by Sarah Rayne
‘Perhaps travellers have arrived,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach.
Cecht and Bodb Decht had gone to the windows; Cecht was thinking that of course they would see only the normal reassuring arrival of travellers; pilgrims of some kind, perhaps.
But there were no travellers below. They could see the moon-washed courtyard clearly. There were no cries of ‘Welcome, good sirs!’ or shouted instructions to stable their horses, to bring out lights, to please to come along inside for a bite of supper and a firkin of wine. There was none of the jostle and bustle, the rather friendly sounds that always filled the large cobbled courtyard when travellers arrived at the Palace.
There were solid dark shapes lining the courtyard, standing sentinel around its edges. At first they all thought that they were shadows, nothing more. Cerball drew breath to make some reassuring remark, although he did not know what it would have been.
And then, quite suddenly, the shadows were no longer ordinary or harmless; they were creatures, beings; silent, motionless figures standing in the shadows, waiting …
There was the glint of spears and the glitter of javelins, and of black armour …
And eyes, dozens of pairs of sly red eyes …
‘Red eyes,’ said Bodb Decht. ‘Whatever they are, they are not Humanish.’
‘The Rodent Armies?’ whispered Cecht, her eyes huge with fear.
‘I don’t know.’ The Mugain was trying to see down into the courtyard. ‘Bless my boots, I don’t like the look of this.’
‘How did they get in?’ demanded Great-aunt Fuamnach.
‘That is easy,’ said the Mugain rather grimly. ‘Someone has let them in.’
He looked at the others, and Cerball, staring, said, ‘A rebellion.’
‘Yes. Someone inside this Palace has mounted a mutiny. Someone inside this Palace has sent out a Beckoning to the Dark Ireland. And the Dark Ireland has answered. The forces of the necromancers are waiting outside.’
*
Cerball had ordered them down into the central hall at once. ‘All of us!’ he gasped. ‘Find everyone! Don’t miss a single one!’
‘Everyone into the central hall!’ cried the Mugain. ‘That’s the place to put up a fight!’
Great-aunt Fuamnach stumped along gamely in his wake, because if there was going to be a battle, she was not going to miss it. Cecht took her arm, which was kind of the child but not necessary; her legs had not yet failed her.
The Mugain was importantly directing everyone to spread the word as fully as ever possible. No corner of the Palace was to be missed. He had sent everyone scurrying hither and yon, he said, coming up to Cerball, puffing a bit with the exertion of it all. But he thought no one had been missed.
The great central hall was immense; it was a hundred and fifty feet long and eighty feet wide, and it took up almost a whole quarter of the entire ground floor. When the Palace had been built for the long-ago Amaranths who had served the first High Kings and Queens, its architects who designed it, and its builders who raised it, had visualised the central hall as the great heart of the Palace: the nub and the cornerstone. The pity was that the vast gatherings and the great and splendid pageants of those days were no longer practical. Sorcerers these days liked to have their own castles, their own dwellings, no matter how modest. And there was not the money to entertain on such a lavish scale any longer.
The hall was paved with marble and white alabaster; there were doors leading from it, several of them only going down into sculleries and pantries and wine cellars, but four great iron-studded doors with pointed arches leading directly into each of the Palace’s four wings. As the Amaranths came tumbling and running in from all parts of the Palace, Cerball, who was trying to make an overall plan, thought that here they would have four routes of escape. And was at once angry with himself, because they were not going to need an escape route, they were going to beat back these marauders. He spared a thought for Laigne, poor dead soul, for whom they had not yet been able to render any of the proper funerary rites, and for whom he, Cerball, had not even been able to grieve properly. To his credit, he did not even remember that this would be the third set of ceremonies in a row, and that funerary rites were expensive.
‘But there are so few of us!’ cried Bodb Decht, standing in the hall and looking round, dismayed. ‘We cannot possibly fight with only this number!’
‘Does anyone know what we’re fighting?’ demanded Great-aunt Fuamnach.
‘The Mugain thinks they’re Almhuinians,’ said Bodb Decht, and Great-aunt Fuamnach compressed her lips disapprovingly, because it was no more than you would expect to be attacked by Almhuinian gutter-sweepings.
