by Sarah Rayne
She regarded them, and Floy said, with perfect courtesy, ‘That is a strange ancestry.’
The snake-head swivelled. ‘Is that discourtesy, Human morsel?’
‘Merely a statement of fact, ma’am.’ Floy smiled blandly, and the Geimhreadh drew her head back and a faint, hissing sound emitted from her jaws.
‘Listen, Human morsel,’ she said, ‘when I made my Lair here, I did so because I knew that deep beneath the Castle of Gruagach ran a branch of the River of Souls.’ The lidless eyes flickered to the stone archway, where the dark, sinister River lapped greedily at the banks.
‘Deep within the Realm that is sometimes called the Dark Ireland, I have built an ice palace,’ said the Geimhreadh, ‘A place of cold northern winds and dark icy gales, with dark, subterranean rivers where I and my people can live for many years without once seeing light.’ She regarded him, the fin-hands quivering, the forked tongue darting. ‘But no Humans ventured there,’ she said. ‘No warm-blooded Human morsels came to my Lair and I became hungry.’ The worm’s head undulated slightly.
‘And so, when the one your people call the Robemaker drove out the Gruagach Giants, I made my nest here.’ A fin-like hand gestured. ‘Here, where the ancient, eternal River of Souls runs deep into the mountains, until it reaches the terrible Prison of Hostages from which no creature ever escapes.’ The head swayed again. ‘Once I have emptied you of your seed, Human,’ said the Geimhreadh, ‘once I have tasted your marrow and your blood, I shall throw your dried-out husk of a body to the River.’ The flat, scaly lips parted in amusement. ‘The Soul Eaters fish the River,’ said the Geimhreadh. ‘It is one of their hunting grounds. Your body is for my pleasure but, afterwards, your soul will be trapped beneath the surface of the River of Souls; it will be caught in the endless ebb and flow of the River, until it is taken by the Soul Eaters.’
‘We shall see,’ said Floy, and smiled with the same courtesy.
‘Are you mocking me, Human?’ asked the Geimhreadh in a soft voice. ‘I do not allow Human creatures to mock me.’
‘I do not mock,’ said Floy, but his eyes were defiant. ‘Will you tell us why we have been brought here?’
‘The Storm Wraiths are ever on the watch for victims.’ There was a soft, boneless movement from the ice throne and the Geimhreadh came towards them. Floy and Snodgrass saw that she had to push herself from the throne with the half-formed webbed hands and that, once upright, she did not walk like a human creature, but half slithered, half dragged herself.
A pale worm, a slithering, crawling, sluglike thing … part fish, part snake, part ogress … Floy stayed where he was and set a guard over his thoughts, but when she stood directly in front of them, the vermicular head studying them, he could not repress his revulsion. The creature’s head was darker than her body but, even through the thin, gauzy wrappings, he could see the pale, writhing body, the thin-ringed skin, here and there covered with the faintly luminous scales that bespoke the fishblood, thick and repulsive.
The Geimhreadh laughed, the obsidian head swaying from side to side again. ‘You find me ugly, Human,’ she said, ‘I wonder how you will feel when you are held in my embrace?’ A fin-like hand moved and brushed across Floy’s thighs and, despite himself, he flinched.
‘Strong,’ said the Geimhreadh, her voice becoming clotted with pleasure. ‘Well fleshed. Well muscled’ The hooded eyes narrowed. ‘I shall enjoy this one.’ And then, with a sudden writhing movement, she turned to the waiting storm creatures. ‘Tie them down,’ said the Geimhreadh.
The storm creatures leapt at once and Floy and Snodgrass were both held in an icy vice-like grip.
‘The ropes!’ cried the Geimhreadh. ‘Use the ropes!’ And then, as Floy felt the ropes binding him again, she said, in a thick, mucus type of voice, ‘Made from the pubic hair of my victims, Human. Can you not feel that? Can you not smell the blood and the spent seed?’ She writhed nearer again on her squat, waddling feet, the tiny hands flapping. ‘And soon you will contribute, Human,’ she said. ‘Soon you, also, will be drained of seed and blood. What is left will be given to the Storm Wraiths and then, Human morsels, then you will be thrown to the River so that the Soul Eaters may take your soul.’
