by Sarah Rayne
At once there was a slithering, chuckling sound from the Fomoire.
‘O but give us skins for murdering in,
And give us pelts of silken sin.
Hides of evil to conceal ourselves in,
And then you shall see us, puny Humanish one.’
Human skins. Andrew felt the sick horror of it wash over him.
The skins were not slung about the creatures’ waists, or even worn like cloaks or hooded robes, as Andrew had heard of other pagans doing. They had each taken a whole Human skin, which had been slit open down the front, neatly and cleanly. They had spread the skin flat on the ground.
And then they had climbed inside.
Andrew thought he had never seen anything so extremely sinister as these nearly concealed creatures who peered slyly from inside their Human carapaces. The Human heads lolled on the dead necks; the features were blank and staring, but even so, there was a travesty of life; the legs walked and the arms jerked, and you felt that at any minute the empty, dead eyes might open and turn to look.
But the walk was a horrid jerking walk, as if strings were being pulled from somewhere unseen, and as the heads fell forward, the jaws were slack, with the mouths open and tongues falling out.
They were the most sinister creatures Andrew had ever seen.
But most sinister of all was the way in which the slits which the Fomoire had used to climb inside were not quite closed. They gaped raggedly open and, through the gaps, the evil sly eyes of the Fomoire could be seen, peering out. It was rather as if something wicked and alien had hidden itself behind heavy curtains and was looking out through a chink.
I wonder what they are really like, thought Andrew, and as if the Fomoire had heard his thoughts, they began to chant again.
‘Give us skins of Humanish thin,
Hides of evil to conceal ourselves in.
A fleece with a rind of pale thin shale,
A murderer’s cloak, a child-eater’s veil.’
At the foot of the stair, the Gristlen chuckled and mumbled to itself, and Andrew looked back at it.
‘Won’t take the prettiness,’ it was saying, in its gloating bubbly voice. ‘It won’t be allowed. The prettiness is mine. The prettiness is to save me. I chose it for myself.’ Its eyes swivelled round to Theodora, and it rubbed its hard horny hands together with a dry leathery sound that set Andrew’s teeth on edge. He tightened his hold on Theo, feeling again that fierce surge of protectiveness.
The Amaranths were recovering; several of the younger ones had banded together to charge the Fomoire, and the Mugain and Cerball began a Chant which several of the others took up.
Rumour and Great-aunt Fuamnach were drawing a circle using the hazel wand, and Rumour was standing with her arms outstretched again, calling down ribbons of rainbow light. But even as the fight reached the ground, the Fomoire sent black glinting shards to splinter it, and the nearest of the creatures chuckled slyly, and reached out a hand from inside its Human skin.
Andrew heard Laigne scream and saw her dart forward, and in the same moment, several of the Fomoire pounced on Echbel and dragged him, struggling and flailing, across the floor to the Stair.
‘The cages! This one for the cages!’ they screeched, and Laigne screamed again, a terrible frantic sound, and clawed at the restraining hands of the Amaranths who were holding her back.
‘My boy! Echbel … Save him! Kill the evil filth!’
Cerball had moved at once, but the NightMare Stallions rode at him, rearing up on their hind legs, forming a guard, and striking him with their hoofs, so that he fell to the ground. The sorcerers backed away, looking to one another for guidance, and although there was not quite panic in their eyes, there was something very near it.
Theodora was aware of a strength and a comfort from Andrew, but she was very frightened. She was trying very hard to think what Great-grandfather would have done, although it was the hardest thing she had ever had to do, what with people screaming, and Echbel being dragged across the floor by several Fomoire, and what with Mamma crying and begging them to do something, anything, only save him. And chuckling and gobbling to itself on the Stair was the Gristlen. Theo sent it a sideways look, and sensed, as Andrew had not been able to sense, that the Gristlen possessed far more power and far more necromantic strength than the Fomoire. The Fomoire were hungry for Humans and they were wicked and sly, but the Gristlen was soaked in ancient evil and it was intelligent evil.
Great-grandfather would have known what to do. He would have saved Echbel and he would have vanquished the Gristlen. But I don’t know what to do! cried Theodora silently.
