by Sarah Rayne
‘You see, Nuadu Airgetlam?’ said the Robemaker. ‘You see how easily I can influence your mind? You see how effortlessly I can conjure up the visions and tempt you into that Realm where I, too, am a Prince?’ He turned about abruptly, as if the subject was suddenly painful or an irritation. ‘It was the High King Erin who ruled in those days,’ he said. ‘And he it was who summoned the Court sorcerers to drive me out. It was those clever, smug Royal sorcerers, who wove the spell of punishment.’ A brief glitter of triumph showed deep within the hood.
‘But they were unable to chain me with their own powers,’ he said, softly. ‘They could not yoke me. And so they had to harness my own power — mine! They had to tap the source of my strength and turn it against me, until it formed a carapace, a cage that held me until they were ready to pronounce punishment.’ He turned about, the silken skirts of his robe hissing across the floor’s surface.
‘I was caged by my own power,’ he said in his soft, malevolent voice. ‘I was imprisoned and held captive by the very forces I had so long sought to perfect and that I had honed and polished until they were stronger and more glittering than anything ever known at Tara.’ He came back to stand directly in front of Nuadu.
‘But it was the High King Erin who pronounced the spell,’ he said and the cold bitterness was in his voice again. ‘He it was who stood in the deepest Sorcery Chamber of Tara and read from the Book of the Academy of Necromancers the incantation. For that,’ said the Robemaker, viciously, ‘I am sworn to inflict every curse and every torment I may summon on his House. That is why I joined with the Master CuRoi in his quest to possess Ireland. That is why I stooped to traffic with the Man-greedy Frost Giantess, and why I intrigued with her to drive out the Gruagach and why I helped the Gruagach to vanquish the High King and take Tara.’
A rather terrible bubble of mirth broke from him. ‘The Gruagach did not suspect,’ said the Robemaker. ‘Never once, during our association, did they guess that I was using them to further my revenge against the Wolfkings. But the Wolfkings have been exiled and, although the Gruagach are at Tara, it is I who truly rule. That was always my intention. It is still my intention.’ He paused, and appeared to study Nuadu. ‘It is why you are here, Wolfprince. Your half-brother lies deep inside the Dark Realm and, unless he is rescued, you are Tara’s heir. You are a bastard, but you possess the Royal blood and also the Wolfblood. If you called to the people, they would follow you because of that.’ Deep within the concealing hood, there was a gleam of pure hatred. ‘You are the heir presumptive,’ hissed the Robemaker, ‘and as such you must be quenched and crushed.
‘I shall put you to the treadmills, Nuadu of the Silver Arm, and I shall enjoy seeing you suffer. I shall enjoy seeing you suffer as I have suffered.’ With an abrupt gesture, the dark, bony, black-clad hands came up and the hood was thrust back. The flickering light from the furnaces fell across his exposed face.
‘You see?’ cried the Robemaker harshly. ‘You see what it was that the High King Erin pronounced over me! You see the curse I bear, Wolfprince!
‘Erin pronounced on me the Draoicht Tinneas Siorai.
‘The Enchantment of Eternal Disease.’
Nuadu was glad that he was unable to speak, for to have done so, to have uttered any kind of sound, would certainly have been to betray the utter revulsion that engulfed him. He thought he made some kind of strangled gasp; he knew his eyes would have expressed his emotions. He found himself hovering for a dangerous moment between pity and fear and he fought down the pity at once, for it was not to be thought of that he should feel such an emotion for this evil being. But as he stood facing the Robemaker in the low-ceilinged workroom, the humming of the Silver Looms all about them, the dry heat stifling and the air thick with the red glow of the furnaces, he looked fully into the face of his captor and thought: what did he do to Ireland's Royal House to deserve such punishment?
Seen without the concealing hood, the Robemaker’s face was mutilated and eaten away, so that here and there white bone gleamed. But even the bone itself is eaten away in places, thought Nuadu, sick with horror.
The Robemaker’s skin was covered with suppurating sores, great festering, oozing ulcers, leprous growths, cancerous chancres. In places, the bone was exposed and, in the uncertain light, Nuadu could nearly believe that it had been nibbled.
