by Sarah Rayne
But now, here, in the hands of the most purely evil being ever known to Ireland, on the very threshold of the Dark Realm of the Necromancers, Nuadu felt, as if it was a solid wall, the evil strength and the merciless dark magic emanating from the Workshops.
Behind the Workshops was flat, barren wasteland, with stunted trees, and twisted roots. Nuadu glanced at this and saw that there might once have been verdant greenery, perhaps even a small forest. But the heat and the darkness and the twisted magic had long since drained the heart from the land; the dark sorcery had sucked out the goodness and turned it into a stunted, abandoned place.
Black fury rose in him against this creature, this monstrous being who was turning Ireland into black barrenness; above the mask his eyes glinted and he wanted to spring on the Robemaker and tear his throat from his body. But he could not move and, even if he had been able to, he knew that the Robemaker could fell him in a breath-space by sorcery.
As they moved nearer, Nuadu felt the heat belch out. The dull red glow was all about them now and the baleful light fell across the Robemaker’s cloaked figure so that, although his face remained hidden, Nuadu caught the glitter of his eyes, red and inverted and, despite the belching heat, he felt ice close about his heart.
I shall never escape from this place. I shall die here and then this creature will tear out my soul and carry it to the Court of the Soul Eaters. And then I shall be flung for ever into the River of the Dead …
And then they were inside, and the doors had closed to.
The sound of the door to the Robemaker’s Workshops closing, was one of the worst sounds Nuadu had ever heard. For a moment, he did not move and, at his side, the Robemaker waited, the slanting eyes watching from deep within the hood.
And then, ‘Well, Wolfprince?’ he said in his hissing, bubbling whisper, making Nuadu think of lipless jaws and clotting wounds. He wondered what hideous deformity might lie beneath the silken cloak and the deep dark hood.
‘Well, Wolfprince?’ said the Robemaker. ‘Where are your supporters now? Where are the creatures who swore to you their allegiance if you would regain the Bright Palace for them?’ He leaned nearer and Nuadu stood his ground. ‘They are cowering in the Wolfwood, Nuadu Airgetlam. They are trembling and hiding,’ he said, the slimy lick of pleasure overlaying his voice. ‘They are protecting their miserable skins while Ireland falls further into my grasp.’ He paused and then said, in a soft, menacing tone, ‘And Tara, Nuadu of the Silver Arm? What of Tara? Who now walks its silver halls and dwells in its marble galleries?’ One hand was flung outwards in a clutching gesture. ‘In the hands of my creatures, Wolfprince, just as you, now, are in my hands.’ He indicated the seething red-lit Workshops. 'Here is the True Ireland,’ said the Robemaker. ‘Here is my Ireland, Wolfprince. Here is the powerhouse of necromancy.’ And stood back and folded his arms as Nuadu looked about him.
The Workshops of the Looms were far larger than he had expected. They seemed to stretch back for a very long way and Nuadu, narrowing his eyes, trying to find his bearings, thought that they must go back and back into the hillside behind the road and deep within the earth. The ceiling was low and there was a thick, suffocating feel to the air and a stale, old stench. Despite the heat, Nuadu felt again the chill about his heart.
On each side of the room where they stood were massive iron furnaces; great, glowing stoves that belched out waves of heat so that the air was heavy and fetid. Huge pipes of what looked like iron protruded from the furnaces and ran along the sides of the workshops, disappearing into the ceiling in places and, in other places, into the walls. Steam rose here and there, not in puffy, damp, friendly clouds as if a kettle was boiling, but in hissing, angry spurts, as if some unseen being was venting its spleen.
Before the furnaces were some of the Robemaker’s captured slaves; Humans, once-strong sons of Ireland’s farmers and woodcutters and blacksmiths and builders and woolmen. The ordinary, honest, good-humoured people who had lived under the protection of the Wolfkings and rendered them allegiance. Will it never cease, thought Nuadu, this endless hungry taking of our people by the Black Ireland?
