by Sarah Rayne
‘And then,’ said Rumour, ‘you returned to Tiarna.’
‘And then I returned to Tiarna,’ said the Fisher King. Exultation touched his voice, sending it spiralling into madness. ‘And I am again in the Palace that was once mine! The sidh are helpless, they are dying in the place they call the Silver Cavern, which once was my Throne Room!’ He struck his breast in triumph. ‘My Arena of Execution!’ he said. ‘Where my prisoners were forced to fight the Fomoire and the nimfeach to their deaths as I watched!’ A rising note of lunacy shrilled in his voice. ‘Aillen mac Midha took all that from me!’ he said. ‘He took my Throne Room for his own!’ He paused, and then said, in a gloating voice, ‘And now it is his own tomb!’
‘Because you took the music,’ said Andrew. ‘How did you do that?’
‘It was easy, Human Monk!’ The cold eyes rested on Andrew with amusement. ‘I crept down here and through the tunnels that once I knew so well,’ said the Fisher King. ‘I slunk as a supplicant into the kingdom where once I had ruled.’ The madness soared in his voice again, and again he made the gesture of striking his breast. The monstrous, membranous tail lashed with sudden, obscene excitement. ‘And they threw me into the water dungeons,’ he said with contempt. ‘My own water dungeons that once I had filled with Humanish: the fools put me there! Into the very sea-caves that were still soaked in my own necromancy!’ He made an abrupt, contemptuous gesture. ‘I broke the seals almost before the guards were out of sight — the seals that I had woven myself centuries earlier. I took their music,’ he said. ‘And because of it, they are entombed in their own Palace. They are dying.’ There was a lick of relish in his voiced and Andrew said:
‘But although you took the music from the sidh, the Amaranths in turn took it from you.’ He studied Coelacanth through narrowed eyes, trying to sense if the creature could tell that they had the music with them now.
But Coelacanth said, contemptuously, ‘I allowed the Amaranths to take it because I no longer had need of it. It had served its purpose when it lured Laigne into my arms.’ He regarded them both. ‘And I had had my revenge,’ he said. ‘After centuries of exile, I had had my revenge. That is something you would know about, Monk?’
‘Oh yes. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’
‘The immutable law,’ said the Fisher King.
‘And so the curse is dissolved,’ said Andrew.
‘Yes.’ But the Fisher King looked down at himself, at the raw newness of his pale, bone-laced flesh, here and there oozing pale, thick fluid, as if it was seeping blood under a peeled-off scab. ‘I still hurt,’ he said, half to himself, and then, to Rumour, ‘perhaps you will help to heal me, my dear.’ His eyes narrowed and he held out a webbed hand. ‘Come here,’ he said, softly. ‘Come here, and caress my poor, bleeding, raw flesh with your sorceress’s hands.’
Rumour pronounced a word of several syllables, almost negligently, and the Fisher King flinched as if struck.
‘BitchHuman!’ he spat. ‘Amaranth filth! I know that for the Draiocht Taimel So you would sink the spikehorns into my flesh, would you! You would embed into me the barbs and the nails of the Humanish fishermen and reel me into your power! That is twice you have spurned me. You will suffer for that!’ He nodded to the listening Fomoire, who leapt at once from their places and surged towards Andrew and Rumour.
Rumour lifted her hand again, but the Fisher King was before her, sending a ribbon of pale, viscous light towards her. It whipped about her wrist and dragged her forward. Andrew caught her other arm, trying to pull her back, but the Fomoire danced gleefully about him, and formed a circle, jeering and laughing. As they did so, the cold, spiny nimfeach moved towards him as well and surrounded him, pressing close so that he could smell the cold, dank stench of them. Their slithering, barbed tails lashed about his legs.
‘There is no escape,’ said the Fisher King, smiling the flat wide smile. ‘Eventually, Human Monk, you will be taken by the Fomoire for their cauldrons, and you will certainly be stretched and anointed and then flayed.’ He regarded them both. ‘Did it not occur to you that your escape from their caves was very easy?’ he said, and Andrew and Rumour exchanged a look.