She fixed her slitted lidless eyes on Floy and, the slimy lick of pleasure overlaying her voice again, said, ‘Tie this one well, for tonight I feel hungry for a Man-Human.’
Chapter Thirty-two
Fenella and Nuadu Airgetlam stood on the shores of the dark, lapping lake, with night closing about them, and stared out across the wide expanse of water to the Isle of Cruachan. Mist swirled before them and the black, rearing bulk of the island swam in and out of drifting clouds.
‘Cruachan,’ said Nuadu softly. ‘The Court of the Soul Eaters. Or perhaps it is only the Gate to Hell.’ And then, looking down at her, ‘Well, my Lady? Are you ready to traverse into Hell and beyond with me? You certainly entered Hell to find me, Fenella. You certainly braved worse than Hell to rescue me.’ He was standing very close to her and Fenella could detect, very faintly, the strange, exciting golden wolfscent.
But it would not do to let him see how delight ran all over her when he called her ‘my Lady’, and how her skin burned at the touch of his hand, so she said, in a rather preoccupied voice, ‘How do we get across the lake to the centre?’ She saw him smile and make a brief gesture of acceptance, as if he might be saying: well, if you do not wish to discuss what you did for me, then we will not.
He pointed across the lake and Fenella saw that there was a narrow causeway of rock, which would enable them to walk straight across to the black island. ‘You see?’ he said, and narrowed his eyes for a moment, gauging the distance. In the fading light, his eyes were brilliant and a lock of dark hair had fallen across his brow, making him appear younger, suddenly and disarmingly vulnerable. Cruachan was directly behind him as he looked at Fenella and, for a moment, he was silhouetted against the crimson-streaked sky. He was smiling at her, but there was a reckless light in his eyes. ‘Come, Lady,’ he said, softly, and took her hand.
The crag was at the exact centre; as they walked cautiously towards it, it reared up before them, a great dark shape against the violent night sky. Fenella stood still and craned her neck to look at it. You had to stand back from it and lean right back to see to the top and, if you did that, you had the feeling that the crag might be toppling forward onto you. It was not difficult to imagine that there were dark worlds within it and that dark, grotesque beings lived inside it, and peered through the chinks and watched them approach, and nodded and said to one another: yes, yes, these two will do very nicely … we will snare these two.
Nuadu said, very softly, ‘Fenella. Look. Up there.’ And pointed with the gleaming silver hand, and Fenella narrowed her eyes, and tried to follow his hand.
And then saw, half-way up the crag, a little to the left, what Nuadu was indicating. A deep fissure, a great wide split in the rock about a third of the way up. A deep, echoing, jagged-edged crack, yawning and gaping … There was a narrow-looking ledge just beneath it. Fenella thought it was just about wide enough for someone to stand upright. And it would lead into the rearing crag, and down and down beneath the surface of the lake … Into the dark bowels of Cruachan and on to the Gates of Hell.
Nuadu said, ‘Ready, Lady?’
‘No,’ said Fenella, her eyes on the fissure. ‘No, not really.’
‘But if I lead you will follow?’
‘Do I have any choice?’
She saw the sudden whiteness of his teeth as he grinned. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You can go back the way we came. You will probably find help somewhere.’ He looked at her. ‘Well, Fenella?’ said the Wolfprince softly and Fenella shivered with pure delight, because his tone held the caress again, the lick of desire, the soft stroking note. ‘Do you want to turn back, Lady?’ said Nuadu, softly.
Fenella returned his look and at last said, ‘I don’t really think I can, do you?’ And looked at him, and was delighted all over again, b
ecause, of course, they were not simply referring to the Cruachan Caves and it was remarkable and a bit frightening as well to know that, whatever she said, no matter the words she used, he would always hear the meaning behind them.
‘There is no going back, Fenella,’ said Nuadu, and again the smile slid out. He reached out and traced the outline of her face with the hand that was warm, living flesh. ‘There will never be any going back, Lady,’ said the Wolfprince softly and turned to begin the climb to the cave entrance.
The ledge was wider than it had looked from the ground. Nuadu reached it with ease pulling Fenella after him. He stood up, looking about him, and there was a look in his eyes now which suggested he was enjoying himself.