The Amaranths bunched together on the south side of the hall, just beneath the Star Ceiling, directly in line with the great arched entrance that led out to the portcullis and the main Palace gates. Cerball had said, and everyone had agreed, that the Almhuinians, when they came, would surely come this way.
‘We must form a line so that they cannot break through,’ he said. ‘A straight, solid line, right across the hall. That way we should be able to force them back the way they came.’
‘Yes. And we must arm ourselves,’ said the Mugain firmly, because hadn’t one of the Elders to take proper charge of all this, and he was not letting Cerball appropriate all the authority. ‘See now, there’re some swords and cutlasses — somebody brought them from the armoury — oh it was you, Bodb Decht, well, it was very quick thinking. Hand them round, and sharp about it.’
‘We’ll range ourselves here with the west wing at our back,’ said Cerball, who had not been thinking about being authoritative, and was still trying to map out a plan that would meet all contingencies. ‘That way, if we have to retreat, we can do so into the west wing, and we can seal it.’
‘And then what?’ demanded Great-aunt Fuamnach.
‘Well, and then we …’ Cerball stopped and looked worried.
‘I say we fight tooth and nail before we even think of a retreat,’ put in a younger brother of Cecht’s, who had never seen a battle, and who was truth to tell rather relishing being involved in this one. ‘We ought to be thinking about fighting and winning,’ he added, somewhat belligerently.
‘But we aren’t fighters!’ cried Cerball in cross frustration. ‘We aren’t trained in fighting!’ He glanced back at the door to the west wing, as if to reassure himself that it was still there.
‘We can fight them with sorcery!’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, who had planted herself firmly at the forefront of them all, and was already drawing out circles and diagrams on the floor in front of them with her hazel wand. ‘What’s wrong with using sorcery as weapons! It’s been done before, and it can be done again!’
‘Yes, what about the Sorcery Wars with the Tyrians?’ cried Cecht’s brother, who had been named after Calatin, the famous hero of the Amaranth Sorcery Wars, and had consequently read his ancestor’s remarkable Memoirs. ‘Didn’t we win then!’
‘Did we?’
‘Of course we won!’ cried Calatin. ‘And very thoroughly as well. What we did once, we can do again!’
‘That’s the spirit!’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach. ‘My word, I never thought to see you so lily-livered, Cerball! That boy’s right, I always said that branch of the family had guts. Almhuinians! We’ll see how far Almhuinians can get,’ she said fiercely. ‘By the gods, those miserable creatures shan’t prevail against the House of Amaranth! Now then, Cerball! Where’s your fighting spirit!’
A rather ragged cheer went up at this, and everyone began to hurriedly assemble spells and enchantments. There were a great many that could be used against an enemy when you came to think about it. And as Calatin said, these were beatable enemies; they were not the grim, darkness-soaked Fomoire. They might have come out of the Dark Ireland, but so far as anyone knew, they had no actual necromancy of their own. There would be no sorcery to deal with.
‘If we lay a good strong wall of sorcery,’ said the Mugain gleefully, ‘they’ll never be able t
o penetrate it. That’ll be the thing to do. Now form a line right across the hall, with the west wing to our back — just in case — yes, that’s right. Facing the south entrance, the south entrance, I said. That’s better. Quickly now, or they’ll be upon us!
‘And now for the spells,’ he said. ‘Have we decided what we’re using, does anyone know?’
‘Swamplands at the edges, I thought,’ said Cerball, and several people looked at him approvingly, because wasn’t this a very good idea indeed. They could fairly easily create a belt of Swamplands, strong thirsty Quicksands, across the entire breadth of the hall, so that when the Almhuinians attacked, the leading ones would certainly be trapped by it, and sucked down.
‘Very good,’ said the Mugain, who was not going to allow the control of this very important event slip from his grasp. ‘And then, Cerball, if you and I are here to control the Swamplands, and Bodb Decht and Calatin are stationed there —’
‘With a stock of Lightning Bolts?’ asked Calatin hopefully, because you might as well have a bit of noise and excitement if you were fighting a battle.