Yes, Wolfprince, nibbled, gnawed, ravaged by the bone-eating curse of Erin's sorcerers … The Draoicht Tinneas Siorai …
There was a lipless mouth, there were deep eye sockets from which gleamed the small evil, old eyes of the necromancer. Nuadu could see that even the pale, jellied part of one eye was partly missing and he had the sudden sickening impression that it had been eaten away from within.
At the centre of the face was a concave portion and Nuadu knew that the jutting bone of the nose had gone. There were two cavernous nostrils and Nuadu realised that this was the reason for the hissing whispering voice.
The malevolent smile lifted the terrible mouth again. ‘You see?’ said the Robemaker. ‘You see how the Wolf-kings reward those who dare to go against them?’ With a swift, savage gesture, he tore off the dark gloves. ‘You see?’ he said, thrusting skeletal hands forward and Nuadu flinched, for the hands were as ravaged and as eaten as the Robemaker’s face; the nails hung by shreds, and the remaining skin was matted and crusted.
‘One of the most malicious and vicious curses of the Amaranth sorcerers of Tara,’ said the Robemaker and pulled the hood back into place, so that it was once again the forbidding cloaked being who stood there. ‘I have worked for many centuries to lift it, Nuadu, but it is a long hard task, for the punishment was to be eternal.’ He stopped, and Nuadu waited. ‘At last I bargained with the Soul Eaters,’ said the Robemaker softly. ‘I bargained with them to regain my body and my powers. I traded with them so that the young girls of the country would no longer shrink from me in revulsion,’ he said, and there was a lick of sensuality in the hissing voice now. ‘For,’ said the Robemaker, softly and slyly, ‘if the Geimhreadh has the voracious appetites of all her race and seeks to suck dry every man who comes into her power, then I have the carnal appetites of Men.’ His eyes gleamed redly again. ‘The Gruagach think to buy the daughter of Reflection and Fael-Inis for their King,’ he said. ‘But it is I who will have that one! I will embrace her and caress her and possess her.’ Lust glowed redly in his terrible face, and then faded.
‘The Soul Eaters know me well by now,’ he said. ‘For I have gone many times to the Cavern of Cruachan. I have many times entered into the place that is called, and rightly, the Gateway to Hell.
‘I have taken souls to my Masters, Wolfprince, and every one I give them is placed on the Silver Scales of Justice.’ He looked up as Nuadu made a quick movement and Nuadu caught again the amusement.
‘Yes, Wolfprince,’ said the Robemaker in his soft diseased voice. ‘Yes, those Scales that the faithful foolish Gnomes of Gallan wrought for Erin and which disappeared towards the end of his reign.’ He moved closer to Nuadu and Nuadu caught the stench of diseased flesh. ‘The Soul Eaters took them,’ said the Robemaker. ‘Just as they will take everything of any value in Ireland. The Scales are in the Cruachan Caves, in the Court of the Soul Eaters, and every soul I offer up is placed on the Scales. And every time that happens, the Scales weigh a little more heavily in my favour.’ He was standing looking down on Nuadu now, the dark, silken cloak swirling. ‘Soon the Scales will tip in my favour,’ he said. ‘Soon I shall have given enough souls to my Masters. It is then that I shall be restored.’ The Robemaker laughed, and the sound made Nuadu’s skin prickle with horror, for it was a sickening bone-against-bone sound. Lipless mouth … noseless face.
And then: he has rendered up countless souls to the creatures of the Cruachan Caves, thought Nuadu. Why, then, has he not been released?
The white shafts of the Stroicim Inchinn darted again and Nuadu felt the piercing brilliance.
‘You are very innocent, Wolfprince,’ said the Robemaker. ‘T
here is one soul I must still take and give to my Masters.’ And then, as Nuadu tilted his head, waiting, ‘The soul of Ireland’s High King,’ said the Robemaker, and again the fleshless chuckle bubbled from him.
