by Sarah Rayne
‘A feast,’ said the young man to his companion, carrying the food to a table by the fire. ‘We thank you, good sir.’
He was dressed a bit oddly, and several of the villagers found that they were made uncomfortable by the carved symbol he wore at his waist, to the extent that they could not look directly at it; but the two strangers sat quietly enough, drinking their wine and supping their food. The pinched, cold look faded from the lady’s face after a while, and she looked about her with interest.
Glances were exchanged, because would she be a good one to take up to the Castle? She would be no maiden, of course — a man with half an eye could see that — but still, she might provide their Lady with an hour or so’s pleasure. As for the man — yes, he would do for the Lady’s bed. He would die during the night, of course, but so did all the Lady’s guests die. They glanced at one another, and one of them produced the thin ivory sticks, one much shorter than the other, that were used for deciding who should undertake various tasks. Whoever drew the short stick would engage the travellers in conversation and allay their suspicions. It was an old tried method, and no one had ever questioned it. They could not let the travellers see the drawing of the sticks, but weren’t they very used to hiding this ploy under cover of dice-throwing?
Rumour and Andrew had found the inn reassuringly ordinary. It was a somewhat larger room than it had appeared from outside; it was long and low-ceilinged, and there were perhaps eight or ten round wooden tables, with stools standing around them. Andrew thought there were far more people here than they had expected: at each table were seated three or four men, and at most of the tables, wine was being drunk, and games involving dice and carved wooden figures were in progress. There was a thick, faintly sour smell of spilt wine, and a warm, slightly greasy feel in the air.
But still, thought Andrew, looking round, still it is a welcome refuge. Rumour can rest and with God’s will she can heal her foot.
He helped Rumour to sit by the fire, and sat next to her, looking with interest at the Almhuinians who were drinking and engaged in their gambling games and their dice-throwing. Rumour’s face was already less pinched and the lines of pain were smoothing out, and Andrew was immensely relieved, because he had thought that perhaps the darkness here would smother her attempts to pronounce the spell, as the darkness churned by the Fomoire in the Cadence Tower had smothered the Amaranths’.
But Rumour, schooled by the wily Nechtan in a great many levels of sorcery, knew that one of the first and most basic principles of magic of any kind was to be able to recognise the scents and the feel of necromancy, and to assess its potential menace. She recognised, in the rather stifling heat of the inn, and in the thickness of the air, that strong, ancient evil dwelled here, but she recognised as well that none of these people were able to harness any power on their own account. Good! thought Rumour. Then I should be able to heal my foot without their powers quenching the healing spell.
The pain was already easing. Andrew had drawn up an unused stool for her to rest it on, and had quietly and unobtrusively bound it with a linen napkin he had requested from the innkeeper. The pain trickled away, and at length Rumour murmured the gentle words of the healing spell, the Draiocht Cneasaim. She felt it form in her mind, and for a brief instant it hovered on the air, light and transient, but unmistakably there. Rumour held her breath, waiting to see if the Almhuinians should see it, but they were all engrossed in their dice-throwing and their talk, and no one looked round. So far so good, thought Rumour, and felt the caress of the spell on her bruised foot already lifting the pain and restoring the torn flesh.
The food was very good. Rumour, eating hungrily, studied the inhabitants of the inn, and saw the faint traces of an ancient and malevolent ancestry in them; the narrow, slitlike eyes, the sharp features, the curving hands. And for all their powerful muscles, they had narrow, sloping shoulders, and an unmistakable, rather repulsive, boneless look. As if it might be more natural to them to slither and dart and scuttle across the ground … Rodent blood! thought Rumour with an inward shudder. It is only a thin vein, but is there. They have the blood of rats and weasels and jackals and stoats. It is from very far back, but it is there. She remembered how some of the Rodent Armies had inter-married with Humans over the centuries, and how, although the Dark Lords had carefully preserved the dark, evil strain of the first Rodent Creatures for fighting and guarding, mutant strains had evolved. I think we are seeing one of those mutant strains now, thought Rumour. I think we shall have to be very careful.
