by Sarah Rayne
I shall endure it, said Floy silently, setting his teeth. I shall endure it and she will soon have done and then, perhaps, there will be a chance to escape. It cannot last for ever.
The Geimhreadh was flicking her forked tongue over his skin, little darting jabs that made his entire body crawl with repulsion. She squirmed her head across his body and darted between his legs. Floy felt the scaly skin brush his thighs and flung his head back, willing himself to endure without murmur.
The forked tongue darted again and the finlike hands curved about his stiff phallus, cupping it in a travesty of a lover’s caress … I shan’t feel any of it, said Floy silently. I shan’t know this is happening. I’ll remember that it’s part of the quest to help Nuadu and the others, that it’s part of the fight for them to regain Tara. Tara, the Shining Palace … Yes, that was better. That was a good thought, a clean thought. I’ll think about Tara and I’ll think about how Fenella and I might be able to be there properly, openly, how we might be able to enjoy the banquets and the feasts and the entertainments.
The forked tongue darted again, long and flickering, longer than seemed possible … it lengthened, curling whiplike from the creature’s flat lips and slid down into the shaft of Floy’s captured penis.
And down and down, probing deep into his body …
It felt like a million slimy cold needles pouring down, penetrating the most vulnerable part of him. It felt like every foul thing and every nightmare, and every slimed creature he had ever imagined, and every one of them was invading his body …
The Geimhreadh paused for long enough to glance up and to fix him with her basilisk eyes … See how I can enjoy you, Human morsel … And then returned to her horrid work, writhing and squirming against him, the fin-hands resting on Floy’s thighs to support her weight.
She made a really dreadful settling movement, as a creature about to hatch eggs will settle on a nest, and Floy felt the tongue again and struggled, for the cold wet was turning to white-hot needles. His loins felt as if they were being pierced, invaded by millions of tiny sizzling pokers …
The Geimhreadh made a terrible sucking sound and Floy’s muscles tensed and tightened. He set his teeth again and clenched his fists, but the creature’s tongue was embedded deep in his vitals and the Robemaker’s Cloak of Sensuality was all about him and there was no possible escape.
The climax, when it came, bore no resemblance to the soft explosions of pure pleasure he had known on Renascia. There was a deep, wrenching pain, a feeling of smothering, of something being suffocated, aborted, so that muscles which had been about to unfold, cramped, and nerve-endings winced. Floy half lifted his head and saw, with helpless disgust, the neck muscles of the Geimhreadh rippling as she swallowed his seed from its source …
Then there was a sound from the second couch and a sudden cry. The Geimhreadh turned her head just as Snodgrass slid from the second couch and into the River of the Dead.
Snodgrass had not intended to go directly into the dank waters of the River. He had, in fact, been working quietly and doggedly at the hair-ropes that bound him, as he had thought that the Geimhreadh and the Storm creatures would be so busy with Floy that they would not notice what he was doing.
He had thought that it ought to be quite easy to slip from the couch and hide somewhere outside the stone chamber until some kind of hue and cry was raised. (He had, in fact, been rather pleased at remembering this archaic expression.) Then he might find some way to rescue Floy.
It ought to have been easy to slip from the couch and hide somewhere. There was nothing to lose by at least trying this. Snodgrass had loosened the ropes carefully and furtively; it had been quite difficult, but he had managed it, strand by horrid strand, and he had actually been free for several minutes before he made his move. This had had to be judged very carefully indeed, because too soon would have attracted attention, too late and it would not have been worth escaping.
So he had judged carefully and he thought he had judged quite well, really. The pity was that he had not allowed for — or perhaps not seen — the cold slipperiness of the stone floor. He had slipped, not much, but enough, and the slip had turned into a skid and he had skidded straight into the River of Souls and found himself clinging to the sides, with the waters lapping about his ankles. There was a dreadful feeling of being pulled and a really terrible sensation of grasping hands within the River …
Come down into the depths, Human, and make one with us all … Snodgrass shuddered and tried to reach a safer footing, but the sides of the River were greasy and it was impossible to gain a hold anywhere. Snodgrass felt himself sliding away, so that the turgid waters of the River of Souls inched higher, and the reaching hands felt a little closer.