He stood very still, staring about him, his eyes adjusting to the glowing heat. He thought that here and there in the slaves he could detect traces of an old lineage. There was the dark-eyed, slant-featured look of the ancient lost Royal Houses of Ireland in several of them, the glossy hair that might easily have been fur in others. But he knew it to be a frequently found trait, for most of the Noble Lords of Tara had long since dispersed and the enchanted Beastblood, once guarded so jealously, had nearly died out. If these young men possessed traces of the Beastblood, it was from so far back that it could not be measured, and it was so slight that it could no longer hold the power to call upon the beasts for aid. Black fury rose in him against the evil creature who was leeching Ireland of her youth, but Nuadu quenched it, lest the Robemaker turn it to his use.
As his eyes adjusted to the scorching dry heat, he saw that the slaves were all lightly clad; in the main, they wore ragged breeches, with the upper halves of their bodies and their feet bare. The exposed skin was flushed and glowing; here and there it resembled tanned leather and, in some cases, it looked as if it had split and healed, and split again. The slaves’ hands were blistered and flayed and oozing, covered with angry weals that were burns from direct contact with the white heat of the furnace doors. They moved slowly, shamblingly, and there was a terrible hopelessness about them.
Several of the furnace doors were open, and threw out merciless, scorching fire. The creatures who were working had shovel-shaped implements with which to throw in an endless supply of wood and Nuadu, scarcely able to believe this, thought: but they are felling the Trees! They are murdering the Trees! And blinked and looked again, for the felling of living Trees, the cutting and slicing and mutilating of Trees which had not died and dried and seasoned naturally, was one of the oldest and most strictly forbidden practices in Ireland. As he stood there, a massive double door at the far end was kicked open and several more of the Robemaker’s creatures came shuffling in, dragging a wheeled cart, with a newly cut-down beech Tree lying on it. The Robemaker lifted a hand in their direction and the creatures at the cart took up massive double-edged axes and began to hack the Tree into small sections.
As the first axe cut into the Tree, a great wailing cry of agony rent the thick stifling heat of the Workshop and Nuadu knew at once that the Tree had been taken down while it lived and while the naiad still dwelled within it.
From where he stood, Nuadu saw the slender, copper-haired Beech Naiad emerge from the murdered Tree, her arms chopped to ribbons, her body maimed in a dozen places, the red-gold blood of the beech spurting from her. She hovered for a brief time over the trunk of the Tree, tears streaming from her eyes, shuddering as the axes continued to cut into the wood, shaking her head from side to side. Nuadu could see that her fingers were gone now, and that she was trying to pull herself back into the heartwood, which would have been her dwelling and the place from which she drew sustenance and vitality, but the Robemaker made another of his sudden curt gestures and the slaves fell to their work again, sweat streaming from their half-clad bodies and Nuadu saw the heartwood splinter and fall apart. The Beech Naiad let out a last cry of desolation, and fell to the floor. There was the sudden achingly sweet scent of burning logs on an autumn night and then the drift of thick, crisp, beech leaves in the depths of a forest and the Beech Naiad seemed to melt and shiver and dissolve into nothing.
The furnaces were blazing up more strongly now, and the slaves began flinging the freshly chopped beech-wood into the molten depths. There was the cold ring of iron, as they levered the great doors shut and the rhythmic clanking of machinery as the steam from the furnaces was forced along the great pipes. Through the doors at the far end, Nuadu caught the whirring sound of the Looms. The slaves continued their stoking, shuffling to and from the cart, heaving the beech logs into the next furnace.
The Robemaker moved forw
ard, prodding Nuadu onwards and, as they moved down the centre of the Workshop, the blazing furnaces roaring on each side of them, Nuadu felt his skin already shrivelling from the heat. How must it be to work here day after day, month after month, knowing there was no end to it? He glanced at the working slaves, and saw that their skin ran with fluid from fresh blisters and their eyes were bloodshot, the eyebrows and lashes singed to nothing; many of them walked awkwardly, as if they had become deformed.
The Robemaker said, emotionlessly, ‘The soles of their feet are skinless from the heat of the floors. There are trays of salt for them to walk across when that happens, so that the raw flesh can be hardened.’ From within the deep dark hood, Nuadu caught the sudden glint of white bone and heard the guttural laugh. ‘And, of course, I hear your thoughts, Wolfprince,’ said the Robemaker. ‘You have surely not forgotten the ancient necromantic art of the Stroicim Inchinn?’