Of course I am enjoying it, Lady … Wolves prowl in all kinds of dark and dangerous places … Or did you not know that?
‘Also,’ he said, aloud, ‘for the first time for — oh, I do not know how long — I am actively serving Ireland.’ He turned to look at her and the shadows fell across his face so that the wolf-look was more strongly marked than Fenella had ever seen it. ‘I am no longer bored,’ said Nuadu. And then, studying her, his head tilted consideringly, ‘Have you never experienced boredom, Fenella?’ he asked. And Fenella, who had known all about boredom on Renascia, where ladies were not expected to do very much at all, and who had tried to change it, nodded and did not speak. And Nuadu said gently, ‘Yes. Of course you have.’
The fissure was directly before them, and as they passed under the overhang of rock into the darkness within, Fenella felt a great smothering heaviness descend. She shivered, and at once Nuadu drew closer, the flesh and blood arm about her, warm and strong and comforting.
Moonlight seeped into the crag, silvering the rock floor and touching the hard irregular walls. Here and there, alcoves had been cut into the tunnel’s side: man-shaped and man-height. Iron stakes were embedded into the alcoves, with thick, black chains. It was impossible not to conjure up vivid image of prisoners caught and held and manacled, left to rot in the dark …
From somewhere came a distant sound of water dripping, echoing coldly and rather desolately, and there was the faint, foul stench of ancient evil. It was as if something loathsome had died and lain rotting in a pool of putrescence for a very long time. Fenella hoped she would not be sick.
From time to time darting shadows flickered on the tunnel walls and the rock ceiling, black and sinister, moving and then vanishing. Fenella began to have the impression that they were being watched and followed and that, at each twist in the tunnel, evil peering things waited and watched and then whisked quickly out of sight, to be replaced, further along, by others.
But the shadows never quite materialised and although they could hear the scurrying of clawed feet quite plainly now, and the rather horrid sound of thin, boneless tails slithering across the rock floor, and although several times they whipped round quickly to confront something behind them, they did not actually see anything.
‘But,’ said Nuadu, very softly, ‘we are certainly being watched and certainly reports of some kind are being carried ahead of us.’
‘To the Soul Eaters?’
‘Probably,’ said Nuadu. ‘For the Soul Eaters are served by strange peoples.’ His arm tightened about her. ‘Afraid, Lady?’ he said, and, as she sought for the right words, ‘Of course you are afraid. But you are refusing to admit it.’
‘I’m pretending,’ said Fenella in a very low voice. ‘I’m pretending that I’m not afraid, because if I pretend hard enough — ’
‘You may even discover it to be the truth. Of course.’ He looked down at her. ‘You are the most courageous lady I shall ever know,’ he said. Then, without warning, he turned, his head tilted in the listening pose, and said sharply, ‘Fenella, is that light ahead?’
Fenella peered into the shadows, which were still thick and clotted and rather horrid. It was very easy to look at them and imagine that grotesque beings were standing behind you, silent and waiting; it was very easy to visualise all manner of creeping, lurking evils.
But she said, firmly, ‘Yes, I believe it is light. A bit to the left. Reddish and dull-looking. And there’s a stone archway — what would it be?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Nuadu, and stopped and looked down at her again, his eyes serious and intent. ‘I am frequently ironic and nearly always cynical, Lady,’ he said. ‘But if I can keep you from danger, I vow to you now that I will do so.’
Fenella stared at him, her mind tumbling. In the strange reddish light from beyond the archway, he was smiling the wolfsmile, exciting and mischievous and intimate, and Fenella sought for something to say.
And then the shadows leapt and pranced wildly and into the narrow tunnel came swarming nightmarish beings, lean feral creatures neither quite human nor beast, but a dreadful lumpish blending of rat and weasel and stoat … Scores of them, thought Fenella, shrinking back, appalled and frightened.
At her side, Nuadu said very softly, ‘The Rodent Armies of the Dark Realm — ’ And reached at once for Fenella, pulling her to him. The creatures had surrounded them easily and swiftly, almost before there was time to think; their mean red eyes glinted evilly from the shadowy tunnels and their saliva-drenched teeth grinned in their fur-covered faces. Fenella, knocked back against the tunnel wall by the sudden onslaught, received the tumbled impression of pointed hungry muzzles and thin sinuous fur-covered bodies and sly vicious faces with whiskers and snouts.