When Snodgrass cried out, Floy felt the Geimhreadh start back and, as she did so, the Wraiths swooped down about her head. There was a moment when the hooded eyes searched the shadows.
‘Where is the other one?’ said the Geimhreadh, and Floy saw the forked tongue flicker and dart, and then the Wraiths dived again and the Frost Giantess turned to urge them on.
The ropes that bound him had loosened beneath the Geimhreadh’s writhings and Floy, working frantically, managed to loosen them a little further. By dint of using his fingernails to saw at the ropes, strand by strand, he felt the coarse ropes part and his wrists spring free. The Geimhreadh was swaying to where Snodgrass was clinging to the sides of the River; for the moment she was not paying Floy any attention and Floy slid a furtive hand to the ropes about his ankles. It would be strand by strand again and he would have to work quickly and stealthily. I don’t know if I can do it, thought Floy, his eyes never leaving the undulating snake-form of the Geimhreadh. I don’t know if there will be time …
The watertight was rippling frantically on the stone walls now, as the River was churned into turbulent life by the threshing of the creatures within. Floy, hearing Snodgrass’s struggles, knew that the fish-Humans were no longer in their night torpor; they were alive and alert, and they were reaching out for the Human.
Come down down into the River of the Dead and join us, for we are sick for company and we are greedy for new friends …
The Geimhreadh had approached the River’s edge, moving with her ugly, legless gait which was not quite a walk but not quite a slither. The Wraiths swooped and screeched, darting at Snodgrass, prodding him with their long fingers, leering and chuckling and emitting their shrill cold cries.
Floy thought: and I am almost free. Only another few strands, only another minute or two, and I shall be free. And then the strands parted and he was free. He leapt from the couch and made for the River’s edge. He reached for Snodgrass at exactly the same moment as the Geimhreadh.
There was a hissing screech of fury as the monster whipped round, Floy felt his balance miss and he went headlong into the River of Souls, dragging Snodgrass with him …
At once, the River swirled into angry turbulence, and white spume appeared everywhere. From the dark turgid depths, there reared up dozens of pale, barely Human things, riding the waters and surrounding the helpless Floy and Snodgrass. The stench of rotting fish gusted into their faces, and there was the touch of scales brushing their skins, the sudden downward sucking of an underground tide.
Help us, Humans, SOULLED Humans … We cannot see you, but we can hear you and sense you and smell you, and we know you are free as we are not …
The soul-less creatures of the River of the Dead … They were all around Floy and Snodgrass, they were reaching for them with their rudimentary arms, riding the River’s flow in their blind fumbling compulsion to reach the creatures they could sense were close to them.
Floy, gasping and half-blinded by the churning waters, clutched at Snodgrass lest they should both be submerged. His vision was obscured by the white spumy River, but he could see that the creatures closest to them possessed scaly skins and that here and there the scales had thickened, repulsively, into shell.
Shell-backed creatures, grotesque cru
staceans that once were Human …
Their eyes were already protruding on thick gristly stalks and the bulbous growths at the ends of the stalks swivelled, seeking the fish-creatures’ prey. Floy struck out at the nearest, hating himself for hurting the poor doomed thing, but knowing it was the only chance to break free. He sliced frantically at the nearest creature’s eye stalk, severing it from the hideous body and, at once, the thick pale blood oozed over him so that he felt his entire body engulfed in sickened disgust.
But even as the half-blinded, shelled thing fell back, churning the River to boiling turbulence again, Floy and Snodgrass both felt the cold scaly creatures pulling them down beneath the surface. The thick slabby waters of the terrible River flowed into their eyes and their mouths and they tasted slime and weed. Snodgrass choked and fought and, as he did so, the pale bloated faces of the soul-less fish-beings loomed yet closer, and the anguish and the greed of the distorted minds flowed outwards.