But they had been made welcome by the innkeeper, whose name was Diarmuit, and who appeared to find nothing unusual about them; and whose tone was exactly that of a genial host, wanting to put unexpected guests at ease.
*
It was generally agreed in the inn that Diarmuit had done a very neat job of work on the two travellers.
Diarmuit said, modestly, that it came of practice, and of working sensibly together. They’d worked together tonight, he said, nodding his head portentously. It had been easy enough to just slip the draught into the flagon of wine, and then to take it across to the travellers’ table, as nice as could be. And he had resisted the temptation to pour the wine into chalices, said Diarmuit, because that might have aroused their suspicions.
No suspicions had been aroused. Andrew and Rumour, tired from their journey, had already been lulled by the warmth of the fire and the good food. Andrew had poured two chalicefuls of the wine, and they had drunk it gratefully. And then they had slipped into drugged unconsciousness as swiftly and as easily as the Almhuinians could have wished.
And with them drugged and helpless, it was the easiest thing you’d ever know for Black Aed to just tap them on the head, so that they slid to the floor without giving the smallest trouble. And even that had to be judged, because too hard a tap and you’d killed your victim, and the Lady would have flown into a towering rage if that had happened! Alive they had to be, with blood running warmly and richly in them.
But all had been well; the travellers were only stunned. The Lady would be pleased with them tonight. Diarmuit and Black Aed and a couple of the others tied Andrew and Rumour hand and foot.
The Lady would be very pleased indeed, and doubtless she would reward her people in her customary generous fashion. The deep dungeons of Almhuin would be open tonight, and those of them who were on Castle duty tomorrow night would be kept busy.
Someone would be quaffed …
It was all in a night’s work.
Chapter Twenty-four
The Black HeartStealers, under the aegis of their leader, the Fer Caille, met with Iarbonel Soothsayer and the Arca Dubhs in a small, rather dark panelled chamber in the cold east wing of the Palace.
The Fer Caille had summoned them in secret, and as soon as they were all in the chamber, sealed the doors against any of the other Amaranths who might be prowling.
They won’t come here,’ said Iarbonel. ‘They’re too taken up with Laigne and the birth.’
‘Fortunate,’ murmured another, and several of the Black Hearts laughed rather gloatingly, because wasn’t this going to be the smoothest rebellion in the entire history of the Amaranth House. Before long the Black HeartStealers would ascend the Purple Throne; they would head the Royal Sorcery House and take precedence over every other sorcerer in Ireland.
‘Even so, it is as well to be sure that we shall not be overheard.’ The Fer Caille moved slowly round the room, studying each of the plotters in turn, his huge, dense shadow falling over them. Several of the Arca Dubhs, who had wavered a bit about joining in, remembered with unease the stories of the Fer Caille’s ancestry. He was a towering creature, broad-shouldered and with a brutish cast of countenance. He had the small, mean eyes of all who possessed Giantish blood, and the coarse, brutal mouth of the ogre-people. He did not often smile, but when he did, he showed tiny, stumplike teeth. The Arca Dubhs shivered and thought that you might say what you liked: it was as well to be very wary indeed of those with Giantish bl
ood in them.
But if Cerball and the rest were to be driven out and new ways brought in, somebody had to lead. The Arca Dubhs murmured this to one another, because while none of them had wanted actually to instigate the rebellion, they were all agreeable to following somebody else. It had been explained to them that Cerball and the Mugains and even Bodb Decht were becoming too old and set in their ways. Why, you could not so much as whisper a spell that had even a sliver of darkness in it without incurring their anger these days. And, said the Black HeartStealers persuasively, didn’t any sorcerer of scholarship know that you had occasionally to make use of the blacker side of enchantry, and shouldn’t any sorcerer with any decent power be able to control it?
What was wanted was younger blood heading the House, they said firmly. Younger blood and newer, more exciting ideas. The Arca Dubhs had been rather flattered to be thought of as being sorcerers of scholarship and power. They were not as a rule greatly given to excitement, which was apt to be exhausting, but they told one another that you had to see the force of the argument. And wasn’t it an enormous compliment to be invited to take part in this really very important plot? They would make history, they said, pleased.