The creatures pinioned the two intruders’ wrists at once, holding them in tight cruel grips. Fenella gasped and tried to pull away from the grinning slavering faces, but they were all about her, holding her firmly and dragging her forward to the red-lit Cavern. The stench of them closed about her in a smothering, fetid blanket, so that for a few nightmare moments she could barely breathe.
To her left, Nuadu was snarling and lashing out, and for a moment Fenella thought he would overpower their assailants. He was being held by four of the creatures, but he was still fighting, he was resisting their attempts to pull him into the Cavern and in the uncertain light his eyes showed red. For a second, Fenella saw the planes of his face shift and blur, until it was no longer a Human face, it was a wolfmask, lean and hungry and snarling … He will not give in to them, she thought. Whatever they are, he will fight them every inch of the way. We are here to find the Soul Eaters and to enter the Cruachan Cavern but he will not enter it as a captive.
As if he had caught this, Nuadu sent her a sudden grin, and seemed to shrug, and to say: after all, what does it matter? and allowed the rodent creatures to drag him forward.
Into the Court of the Soul Eaters.
The ancient and terrible Cavern of the Cruachan Soul Eaters was lit to sinister life by flaring wall torches that gave out a thick, menacing glow, and cast dark evil shadows in the corners.
To Fenella’s horrified eyes, it seemed at first to be filled with the evil red-eyed creatures who had captured them. They were ranged along the walls, each one bearing a thin cruel spear with a gleaming spike at the top. Fenella caught the warm feral stench of rat and stoat and weasel, and overlying it all, a nauseating, stomach-churning miasma of putrefaction and decay and old rotting flesh.
They were both flung forward onto the hard rock floor and their captors stood over them, spears poised to lunge. Fenella, gasping for breath, caught the whisper of a thought from Nuadu: at least they have not bound us, Lady … At least we are unfettered … He leapt upwards in a single angry bound and stood challengingly on his feet glaring, as if he might be saying: how dare you treat me in this manner!
A great circular table, hewn from the solid rock of the cave, and worn smooth by the usage of centuries, stood at the cavern centre and Fenella, staring at the smooth-as-silk stone, felt all of the old Earth legends ebb and flow in her mind … Sacrificial altars and stone tables and tabernacles and oratories … There were sinister dark stains on the table’s surface — don’t think about them, said Fenella silently, and managed to stand alongside Nuadu, lo
oking about her with a fair assumption of bravery.
The legendary Cruachan Cavern was high-ceilinged and vast. Etched into the rock walls were carvings, elaborate cave-pictures, and there was the gleam of silver from the great stone table. Fenella saw that it was set with chalices and platters and remembered that the Soul Eaters were said to hold a nightly banquet and to feast on the Souls brought to them by their dark servants. Behind the table were Thrones, each one on a small, raised platform, and behind each platform was a heavy swathe of black velvet, marked with symbols of some kind. Fenella noticed briefly that each symbol was different, as if each Soul Eater might be descended from a different lineage, although it was difficult to think what lineage such creatures might claim.
And on each of the Thrones sat the Soul Eaters themselves …
They were not identical. Fenella and Nuadu saw this at once. There were differences, individual characteristics. Somehow this was the most sinister thing about them, because it suggested that each one would possess its own warped personality, it would have its own peculiar traits and desires and greeds.
Each Soul Eater sat watchfully on its carved throne, its massive wings folded across its breast like a cloak, partly obscuring the rest of its body. Their bodies were not so very large; perhaps no more than man-size, but it was easy to see that their wing-spans would be many times wider than a man’s outstretched arms. Nuadu, remembering the single one he had seen in the Robemaker’s Workshops, guessed that the wing-spans would be easily fifteen feet in width. The creatures were covered in something that was not quite skin and not quite leathery scale, but something between the two. Something dark and tough, something that made you think of words like crust and hulk and hide.
Their heads were bony, long narrow skulls with slanting, baleful eyes. There was a flat, slashlike mouth and a rather horrid insect-like formation in the way the central bone — in a human it would have been the nose-bone — joined to the mouth. Several of them had homed heads, but in a few the horns were stumplike protuberances high up on the bony skulls.