At length Rumour said, ‘They let us go knowing that you were here, of course.’
‘Of course. The Fomoire have served me and mine for many centuries.’ He flicked his hand again, so that the viscous ribbon pulled her closer. ‘I think it damages your vanity to know that, Madame Sorceress,’ he said, and Rumour shrugged as if it was of no account.
‘Arrogant,’ said the Fisher King softly. ‘Oh, Madame Sorceress, you will soon be pleading for mercy. You will soon crawl to me and beg me to release you.’
‘We shall see,’ said Rumour equably. ‘But I think you are not so strong as you believe, Coelacanth.’
There was a sudden silence, and then the Fisher King said in a slimy, purring voice, ‘So you know my name.’
‘I know one of your names,’ said Rumour. ‘Like all Corrupt Evil creatures, you have many.’
From where he stood, surrounded by the nimfeach, the words formed in Andrew’s mind: they are Legion; their names are many …
‘And you shall call me by all of the names, Madame Sorceress,’ said the Fisher King with a terrible, gentle menace. And then, as if impatient, he flung out a webbed hand and stabbed the floor directly in front of him. ‘Kneel!’ he shrieked, and Rumour, struggling, found herself forced downwards, as if iron weights pressed upon the back of her neck.
‘Now, BitchHuman,’ said the Fisher King, softly and caressingly, looking at her through slitted eyes, his face so close to hers that Rumour could see the crusting of scales, ‘now, Sorceress, pleasure me.’ His eyes widened, and Andrew, horrified, saw the webbed hands descend between the scaly thighs, caressing the barbed phallus, rubbing it as it swelled and became engorged. ‘Pleasure me,’ said the Fisher King, and Rumour, on her knees before him, her hair falling over her face, was jerked forward.
For an instant, Rumour thought he was about to force the monstrous organ into her mouth, but, as the thought took shape, the Fisher King laughed again, and reached out to pull her to her feet.
‘I am not so careless,’ he said. ‘Do you think I do not know the pleasure you would take in biting at my flesh?’
‘A pleasure indeed, Coelacanth,’ said Rumour.
‘Nevertheless, you will pleasure me,’ he said, softly. ‘You will submit your body and your flesh to mine, and in ways you never dreamed existed.’ The pale, glittering eyes swept over her body, and Rumour, her mind searching frantically for an escape, knew that, for the moment, she was trapped. ‘I know a little of your reputation, my dear,’ said the Fisher King, his eyes still on her. ‘You boast many lovers.’ And then, as Rumour did not speak, he said, ‘And yet despite your wantonness, I think that you will be more surprised than you know at what I shall do to you.’
Rumour glared at him, saying nothing, searching her mind for some way out. And, because it was in her to face up to whatever ordeal might present itself, she stopped fighting, and shook back her hair, and smiled dazzlingly into the pale, bulging, lidless eyes. Because, after all, thought Rumour, his body is not so very different from a Human, and it is perfectly true that I have taken many lovers. Even the Wolfkings and the Beastlords, with their half-Human, half-Beast blood … Would this be so very different? And then panic spiralled again, and she thought: but this is the terrible Fisher King, this is Coelacanth himself. No matter. She would not allow herself to believe that it would be so very different.
Andrew was struggling to break free of the nimfeach, and several of them had caught and held him tightly, curling their spiked tails about his ankles, drawing blood. Rumour was facing the Fisher King defiantly; if she had to, she would probably endure his body with courage and cold contempt. But it was not rape that Andrew feared most for her; although it would hurt her, he thought, his eyes going to the immense rearing stalk of flesh between Coelacanth’s scaly legs. But she would almost certainly survive
being raped by this monstrous creature. What Andrew feared most was the other things he might do to her afterwards …
Andrew looked about him, trying to assess the number and strength of the Fisher King’s Armies, seeing that there were at least a dozen Fomoire, and as many again of nimfeach. Too many and too strong. But there must be something we can do, thought Andrew, his mind scurrying back and forth.