Nuadu did not move, but the icy fear closed about him again. The Stroicim Inchinn, the ancient forbidden art, sorcery of the strongest and most dangerous kind: the power of one mind over another. It was an enchantment expressly forbidden by the Ancient Academy of Sorcerers, and Nuadu had thought that even the Lords of the Dark Ireland hesitated over it. In the realms where it was studied, it was recognised as the ability to tear and claw into the mind of another. It was the terrible and forbidden dark side of the pure and honourable Samhailt and, although Nuadu had heard of it, he had thought it extinct.
The Robemaker was watching the slaves. ‘It would not be practical for their feet to be ruined,’ he said. ‘And if they flinch at the sight of the salt, there are persuasions I can use.’ The crimson rope-light snaked out and Nuadu saw the nearest slaves cower and put up their hands to shield their faces. One, who did not appear to be as badly scorched as the others, stood his ground, and eyed the Robemaker rather challengingly. Nuadu wanted to cry out to him not to be so defiant, for the Robemaker could certainly not be vanquished in such a way.
‘Dear me, a reckless one,’ said the Robemaker, sounding amused. ‘A small lesson for you, Human slave. And the Wolfprince shall see it.’
The crimson rope-lights whipped forward effortlessly and the boy who had glared angrily at the Robemaker was forced back against the nearest furnace. Nuadu could see that his eyes were distended with fright now, but he stared back at his captor, unflinchingly.
‘You,’ said the Robemaker, gesturing impatiently to the nearest slaves. ‘Take up the axes. Do it!’ He folded his arms and power streamed from his eyes, so that the two slaves were caught in the white glare. Slowly, blindly, they raised the axes to shoulder height.
Nuadu knew the young man was already lost. The Robemaker had only to exert his will; he had already clawed his way into the minds of the two slaves with the axes; it would be nothing to him now to whip their minds to his will. And his will was that the slave, the young man who was scarcely more than a boy, should somehow die for his brief moment of rebellion.
The two slaves moved jerkily, as if they were at the ends of strings. Puppets, thought Nuadu, unable to look away. He is using them like puppets.
The boy was backed against the wall between two furnaces, and Nuadu saw his face twist with pain. He guessed that the wall would be excruciatingly hot and that the boy’s skin would be blistering and shrivelling.
The Robemaker said softly, ‘Slice by slice — and slowly,’ and the slaves moved mechanically forward.
Slice by slice … The slaves swung the axes low, with one accord, and the boy’s feet were cut from his legs, so that he fell suddenly on to bleeding stumps of leg. The colour drained from his face and he would certainly have fallen, had not two crimson rope-lights shot out and pinioned his arms to the wall, so that he was forced to stand, vertically, halfhanging by his hands, half supported by his mutilated legs. Blood and splinters of bone spattered the floor, and Nuadu saw that the thin rivulet of blood nearest to the furnace actually bubbled from the heat of the floor.
And when the soles of their feet are skinless, there are trays of salt for them to walk across to harden the skin …
‘Again!’ said the Robemaker, his voice liquid and clotted now, and the two slaves swung again, a little higher this time, so that the hard, straight shin bones were sliced across, and the boy’s legs were shortened a little more.
‘Fuel for the furnaces,’ said the Robemaker. ‘You! Into the fire with the dead meat!’ And at once, two more leapt forward and scooped up the bleeding lumps of flesh and bone and flung them into the open furnaces. There was a roar of heat and, briefly and nauseatingly, the sudden sharp scent of cooking. Nuadu felt his stomach twist and clenched his teeth against it.
The boy was screaming and begging for mercy now, his lips bitten through.
‘Again!’ cried the Robemaker and now his voice had ridden to a high excited whine and Nuadu, glancing covertly at him, saw that he was roused to a devilish excitement.
The boy was barely conscious now; his face was the colour of tallow candles and his body sagged, held only in position by the crimson lights. The two slaves were hacking at his thighs now, and two more came forward, moving jerkily, so that Nuadu knew that the Robemaker was using the Stroicim Inchinn on them also.
