as it could possibly be, and Annabel felt a wave of hope, because they would find a way to rout these nightmare creatures, and they would find a way to drive out Medoc and the Dark Lords.
The Dark Lords … The small band of men that Fergus and Raynor had believed would be sufficient had been beaten back by the towering raging beings that had now fully emerged from their armour. The Wolves were growling and cringing, their ears flattened, their eyes red and baleful, but even the Wolves would not approach these dark demonic entities that Medoc had called up to defend him.
Great billowing shapes uncoiled, and the Twelve Great Evils were there in the Sun Chamber.
Debauchery, the Overlord of the Twelve, and the least human of them all. He was a shifting, nearly formless mass of thick oily substance that was not quite smoke and not quite fluid and not quite flesh. There was a dingy muddy taint, and at the centre were a pair of evil glowing eyes, terrible opaque eyes that made you think of old, old gods and of ancient creatures with human appearance but webbed hands and feet that would peer up at you from the depths of dark underground lakes. He did not speak, although Grainne glimpsed the rudiments of a slash-like mouth, but if he had spoken, the voice that would have issued from the centre of the shifting greasy smoke-fluid would have been thick and clotted and slimy, and if he had taken human shape, he would have been dark and covered with scales.