‘Yes, that’s a good idea, you can direct them straight into the centre. What else?’
Several of the younger sorcerers who, like Calatin, enjoyed a bit of colour and fizz, suggested that the Twisting Fire Columns were always an effective deterrent, and were at once detailed to the centre. The air began to sizzle and hum, and the Fire Columns began to form, directly behind the belt of Swamplands which Cerball and the Mugain were creating across the length of the hall.
‘And Great-aunt Fuamnach and the rest of the ladies could spin the Web of Mab,’ said Bodb Decht, eyeing the defences critically. ‘Just behind the Fire Columns, so that it will trap any of them who manage to get through.’
‘Yes, we ought to take some prisoners if we can.’
‘We’ll take them all right,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, who did not know what things were coming to when the ancient magical stronghold of Ireland’s Royal Sorcerers could be invaded in such an impudent fashion. She marshalled her ladies at once, telling them to fan out directly behind the Twisting Fire, and not to get singed. ‘You’ll all know the incantation for Mab’s Web,’ she said, glaring at two fifteen-year-old nieces of Rumour, twins, who were looking alarmed. ‘Remember to work together, so that the Web joins up properly. We don’t want any gaps in it,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, stumping down the line. ‘Strong and thick, that’s what we want. My word, we’ll tie the wretches up and fling them into the dungeons!’
‘Anything else?’ asked Cerball. ‘What about a NightMare Spell?’
‘Isn’t that a bit — well, strong?’ said Herself of Mugain, who found the NightMare Spell — which summoned the creatures of your adversary’s nightmares (and sometimes your own) — very nasty. ‘We are only fighting Humans. Well, nearly Humans.’ The Mugain remembered that the Academy was rather severe these days about people using NightMare Spells against Humans, and Cerball, who had forgotten this for the moment, said, ‘Yes, all right. We’ll keep that in reserve.’
‘And for the NightMare Spell to be truly effective, you’d really need the NightCloak,’ put in Bodb Decht, rather wistfully. ‘You can’t really do much in the way of nightmares without the NightCloak.’
‘Yes, and that’s long since lost to us.’
They could hear the scufflings and the scurryings more loudly now, and as they turned from their various tasks, several people caught, quite plainly, the sound of the portcullis being raised.
‘Raised?’ said Cerball, looking across at Bodb Decht. ‘How have they done that?’
‘Does it matter? They’ll be with us at any minute. Stand firm!’
It was then that the Mugain, who, satisfied with the defences they had created, turned to make a quick count of everyone present. It would not do to find later that someone had been left forgotten in a pantry somewhere, or maybe the lone north tower, which people were apt to retreat to in order to harness a bit of star power which could be useful in spinning the odd spell. He strode up and down, seeing that everyone was working well; the Fire Columns were burning strongly, and ready to be sent gusting out at the Almhuinians, and the Web of Mab had formed very nicely indeed. And although he did not know, not to the last person, how many people ought to be there, he knew pretty quickly that there were some people who were not there at all.
He said, in a stricken voice, ‘Cerball. The Black HeartStealers are missing,’ and several of the Amaranths looked round.
‘So they are,’ said a voice, worriedly.
‘And,’ said another voice, ‘the Arca Dubhs.’
Nobody was especially concerned about the Arca Dubhs’ absence, but everyone was very concerned indeed about the Black HeartStealers’.
A sudden silence fell. People began to remember how the Fer Caille and his family had several times been seen brewing up very darkspells, and how a number of the Black Hearts had been spotted more than once going furtively off to the abandoned east wing of the Palace, and the absence of these two leading branches of the family began to assume sinister proportions.
It was Bodb Decht who said, ‘So it is a mutiny. We were right.’
‘Surely not,’ said Cerball, because sometimes if you said a thing strongly enough it became fact. ‘I won’t believe it,’ he added for good measure.
‘I will,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach grimly. ‘I always said no good would come of inviting the Fer Caille and his family, and now we see.’ She glared at Cerball. ‘We’ll be under the rule of the Black HeartStealers before dawn if we aren’t careful, mark my words.’