‘The thighs!’ cried the Robemaker, ‘the thighs and the hips! Take them before I hurl you, also, into the furnaces!’ He stood for a moment, a towering dark figure and watched as the blood — sluggish now — seeped from the boy’s mangled body.
‘Human weakling!’ said the Robemaker, contemptuously. And then, in a different, gloating voice, ‘But his soul I shall take.’ He moved and the slaves cowered back, as if, thought Nuadu, they had witnessed the next part before and feared it even more than the mutilating of the boy. The two who had used the double-sided axes seemed to become more aware and Nuadu thought that the Robemaker had probably withdrawn the piercing spikes and the pinchers of the Stroicim Inchinn from their minds. They looked about them a bit hazily and then at the bleeding half-thing that had been the young boy and scuttled into a comer.
The Robemaker stood over the remains of the boy and lifted his arms wide, so that the cloak fluttered and his arms resembled great black wings. He pronounced a string of words in an unfamiliar tongue and, as he did so, the light changed abruptly and became dark and malevolent, tinged with purple. Black-edged shadows fell across the glowing floor.
There was a beating of wings overhead and a leathery, rustling sound and the slaves cringed and covered their faces. Nuadu stood his ground, his eyes raking the shadows. For I believe I am about to witness a thing few people see and live to tell of he thought.
Into the magenta light of the spell-ridden Workshop there appeared a monstrous creature, composed of great leathery wings and claw feet and a hideous, horny head, with great dark, gaping eye sockets and a bony, sloping jaw. The face of the creature was pointed, animal-like, goat-like, and there were cruel curving talons protruding from its front paws and curling toes with gristly joints and sharp nails at the back. There was a dry, rustling sound, as if old dry bones were being rubbed together and the sound of fleshless lips chuckling.
Nuadu stayed where he was, but his mind was tumbling with horror and revulsion. There was a dreadful, fetid stench on the air and the creature swooped across the Workshops, the wingspan of its great jagged wings immense.
Nuadu knew that the Robemaker must have summoned one of the creatures from the Cruachan Cavern to take his victim’s soul and, as he watched, the winged creature fell on the remains of the young boy, and settled on his chest, nibbling and clawing its way into his face. Sickness rose in Nuadu, but he fought it and forced himself to watch.
The boy’s eyes had been drawn out by the Soul Eater and it gave a dry, evil chuckle of triumph. Its talons whipped out and embedded themselves into the boy’s skull, using the emptied eye sockets as a means of entry and Nuadu, narrowing his eyes against the dimness, saw that the talons were in fact hollow tubes, thin transparent bones.
The Soul Eater crouched for
a few moments and Nuadu saw that a thin silvery fluid was beginning to course along its hollow talons. It gave a low moan and Nuadu felt the nausea lift his stomach again, because there had been a very nearly sexual quality in the sound.
The Robemaker was standing very still, his hooded face turned in the direction of the Soul Eater and its victim.
The slaves were huddled together in a comer, their faces turned away, as if afraid that the Soul Eater’s attention might suddenly turn to one of them.
For from the power of a Soul Eater from the Cruachan Cavern, there is no escape, ever …
The winged creature had finished with the boy now and Nuadu thought it had taken its fill of the strange silvery liquid. But it remained still for a moment and there was the shimmer of silver about the boy’s head.
For the soul does not easily yield to those who will steal it for the purposes of evil …
And then the Soul Eater spread its wings again, and the pointed skull-like head turned to the Robemaker.
‘Another soul against your debt, Robemaker,’ said the creature in a dry, whispery voice. ‘The scales will have tipped a little farther over. But we ask far more of you before your bondage is at an end. There must be more souls for us, Robemaker.’
‘There will be more, Master,’ said the Robemaker.
‘You know the pronouncement,’ said the creature. ‘You must live with your curse until we have eaten our fill.’ And then, turning its head to look round the Workshops, it said, ‘We do not ask of you that you give us your slaves, Robemaker, for it is vital that the Looms are kept weaving. It is vital that you continue to suck from Ireland her heart and her being and her puny strengths.’