Two of the Black HeartStealers had murmured a Sealing Incantation over the doors, and as the words fell on the air, there was a sudden spiralling of dark, greasy smoke. The sorcerers averted their eyes, recognising the whiff of necromancy, and Iarbonel Soothsayer started to say that surely the utilising of necromancy for a minor door-sealing was a waste of energy, but the Fer Caille looked across at him, his eyes cold and hard, and Iarbonel found the words dying at birth.
The Fer Caille explained how he had called them together to tell them that the Dark Summoning put out earlier had been effective.
‘It has worked very well,’ he said. ‘We reached the mountain community of Almhuin, deep in the Sliabh Ciardhubh.’ He looked at them, and waited.
‘The Crimson Lady’s people?’ asked an Area Dubh, a bit uncertainly.
‘Yes.’ The Fer Caille turned his huge stare inquiringly on the Area Dubh who had spoken, and waited, as if inviting a challenge. No one spoke, and after a moment he said, ‘The Almhuinians themselves — at least a section of them — have answered our Summoning.’
‘They will help our cause?’
‘Oh yes. And,’ said the Fer Caille, a sudden, rather evil relish in his voice, ‘they will help us to squash these die-hards. And they are the most savage, most vicious fighters in the entire Dark Realm.’
A sudden silence fell, and at last, one of the Arca Dubhs said, ‘It’s a mutant branch, of course,’ as if this made it more acceptable. He looked round him a bit doubtfully, because none of the Arca Dubhs had expected the involvement of Almhuin. Most of them had visualised a quite peaceful, almost cosy little fight, more of an argument really, at the end of which Cerball and the Mugains would go into comfortable retirement and the Arca Dubhs themselves would be given lucrative posts in the Palace. They’d seen themselves being invited along to Tara to advise the High King now and again. It would all have been perfectly amicable.
‘They might be mutants, but they have the strongest traits of all sides,’ said a Black HeartStealer instantly, and the Arca Dubhs began to look even more worried.
‘Oh yes.’
The Fer Caille said, ‘The Almhuinian Armies are already armed and accoutred, ready for our final call. They are waiting within the shadow of the Gateway inside the Cadence Tower.’
‘So close?’ murmured the Area Dubh who had been doubtful about the Almhuinians.
‘Yes. They would normally have selected one of the other Gateways to enter — perhaps the Moher Gateway, although that would have meant passing dangerously close to the Pit of the Dark Lords, which is in the keeping of the Flesh-eating Trolls. The Gateway in the Cadence Tower was the easiest and the nearest.’
‘And next?’ asked Iarbonel.
‘And next,’ said the Fer Caille with a throaty chuckle, ‘next, we shall let them in. And then, by the bones and the blood of my ancestors, we shall sweep aside these ineffectual creatures who hold this Palace, and take the Amaranth Throne for ourselves.’ He looked round at them, and the Area Dubh who had said that the Almhuins were mutants, asked what about the Succession Ritual? You could not ignore something so ancient and so powerful as that.
‘We do not ignore it,’ said the Fer Caille in his huge voice. ‘But rituals can be adjusted.’ He grinned slyly. ‘Rituals can be forced to obey the one who invokes them,’ he said, and the Arca Dubhs all began to feel very worried indeed.
The Fer Caille turned back to the waiting BlackHeart Stealers. ‘So,’ he said, his voice thick with relish, ‘so, my friends, do you permit me to call up our Armies? The Crimson Armies of Almhuinian? The Rodent descendants who will ride as our combatants? Who will fall on these paltry half-magicians and drive them out?’
A cry of assent went up, and the Arca Dubhs added their voices a bit raggedly. They had been rather shocked to hear the Fer Caille dismiss Cerball as a ‘magician’, which was, of course, the greatest insult you could deal anybody. But it was too late to back out now.
The Fer Caille moved to the centre of the small chamber, and raised his hands above his head. The shadows surrounding him reared up, and as he began to intone the dread lines of the Dark Summoning, the ancient and malevolent Beckoning, the shadows shrouded him so that he became a great solid column of blackness.