What about the music? What about the sidh’s music, so thickly wrapped about with protective spells, so carefully placed in the small golden casket. Could he reach it? Could he twist out of the spiny tails of these creatures and somehow fling it in Coelacanth’s face?
But in the same minute, he remembered that, even within the dark crust of the Gristlen’s skin, the Fisher King had been able to manipulate the music: he had held it out to the Amaranths in their own Sorcery Chambers, and Andrew knew quite positively that every one of them had felt its sensuous pull. I dare not risk it, thought Andrew. I may be giving him extra powers. I may be banking the fires against us.
Rumour had managed to damp down her own raging anger, because anger would be detrimental to the spinning of any enchantment. She was not trying to spin an enchantment to defeat the Fisher King because, for the moment, newly emerged from his terrible bondage in the Pit, his powers would be rampant and raging, and he was probably stronger than she was. Also, there were the nimfeach and the Fomoire. Rumour sent them a sideways glance. Even with Andrew at her side — and it was remarkable how his presence gave her courage! — even together, they could not hope to defeat these creatures. We should be overcome, and killed; or perhaps flayed by the Fomoire before we died, thought Rumour. And then Theodora would be beyond our reach, and Tiarna would surely die.
No. Somehow she must defeat this creature.
She stood before him, and sent him the dazzling smile again. There was a brief pause, and Rumour sensed his puzzlement, and felt a surge of exultation. I have discomfited him! He does not know what to make of me! He expected me to be subdued, to plead for mercy, and I have not done so! And then, because it was in her nature always to take the most outrageous and the most unexpected course, she leapt on to the tables with a single, catlike movement.
‘Clear the tables!’ cried Rumour, turning to the watching creatures, her skirts swishing about her ankles. ‘Clear the tables! You! Play music!’ She gestured imperiously to the little group of musicians, and at once sly, rollicking music filled the Silver Cavern.
‘Better,’ said Rumour and, slowly and deliberately, every movement studied, she began to dance, shaking her hair out so that it whirled about her head, silken and perfumed. The feel of it brushing her shoulders gave her courage, for she had twined into her hair a great deal of strength and a great many subtle spells. She remembered, briefly, how Great-aunt Fuamnach and the rest had called it vanity, but Rumour had laughed and said it would come in useful one day. And now perhaps it will! she thought exultantly. Now perhaps I can bemuse them and cloud their powers with lust. The Fomoire with their dark goblin-blood probably possessed Humanish lusts. What about the nimfeach? Could they be sexually aroused? If so, their perceptions would become clouded and she would have them at her mercy. And then, thought Rumour, then I can spin up something that will vanquish them!
As the music quickened, Rumour also remembered the sidh’s music; but, unlike Andrew, she knew instantly that it could not serve their cause. The sidh’s music had been Coelacanth’s own spell, spun centuries ago for the sirens, the predecessors of the repulsive nimfeach who sat on the rocks that jutted out of the oceans and sang to the sailors and lured them to watery graves.
She moved with the music, confidence beginning to unfold, remembering how once she had danced like this at Tara, the doors locked, shedding her gown and her silk underthings to the music’s pattern, her audience the High King’s son, the twenty-year-old Prince and several of his Court who had stood around the table, cheering and shouting, finally carrying her off with them to the nearest bedchamber. She had made love with the Prince and his courtiers for most of the night, all of them intoxicated and laughing, tumbling together in the massive bed until dawn found them exhausted and satiated. The memory strengthened her, and she threw back her head, and began to peel off her clothes; the thin black cloak, and then the flame-coloured gown, sliding it voluptuously over her shoulders, letting it fall to the table in a whisper of softness. Beneath it she wore, as she always wore, lace-trimmed, cobweb-fine garments, wisps of Eastern silk and lawn. The nimfeach turned their pale eyes towards her, the gaping gills in their neck opening and closing; the Fomoire scrabbled at the table, evil lust showing on their ugly goblin-faces. Rumour laughed, and slid out of the last shreds of silk, and stood naked before them, the firelight pouring over her, her striated hair flowing over her bare shoulders, rippling copper and silver and gold.