‘Listen,’ said Cecht, lifting a hand.
‘What is it?’
‘They’re coming.’
They could all hear it now; since the portcullis had risen protestingly and screamingly, they could hear stronger, more definite movements within the Palace confines.
‘Marching,’ said Herself of Mugain, white-faced.
It was the soft, inexorable marching of feet that were nearly but not quite Human; the swishing of arms and hands that were not Rodent, but that possessed a thin trickle of cold, sly, Rodent blood. The feeling of a terrible darkness closing in …
There was a moment when absolute stillness held them in its grip; when the defensive enchantments spun and shimmered and spat; when the intricate Web of Mab, carefully spun by the ladies, glistened and caught the moonlight that silvered the floor, and glinted red from the Fire Columns and the Lightning Bolts.
And then there was another moment when the stillness was shattered, and they heard the marching — suddenly and shockingly close now — and felt the evil darkness approaching the hall.
And then they were there. The sly evil Almhuinians were with them, crowding through the arched entrance, leaping and darting, pointed swords held aloft, daggers and knives and wicked fletched arrows, shiny with poison, ready to fire.
They led the attack. They came storming across the great hall, their black armour gleaming, their eyes sly inside their visors.
Directly behind them were the Black HeartStealers, led by the Fer Caille, his huge shape towering over the rest. He brandished an immense sword, but the Amaranths saw at once that the air all round him was thick with necromancy, and veined with crimson and horrid pulsating strings of viscousness, and knew that the sword was unnecessary. The Fer Caille had called down a great dark cloud of malevolence; those at the front of the Amaranth line could already see the vapour of Simple Evil forming.
Cerball said, very softly to Bodb Decht, ‘He has already gone over to the Other Ireland.’
‘Yes. This is terrible.’ Bodb Decht was staring at the Fer Caille, the Simple Evil as clear to him as it had been to Cerball.
‘Can we beat them?’
‘I don’t know.’
But further along, the younger Amaranths were already piling into the battle, and if they had seen the clouds of Simple Evil already about their opponents’ heads, they paid scant heed.
Calatin directed half a do
zen of the Lightning Bolts straight at the centre of the Almhuinians. There was a sizzling sound as the Fire streaked forward, leaving scorch marks on the marble floor as it went, and a cheer went up. Calatin’s little band flung four more Bolts after it, and several of the others were sending out knife-tipped spears of pure white light, which they had brewed as back-ups to the Lightning.
The leading Almhuinians fell, burned and injured, a dreadful acrid stench of hot steel billowing out. They rolled over, clawing at the hasps of their breastplates, shrieking and writhing. Howls of pain were filling the great hall, but the Almhuinians were already recovering, and the uninjured were re-forming and holding their spears and javelins ready.
‘They are coming at us again!’ cried Calatin. ‘Again! Hurry!’
The Almhuinians ran in a solid block straight at the waiting Amaranths, and as they did so, the heaving, turgid Swamplands slopped into life. The six Almhuinians leading the charge fell at once, sinking knee-deep and then waist-deep into the oozing mires. They threw up their hands, their swords clattering harmlessly to the ground, and the Amaranths heard the Swamps begin the horrid, inexorable, sucking, lapping sounds.
The Almhuinians struggled and screamed for help, but the Swamplands were too strong. They heaved with grisly life, and the sucking took on a sudden, dreadful intelligence. The nearest Almhuinian was screaming, terrible trapped-hare screams, as the slopping, semi-liquid mud bubbled over his voice. He threw his head back, and with the one hand that was still free, tried desperately to reach his companions.
‘Help m-e-e-e —’
For answer, the Swamplands lapped over his face, in slabby waves, and there was a choking, mucus-filled scream. The other Almhuinians hesitated, watching their colleague’s struggle, hearing his screams, seeing that the other five were already floundering, shoulder-deep in the glutinous mud.
And then the Fer Caille effortlessly and very nearly contemptuously reached up into the thick cloud of vapour over his head and pulled down a twisting mucus-like string, which he spun and whirled about his head.