‘But you know already that he is held within the Dark Ireland and that he is captive in a deep and subtle enchantment. You have long since suspected what happened to your half-brother after the Gruagach stormed Tara and killed the King.’ He leaned even nearer and Nuadu stood his ground and managed to withstand the stench of the suppurating flesh and the rotting bones. ‘We fought over him, Nuadu Airgetlam,’ said the Robemaker, and there was a slick lascivious tone to his voice now. ‘The Dark Lords fought over who should have the chaining of him.’ A frown touched his eyes for a moment. ‘And because there are those whose powers are yet greater than mine, I lost him,’ he said. ‘He is held in thrall to the Dark Ireland, but it was not my enchantment that chained him.’
He stared at Nuadu, and Nuadu stared back, and thought: CuRoi! So CuRoi does have him!
The Robemaker said, ‘I shall reach him, of course. I shall reach him and when I have done that I shall break him.’ He studied Nuadu for a moment. ‘I shall break him,’ he said. ‘If it takes me seven centuries, I shall do it.’ There was the white gleam of bone as he smiled. ‘I shall give him to the Geimhreadh to play with for a few nights,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I shall watch while she drinks her fill of his manhood and sucks him dry of his accursed wolfseed. She and I are long since sworn one to aid the other,’ said the Robemaker. ‘And there is much pleasure in watching a virile young creature brought to impotency.’
The lipless mouth leered. ‘Have you never heard of the Geimhreadh’s pincer hands that hold her victim’s phallus in place and have you never heard of her darting pronged tongue that licks and pierces into the shaft of her victim’s phallus?’ said the Robemaker, softly and insinuatingly. ‘Then you, also, must be given that pleasure, for I should not care for you to miss an instant of any pain, Wolf-prince.’ He leaned closer and Nuadu regarded him unflinchingly. ‘I shall break you as well, Nuadu of the Silver Arm’ said the Robemaker. ‘You may defy me now, but you will not continue to do so. Even though I have chained and muzzled you for the Wolf you are, still your eyes challenge and your mind defies.’ The lipless mouth smiled again.
‘I shall put you to the treadmills,’ said the Robemaker. ‘I shall make use of you and you will work alongside my slaves here. You will work until your feet are stripped raw of flesh and until your legs are bowed and your skin is shrivelled. Only then, Wolfprince, only when you are cowed and submissive, only when I have drawn from you every shred of defiance, when I have extracted every sliver of pleasure I can from your predicament, shall I take your soul.
‘And when you and your royal half-brother have been sucked dry of every drop of accursed wolfseed by the Frost Giantess; when you have been deprived of every drop that might bear fruit in some unknown womb and create another wolfcreature, I shall give you both to the Soul Eaters.
‘With those two souls placed on the Scales of Sorcery and rendered to the Soul Eaters, my debt will have been paid.
‘My powers will be restored — and I shall rule Ireland forever.’
Chapter Twenty-four
Floy and Snodgrass had stopped to rest on the outskirts of the Wolfwood.
Floy thought he would have rather enjoyed this journey if it had not been for the nagging concern about Fenella, left behind in the giants’ hands. He would have enjoyed seeing more of this blue and green misty world with the lingering scents of ancient magic everywhere and he would have liked to see some of its people and found out how they lived and what they did and if they were happy.
But the few houses they passed seemed to have their doors locked and bolted and their windows shuttered. Floy looked with interest at the fields and pastures and thought that, although they were much larger than the ones on Renascia and the crops and vegetables were not quite the same, there was not so very much difference, really.
But they were untended. They were deserted and desolated and there was a terrible, bleak air of neglect everywhere. Floy remembered what Nuadu Airgetlam had said about the Robemaker taking sacrifice from the ordinary Irish people and putting the sons to work in the Dark Workshops and guessed that the people had simply lost heart. How must it be to tend your bit of land and sow crops and vegetables and perhaps rear animals, knowing you were building up a comfortable home and an inheritance for your children and then see your children taken and forced into slavery by the Robemaker?
As they rode farther along the road, Floy glimpsed the occasional peering face at a cottage window and guessed that the sounds of their horses on the highroad and perhaps the sight of Balor’s huge menacing figure, had sent them all scuttling indoors for safety. This was a truly dreadful way for people to live. Plainly they went in constant fear of the Robemaker and the Dark Realm. Clearly all the heart was going not only from the land, but from the people as well. He began to feel extremely glad that they had agreed to help the exiled Court. He thought they had unquestionably been right to believe Nuadu and Tealtaoich and the others.