Was Coelacanth watching? Yes! She glanced towards the silver throne and saw that he was seated motionless, his eyes narrowed with lust, the monstrous triangular fin already beginning to distend. One hand slid between his thighs, caressing his ripening phallus, and Rumour thought: unless I can harness power of some kind very quickly, I am going to have to accept that! I am going to have to let him thrust it into me. Horrid! Can I do it? The barbs will tear and hurt, and he is huger than any creature I ever saw. And he will be icy cold, as all creatures of the Dark Realm are said to be. Don’t think about it! I’ll avoid it if I can, I’ll trap him with his own lust, and then I’ll tie him up with something so strongly magical he will be helpless.
Slowly, imperceptibly, mingling it with the throbbing of the music, she began to intone the ancient gentle Draiocht Suan, the legendary Enchantment of Slumber, the simple, beautiful spell that had come down from the very beginning of Ireland’s history, and that was so gentle and so clear-cut that a child could have chanted it and watched it form. Rumour saw it form now: thin, spun-silver filaments, tiny strong threads that would cascade about the Fisher King and his creatures, binding them into a deep, dark sleep. Yes! It is working! I have sliced through their guard, simply by arousing their horrid lusts! Triumph surged up within her.
As the silver web began to slowly descend, a howl of rage and fury burst from the Fisher King, blotting out the music, drowning the sly chuckling of the Fomoire and the strange, high-pitched, mewling cries of the nimfeach.
Coelacanth was on his feet, his hands outstretched, sending shards of evil, glinting sparks into the centre of the Draiocht Suan, causing it to splinter and fall in tiny, useless specks of light which dissolved and ran into nothing.
‘Bitch!’ cried the Fisher King, ‘Accursed Daughter of the foul House of Amaranth! So you would cheat me, madame! You would deceive me with your seductions! You would lure me into your embrace and then spin about me another accursed spell!’ He fixed his eyes on her, and the Fomoire pranced closer, their tiny claws reaching out.
‘You will not defeat me,’ said the Fisher King, his face lowered so that it was on a level with Rumour’s. ‘You will not cheat me, and you will pleasure me, and my people.’ He held her, effortlessly, capturing both her hands in one of his, pulling her against him so that she could feel the horrid cold clamminess of him; feeling, as well, the triangular fin unfurl of its own accord, and stand erect behind him like a rearing cloak of hard, dry flesh.
The Fisher King threw Rumour on to the ground, and with his free hand, forced her thighs apart. And then he fell on her.
*
Rumour had known it would hurt, but she had not been prepared for quite such searing pain, or quite such white-hot agony. The Fisher King thrust into her at once, savagely and brutally, gripping her thighs with his webbed hands, the jointless fingers digging into her flesh. His hands were soft, but there was a hard, gristly core of soft, pliable bone at the centre.
Rumour, summoning every ounce of fortitude, lay unresisting, knowing that to fight would feed his lust.
But the touch of his cold, slabby body was so repulsive that, despite her resolve, it was difficult not t
o cry out, and to beat at him with her hands.
His monstrous organ was pushing deep inside her now, cold and moist, horridly intimate, and Rumour could feel the spiny barbs beginning to tear her flesh.
The Fomoire were dancing and cheering all about the hall, pulling tiny shrivelled organs from between their legs, thrusting them forward at the entwined pair with obscene glee.
The nimfeach were swaying, their pale, slug-like bodies writhing to and fro, emitting thick glottal sounds. Andrew, glancing at them, saw that the gills in the sides of their necks were opening and closing, as if the creatures had no conventional speech, but could only make the strange, high-pitched, keening sounds through their gills.
As the Fisher King pulled Rumour closer, several of the Fomoire leapt on their neighbours, tumbling them to the floor. Andrew, still firmly held, looked across at them and remembered the sin of Sodom. The Fomoire had cast off their grisly cloaks, and they were bending over, baring their anuses, leaping on one another’s backs and clutching with tiny, clawlike hands as they thrust their mummified organs deep into each other’s bodies, jerking and pumping into repulsive climax.