Help us, Human ones, help us out of our eternal prison …
They were being pulled down and down, gasping and helpless, the green muddy River closing over their heads. Floy could feel Snodgrass’s hand on his arm and he grasped it at once, for they could not possibly lose one another.
Human, but covered partly in silvery scale-like growths; fins that were not quite hands but not yet fins flapped and reached, and in the dimness, they could see the breathing flap-like gills that the creatures had developed in their necks.
To Snodgrass, who did not like fish in any form, this was the most repulsive thing yet, and to Floy, who was feeling his lungs begin to burn and scald with the lack of air, it was sinister in the extreme. For these creatures, these soul-less victims of the Robemaker and his kind, have managed to survive down here … they have adapted to a half-life in the River because they have no souls and therefore will never die … But we shall die, thought Floy, feeling his vision blur and waver, knowing that in another moment, in a very few seconds, they would both be forced to draw in breath and, when that happened, water would flood their lungs and they would die …
They struggled frantically to get above the surface again and there was a brief respite as they emerged, gasping and retching, gulping in precious lungfuls of air before the fish-Humans reached for them again, and the dark green waters closed about them once more.
And then, just as Floy thought they must be facing death, Snodgrass clutched Floy’s arm and thrust his other hand ahead in a slow pointing gesture and Floy saw, directly ahead of them, light pouring outwards from somewhere, throwing into sharp relief the darting misshapen fish-Humans.
They both surged forward at once — although the light might mean nothing at all, thought Floy — and the fish-Humans surged with them, churning the River into turbulence again, so that the light shivered and blurred.
But it is still there! thought Floy, feeling his lungs nearly bursting, red lights beginning to flash before his vision. The light is there and if only, if only we can reach it …
And then, without warning, the fish-Humans moved faster, creating a sudden current of water, and then they were in the light, and there were dark walls of some kind of tunnel all about them. Floy summoned up one last shred of resolve, and pulled Snodgrass with him straight at the light.
They emerged, gasping, dripping wet and exhausted, into an underground cave, where the waters of the River of Souls lapped gently and quietly against pale white rock.
Floy thought they were both certainly more alive than dead. They drew in air thankfully and neither of them moved or spoke for a very long time.
And then Floy, pulling himself together, sat up and looked about him and saw that the cave was quite a shallow one; it was possible to see straight ahead, to where the mouth of the cave opened onto a calm, flat, night landscape of fields and trees and star-spattered sky.
There was a cold clearness to the scene and a cleanness about the air.
And then Floy looked to the left and saw rearing, elaborate gates and high city walls. From within the walled city there glowed warmth and light and, occasionally, tongues of flame licked high into the night air. Even at this distance, he could see that the city walls were red-gold and that the elaborately wrought gates were tipped with flame.
The Fire Court of the Sorceress Reflection. There was no doubting it.
Chapter Thirty-six
It was extremely boring to have to go down into Mother’s nightly gathering and pretend to be enjoying the revelries and the feastings. Flame thought it was the most boring thing that anyone could ever be expected to do.
She had a new gown, of course; Mother had chosen it, because Mother always did choose her gowns, which was something else that was extremely boring.
It all came of Mother pretending that Flame was actually much younger than she was, so that Mother could sigh and tell everyone how young she was herself, ‘Of course, I was the merest child when that creature Fael-Inis took advantage of my innocence.’
Fael-Inis was Flame’s father, and everyone in the Court knew that Mother had not been innocent at all, although everyone fell in with the story because none of them wanted to be flung incontinently from the Court and perhaps find themselves on the Gruagach Road which would mean facing the Frost Giantess and the Wraiths.
Reflection did not trouble her head over the Frost Giantess. ‘Oh, I can easily send out a spell or two to deal with her,' she said, when people wondered whether the Frost Giantess ever posed any kind of threat to Reflection’s territories. ‘Of course she is not a threat! The very idea! Everyone knows she never got beyond the most basic of spell-weaving -I feel rather sorry for her, if you want the truth. Poor creature, she is not much sought after these days. I have sometimes wondered whether it would be a kind gesture to ask her to supper … What do you think? Or even,’ said Reflection thoughtfully, ‘for a few days’ stay. But then, of course, she would devour all my young men and that would never do. Poor things, they are utterly loyal to me.’ She smiled her catsmile.