With Balor loping along at their side, they could not discuss whether Fenella would be all right, or speculate how soon she and Caspar would catch them up, or even try to spy out a place to stop and wait for them. Several times Floy cast sidelong looks at Balor, trying to decide how percipient he might be, but Balor simply turned his head and grinned the gap-toothed grin and occasionally nodded amiably. Once he hummed a snatch of song, which was something about hunting Humans for the Fidchell and about turning them on spits and serving them up as Manpie.
But although he might not be bright, Balor’s head was on a level with Floy and Snodgrass as they sat astride the two horses and he was twice the size of either of them. He would very easily subdue them if they attempted to escape. He would certainly notice if they tried to leave signs for Fenella and Caspar to follow.
The Wolfwood was as dark and as secretive as it had been when they journeyed through to the Forest Court with Nuadu, but here and there, deep within the Trees, Floy caught the darting movement of green and gold; the rustling of silver-tipped leaves that looked, for a moment, like the trailing hair of a creature almost Human …
He touched Snodgrass’s arm and nodded in the direction of the forest and Snodgrass said, very softly, ‘The Trees. Miach’s spell,’ and Floy thought: so, after all, he woke them. He wondered whether they would see the Tree Spirits and then he wondered whether they wanted to see them. They had sounded rather fearsome beings.
‘Puny things, Trees,’ Balor said. ‘Chop’em down and use’em for firewood, I say.’ He dealt a nearby Tree a rather contemptuous blow with the flat of his hand and Floy saw the Tree trunk quiver under the impact. ‘And now a bite to eat,’ said Balor, grinning the wide, flat grin of all the Gruagach. ‘A bite to eat and then we’ll be getting along again.’
There was nothing for it but to do as he suggested. As they dismounted it crossed Floy’s mind that the longer they could delay, the better chance Fenella and Caspar had of catching them up. In the same moment, he realised that it would be extremely dangerous for Fenella to join them. Balor would at once know that they had outwitted Inchbad and Goibniu.
They walked a little way into the Trees, where it would be more comfortable to sit on the thick, dry forest floor and eat their food and rest. Dusk was beginning to touch the forest and deep shadows lay across the small clearing where they sat down. Balor leaned back against the nearest Tree and Snodgrass unpacked the food and spread it out.
‘A good spread,’ said Balor, his small eyes lighting. ‘I like a good spread.’ He reached for a half loaf of bread with both hands and said, by the six hairs of his grandmother’s beard, they were doing very well out of all this.
‘And it’s a fine day for a journey,’ he said.
Floy was still turning over in his mind ideas and schemes for getting rid of Balor. It was extremely difficult to know what to do with a gia
nt who loped along at your side and who could reach out and pluck you from your horse’s back with one hand. Floy thought that, even if they broke into a gallop (which he was not at all sure about doing), Balor would simply increase his own pace and catch them very easily.
Floy and Snodgrass ate the food without noticing it very much, but Balor snatched great handfuls from the pack and crammed them into his mouth, spraying crumbs everywhere, letting grease dribble down his chin.
‘Pork,’ he said, nodding. ‘Roast pig. Very nice.’ And then, with a sudden cackle, ‘But not as nice as roast Human. By the whiskery snout of the gods, it’s nowhere near as good. But I see there’s blood sausage,’ he said, and sent them such a terrible leery grin, that Snodgrass, who had been cutting himself a slice from this, which he had innocently thought was something like the spicy Renascian liver-and-wine-roll, recoiled and snatched his hand back as if he had been burnt.
Balor grinned at Snodgrass and smacked his lips and grabbed the cask of mead and thought that hadn’t the Humans strange, mimsing appetites to be sure. There was nothing so fine as a good meaty portion of best blood sausage.
Floy had been surreptitiously trying to gather up stones which they could arrange at the roadside, perhaps in the form of an arrow for Fenella and Caspar. But, even as he did so, he knew that such a small sign would almost certainly be missed. They needed to leave something noticeable, something that could easily be seen and not misunderstood. And anything noticeable by Caspar and Fenella would also be noticed by Balor.