The Black HeartStealers and the Arca Dubhs made a circle about him, linking hands, joining their voices with his in the last and most powerful stanza of the Summoning. The light became tinged with crimson, and thick, fetid evil began to form like a vapour in the chamber.
Iarbonel Soothsayer, at the centre of it all, nodded to himself, and thought they’d made a wise move in throwing in their lot with the Fer Caille and his people. They would open the Cadence Gateway to let in the Almhuinians.
The Black HeartStealers would have ascended the Purple Throne of Porphyry Palace before the night was out.
*
Laigne was weakening. The Amaranth ladies around her bed saw it and heard it and felt it. She was flailing helplessly at the bonds that still held her down, but they were poor, weak struggles, and her screams of agony had faded into pitiful, mewling cries, as if the poor soul had barely the breath left in her lungs. Cecht, unable to bear the sight of Laigne’s thin hands plucking feverishly at the leather thongs, bent to untie her, ‘For,’ she said, ‘she can no longer hurt herself; she has not the strength left. And it is only merciful,’ said Cecht, angry tears starting to her eyes.
The Gristlen’s child was moving frenziedly beneath the distended body, struggling in its birth throes.
‘It is huge,’ murmured Great-aunt Fuamnach. ‘It will surely kill her.’
Herself of Mugain said, rather tartly, that the creature was like to split Laigne in twain, but she said it quietly because there was no sense in distressing their poor cousin any further.
‘Although I believe she is beyond hearing now,’ said Cecht, bending to mop the pouring rivulets of sweat from Laigne’s face, seeing, as she did so, that the skin was taking on a waxen look. Laigne was no longer moving; only the beast inside her was moving, making the great swollen mound ripple and heave with sinister life.
‘Try the balm again,’ suggested Great-aunt Fuamnach, and Cecht turned to the little side-table, where they had arranged the jars and boxes and flagons.
Herself of Mugain said, urgently, ‘No, wait. Something is happening.’
A ridge was appearing in Laigne’s swollen body now, as if the creature inside was pushing at the womb in which it was enclosed. There was a sharp look to the ridge, as if the pressure from within was being exerted by something pointed … A long fingernail. A claw … As they watched, appalled, a thin line of dark, sluggish blood appeared where the skin was splitting open.
‘It is tearing its way out,’ said Cecht. ‘This is dreadful. It is ripping her open from inside. Cannot we … ?’ And stoppe
d as the tear gaped open, like a hideous dark wound.
The skin of Laigne’s swollen body began to split, not neatly and cleanly, but jaggedly, the skin parting only with difficulty. There was a sickening glutinous sound, and dark blood welled up and trickled down over her white body, staining the bed. Laigne moaned and moved restlessly, but seemed barely aware of what was happening any longer.
Within the opening, they could make out a thick membranous sac, smeared and clotted with blood and birth fluid, heaving and pulsating with horrid life. The point of a claw was protruding from the birth sac, a horrid, hard, grey claw, slicing and tearing at the thick membrane that enclosed it. There was a rather terrible efficiency about it, as if the creature knew that it must cut its way out.
The sac burst open, spattering thick yellowish fluid over the bed, and the Gristlen’s monster-child started to clamber out of the torn, blood-slimed womb.
Its eyes were matted and closed, the lids crusted with blood and pus. It could not have known, in any sentient way, what it did, but it was struggling out of the dark, soundless womb into the world. It was struggling and fighting; its upper half was already freed, and it was pushing back the lips of the gaping wound in Laigne’s body, heedless of the fearsome mutilations it was inflicting.
And then it was out; it had heaved itself out, and there was a terrible sticky sucking as the birth sac collapsed into a wrinkled pouch. Laigne gave a little sigh, and then was still.
‘Dead,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, softly. ‘Poor soul.’
The creature crouched on the bed, shaking its head to rid itself of the slimed blood and the thick, discharged fluids, so that they dripped to the floor in curdled ropes of gore. Its hands came up in a flailing motion, rubbing at its eyes, trying to wipe away the clotting mucus and blood. Strings and gobbets of semiliquid blood hung from its claws and its face, slopping down on to its body. Its hair was matted and wet, plastered to its head with dark blood.