‘They do say,’ said Reflection, growing confidential, ‘that she bites off their phalluses, before she eats their bodies and spits them out into the River of Souls for the fish-Humans to catch. Well,’ said Reflection, with one of her superb shrugs, ‘such vulgarity, leave aside the waste. No, I really could not have such a person staying in my beautiful Fire Court. It would lower the tone and people are so quick to notice these things. Before we knew it, they would be saying that I had become common. And if there is one thing I will not become, it is common. The Geimhreadh will have to stay where she is. Although they do say,’ said Reflection, thoughtfully, ‘they do say, that Gruagach is in positive ruins. Well, it is very sad, but we cannot be worrying about other people’s problems when we have so many of our own.’
Mother did not really have any problems, or none that Flame knew about, unless it might be the almost certain arrival of a new set of bailiffs at the Fire Court, which was an occurrence so frequent that nobody remarked it any longer.
‘Fling them into the River,’ Mother usually said on these occasions. And then, ‘Or no, on second thoughts, let me inspect them first. Bailiffs can be quite extraordinarily attractive now and then. I believe it is the power they have over one. You would be almost certain to submit, just a little, to someone who could throw you out of your house if he wanted to. Authoritative,’ said Reflection, nodding. ‘Yes, very attractive.’
They had a total of twenty-seven bailiffs now living at the Fire Court as a result of Mother’s finding the species attractive. This was generally thought to be a reasonable proportion when you considered that nearly a hundred had come to the Court over the years.
‘Dear souls,’ said Reflection. ‘And they do enjoy one another’s company. I believe they have set up some kind of money-lending institution, solely for everyone here, and if that is not generous, I do not know what is. I believe, you know, that you could say I had founded a community,’ said Reflection thoughtfully. ‘Services to the rest of the Court.
&nbs
p; Very altruistic of me, wouldn’t you say?’
Mother liked it thought that she was generous. ‘I am the soul of generosity,’ she said whenever anyone was around whom it might be useful to let hear this. ‘Stories of my benevolence precede my coming everywhere.’ But, later, she would remind Flame that she had not a bottomless purse. ‘And where you find these hangers-on, Flame, I do not know. I do not know the quarter of the people who are to dine tonight.’
It was pointless to say that Flame knew none of the people either, because they would nearly all be adventurers or young men seeking their fortune, or poor younger sons on the make. Now and again there would be a few pilgrims, or genuine travellers, which could be quite interesting, but, in the main, the people who came to the Fire Court were ruffians and gamblers and opportunists.
‘The raff and skaff of Ireland,’ said Reflection, studying a guest list for that evening’s banquet and frowning. ‘Well, of course, my dear, it is entirely your affair who you ask here. I should not dream of turning away your friends. I never interfere,’ said Reflection, to whom interfering was meat and drink. ‘And I certainly never gossip,’ she said virtuously. ‘Y our father would tell you that, if he was here to tell you anything, which of course he is not.’
Flame’s father had never, to Flame’s knowledge, visited the Fire Court — ‘Too arrogant,’ said Reflection, ‘we are quite beneath his notice.’ — and, although Flame had never met him, she was intrigued by the stories, all of which she listened to. If you had to have a father whom you had never met, it was rather fun to have one who was mysterious and enigmatic and who was supposed to be able to whisk himself in and out of Time. As a child, Flame had listened to the servants’ gossip for hours on end, stealing down the narrow, curving steps which led to the sculleries and curling into a chimney comer where she could not be seen. She had crept down to the firerooms as well sometimes, where the immense furnaces that lit the Court were kept, and which had to be stoked and fed and maintained round the clock. This had not been so easy, because the fire-room workers guarded their domain jealously.