She looked up at Andrew, her eyes filled with anguish. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Andrew, his eyes on the struggling Echbel, his own mind searching frantically for a means of escape, said, Theodora, there is nothing you can do,’ and Theodora said, impatiently:
‘Yes, there ought to be something. Great-grandfather would say that I ought to be able to do something … He would expect me to do something.’
‘What?’
‘There ought to be a spell — something in Cadence … Only I can’t think of one!’ cried Theodora, torn between tears and anger. ‘I ought to be able to think of something, but I can’t!’
The Fomoire were dragging the screaming Echbel towards the Well, chuckling and prodding him, reaching out with hard, bony fingers, prodding and probing and fingering. ‘But preserve his skin!’ they cried. ‘No marks, no scars, no punctures!’
‘Preserve his skin for the wearing!’ shouted several more, leaping high into the air, the crimson fire glow falling eerily across them. The skins gaped wider now, and the Amaranths could see the wizened shapes of the Fomoire more clearly through the slits.
Theodora was staring at the Fomoire, and Andrew saw that she was still struggling to think of a spell, something the dying Amaranth Ruler would have known and invoked. He had just time to think all over again that this was a remarkable child, and he remembered how she had said that Nechtan would have expected her to know what to do, when the Fomoire began circling the Cavern again, pouncing and darting, and jabbing their tiny claws at the Amaranths.
‘Your puny spells will be useless!’ they cried in their gobbling voices. ‘We have the ancient dark blood in us and our powers are greater than yours! We have your little brother, and we shall take him back to our caves, and we shall enjoy him!’ They rubbed their hands gleefully together, leaping into the air, so that the dead heads of their Human garb rolled wildly.
‘Skins of Humanish thin!’ cried the Fomoire.
‘Cloaks of pale thin shale!’
‘To the cages with him!’
‘He is our reward for opening up the Gateway!’
Laigne, moaning, half lying at the centre of the Amaranths, with Herself of Mugain and Great-aunt Fuamnach supporting her, said in a terrified voice, ‘What will they do to him? What will happen?’ and at once the Fomoire turned, chuckling and leaping towards her.
‘We shall take him down to the black-mouthed caves.’
‘The caves that guard the entrance to the Dark Realm.’
‘Down below below —’
‘We shall lock him away in our cages.’
‘And while he is there, we shall anoint his skin with balms and unguents and with the fat of murderers’ brains.’
‘We shall bathe him thrice daily in the blood of unborn babes.’
‘Why?’ screamed Laigne, pushing away Great-aunt Fuamnach and trying to fight off the grinning, skin-clad creatures. ‘Oh why?’
‘To soften his skin, of course,’ cried the Fomoire.
‘To make it silken soft and Humanish thin.’
‘And when it is soft and when it is thin, then we shall flay him of his Humanish veil.’
‘And then we shall wear it!’
‘Do something!’ screeched Laigne, turning to the others imploringly. ‘Save him!’
The Mugain was facing the Fomoire truculently. ‘Why are you here?
’ he cried, and the Fomoire grinned and gibbered at him.
‘To take captives. To harvest the skins of Humans.’ There was a dry, leather-on-bone chuckle. ‘To fill the cages of our caves.’
‘To carpet the way for the Lord of Chaos,’ they cried, in sudden, disconcerting unison. And then, without warning, they turned to regard Theodora with their glinting sly eyes.
‘To steal away the Amaranth Princess,’ cried the Fomoire, and as the words formed, four of them leapt on Theodora and tore her from Andrew’s arms.
As Theo screamed, the Gristlen leapt to its feet, its face contorted with fury.
‘Mine!’ it shrieked. ‘That one is mine!’ It was almost dancing in fury, and for a moment Andrew thought it would fall on the Fomoire and tear Theodora from them.
But in the same instant, light blazed from the Well, and Andrew and the Amaranths fell back, dazzled. Andrew threw up his hands to shield his eyes from the vivid, hurting brilliance, and as he did so there was the dull, rumbling sound of something being rolled back; and so vast was it that Andrew’s senses spun. It is the stone from the sepulchre, he thought wildly. They are rolling back the boulder and opening up the tomb …
But it is not a tomb, it is a Gateway: The Gateway to the Black Realm, the entrance to the Dark Ireland … That is what they said might happen, that is what they feared … But this is not happening, thought Andrew. I won’t believe this is happening.
When the sick dazzle faded, he saw that, silhouetted against the fiery crimson, was a darkly gleaming figure, armoured in ebony and jet, and he knew that his senses had not entirely played him false.
Through the visor of the figure’s helmet glittered long, evil eyes, devoid of humanity and warmth, and beneath the gleaming black steel was a cruel, beautifully modelled mouth.
The Lord of Chaos.
*
The Amaranths and the Fomoire fell back at once, awe-stricken terror in every face. Andrew was half aware that the Gristlen had cowered back in its corner, snarling, but he had no eyes for the Gristlen; he could look only at the dark figure limned against the fight. Ice closed about his heart and he thought: evil! This is the most evil creature ever beheld.
He stared at the Lord of Chaos, and confused memories of Brother Stephen’s earnest teachings tumbled through his mind.
Not Satan, who tempted sinners to his wicked and sensual ways … Not Lucifer either; Lucifer who had been bright as the morning, radiant and seductive …
But something closely akin.
The Lord of Chaos, who would ride at Satan’s right hand when the powers of Hell were unleashed into the world … Who would beckon with that cold and beautiful allure to Mankind … Had Andrew’s quarry encountered this one? Had the Black Monk been here, and was it this strange and terrible lure that had ensnared him? And could I find it in me to blame him if it had? thought Andrew, caught in helpless fascination.
The inward-slanting eyes looked across at him, and Andrew felt his limbs weaken. A terrible numbness gripped him and the surface of his mind was stirred by a ripple of cold, malevolent amusement.
Puny Human to think you could challenge me.
The Fomoire were bowing before the Lord of Chaos, cringing and subservient, holding out their wizened hands here and there, throwing back the concealing skins, so that their tiny bald heads were visible and their wrinkled, ancient-crone faces gleamed.
Several of them tore off the skins completely and spread them on the floor before the figure in the doorway, making a carpet for him to walk across. Andrew saw, without really registering, that they were small and goblin-like beneath.
As the Lord of Chaos moved slowly forward into the Cavern, the Fomoire prostrated themselves on the ground, and in their chuckling, sly voices, began to chant, softly at first, and then more loudly.
‘Carpet the world in Human misery,
Strew thick the harvest of the creatures of night.
Lay down the gleanings of the soul-eaters Kill the veil of the world of light.’
The Lord of Chaos moved soundlessly across the Cave and stood directly in front of Theodora, still helpless in the Fomoire’s grip. His arms were crossed on his breast and his eyes glowed with hungry fervour.
Andrew looked frantically about him for something to create a diversion, and saw for the first time that, directly behind Chaos, an immense, blood-red chariot had formed, with great stone millwheels to draw it. At the helm were his three henchmen: Murder, Anarchy and Misrule.
Dismay closed about him, for he saw that, although they were less awesome than their Lord, they were terrible and immensely powerful.
In the prow of the chariot stood Murder, and Andrew received the impression of twisting dark shadows and a swirling black silk cloak, the hem draggled with blood. Behind him was a crimson, snarling, masked creature that must be Anarchy; and with Anarchy was Misrule, again masked, but this time by a sly, grinning carving of gold. But after the first glance, Andrew’s eyes went back to Chaos.
Chaos, the Dark Lord of the sinister Black Realm, treading across the carpet of Human skins laid for him by the Fomoire, his eyes glowing like coals.
This is evil, real and pulsating, and seductive. It is not the absurd red-eyed demon-figure of punishment that some of my Brothers try to instil into the minds of peasants and pagans; it is not the scaly, horned and tailed beast that some monks describe to force Christian conversion by fear.
This is pure, malevolent, intelligent evil.
Chaos accorded Andrew and the Amaranths barely a look. His eyes were still fixed on Theodora; they were burning and smouldering, and as he approached her the Fomoire fell back.
Chaos half turned and signalled to the three creatures waiting in the chariot, and Murder moved forward at once, his cloak swirling evilly and emitting a faint, noisome stench of stale blood. He scooped Theodora up in his arms and flung her into the great millwheeled chariot, and Anarchy and Misrule both let out screeches of malignant laughter; Misrule flung snaking silver chains about her wrists.
The Gristlen howled in fury and loped across the Cavern until it was standing before the immense chariot. It raised its fists in rage, and its eyes glittered with malevolence.
‘Mine!’ it screamed. ‘The prettiness was mine, to break the curse of the Dark Lords!’
Chaos turned to regard it, and as his eyes fell on the grotesque thing, he smiled with such cruelty that Andrew shuddered.
‘A Gristlen,’ he said, very softly. ‘A warped, exiled thing bearing the carapace of the necromancers’ anger.’ He studied it, and the Gristlen cowered. But Andrew saw Rumour make an abrupt movement, and glanced across at her in surprise. Rumour was watching the Gristlen very intently, and Andrew saw wariness in her expression. Did Rumour then believe the Gristlen to be an enemy to reckon with?
The Gristlen had thrown up its horny hands as if to hide its face from Chaos’s burning stare, but although it spoke in a cringing whine, the pale eyes peered slyly through its fingers.
‘You have taken the prettiness, Master,’ it said, and Andrew heard, for the first time, an underlying lick of arrogance in its voice and a cold, cruel anger. It said, ‘You have taken the one who could have dissolved the curse. Cruel, Master,’ said the Gristlen, and it crouched on the floor, wrapping its long arms about itself and rocking to and fro, keening softly.
Chaos walked round the Gristlen, his eyes never leaving it. ‘So you are one of the escaped creatures who walks the world dragging its curse,’ he said. ‘You are one of the outcast things who must find a willing female who will endure your foul embrace. Yes, I have heard of your kind, Gristlen. Perhaps I have even condemned transgressors of my own laws to such a fate.’
For a second, the Gristlen eyed Chaos levelly, and there was such hatred in its mien that Andrew thought: is that what happened to the loathsome thing? Was it one of Chaos’s people, and did it somehow offend his laws so that he pronounced a curse over it?
But the Gristlen looked away. It said, half to itself, ‘Prettinesses, all o
f them,’ and leered and twisted its hands together, darting sly glances at Theodora from the comers of its eyes. ‘And you have taken the best.’
‘Because she is the Amaranth heir,’ said Chaos, and Andrew drew in a sharp breath and thought: of course! Of course it would have been Theodora whom the Ritual would have named! He looked across the Cavern and for a moment his eyes met Rumour’s, and he saw understanding in her expression. Rumour of them all had seen Theodora’s remarkable power. Rumour had known, just as Nechtan had known: ‘Great-grandfather would expect me to do something,’ Theo had said.
Chaos turned away from the Gristlen, as if deeming it of no interest. He looked at Theodora, still held in the chariot by the sinister cloaked figure of Murder, and his lips stretched in the thin, cruel smile again.
‘A great prize,’ he said. ‘A brilliant mind already lit by the Sacred Flame of the Amaranths.’ He moved nearer. ‘It will be an intriguing challenge to reverse the Flame, my dear, and to see if we can coax it to burn in a dark mould. I have some skill in these things. Within the Castle of Infinity, you will meet creatures of blood so mixed that only necromancy could have created them.’ He struck his breast. ‘Only I could have created them!’ he said. ‘My life’s work! And if I can reverse the Amaranth Flame of the Dawn Sorcerers, it will be my finest achievement! I shall rule unchallenged!’
Andrew felt a ripple of horror go through the Amaranths, but only Rumour moved. Rumour swished forward, her silken skirts brushing the ground, and stood before Chaos, her chin tilted defiantly, a reckless light in her eyes.
‘Take me instead!’ she cried, and Andrew saw the Amaranths stare at her.
Chaos studied Rumour. ‘You are very tempting, my dear,’ he said at last. ‘I am honoured.’
‘But — you refuse? You prefer the child? Then you are indeed warped,’ said Rumour, contemptuously.
Chaos looked at her very intently, and Rumour held his gaze. And then he smiled, and it was a dazzling, darkly beautiful smile filled with unexpected intimacy, as if he recognised that, next to Theodora, Rumour was the strongest of the Amaranths, and as if he was sharing the knowledge with her and acknowledging her strength.