by Sarah Rayne
Cerball turned angrily to Neit and Manannan mac Lir. ‘Do something!’ he cried, flinging out his hands. ‘We called on you for help! Help us!’
‘They are at the main entrance,’ said Calatin suddenly. ‘Listen — can’t you hear them? Cerball, Mugain — we can’t simply stand here and wait for them to come pouring in …’ He grasped his sword and strode to the door, and at once the terrible black mass that was Tromlui’s shadow lurched menacingly. There was the sound of grinding machinery, a rhythmic, clanking, grating sound, and Calatin turned rather pale, and fell back as if he had been struck.
Cerball was looking at the two gods. ‘Help us,’ he said.
‘Yes, but we cannot fight the creatures of the NightCloak!’ said Neit, and then, rallying, said, ‘Even I cannot do so. Those things are the brethren of Tromlui! They possess black sorcery of the strongest kind!’
Great-aunt Fuamnach started to say that Gods of War who were afeared of Tromlui, whoever he might be, were neither use nor ornament to folk, but Cerball, who was back at the window, said, ‘They are searching for a way in! All of you! Look!’
The terrible black stallions, the fearsome NightMares of the Dark Realm, were rearing up, pawing the air with their wicked split hoofs, whinnying derisively. They turned about, their silken black manes rippling behind them, the dark chariots with their grisly burdens sending sparks shooting from their huge wheels. The horrified Amaranths saw the dripping, ravaged creatures begin to emerge from the depths of the black chariots, and swarm across the stones of the courtyard.
‘The Four Winds’ Spell!’ cried Calatin. ‘Mugain …’
‘It will be useless,’ said Manannan mac Lir, his eyes on the terrible creatures below. ‘Already Tromlui has broken the Seals. You are at the creatures’ mercy.’
The NightMares were shrieking in triumph now, the disease-ridden faces of the WarMongers avid and greedy. The maimed and mutilated creatures who were spilling from the chariots were leaping on to the backs of the Human-visaged spiders, bridling the creeping snakes and serpents, clinging to their backs and forcing them to carry their grisly burdens into the Palace. The creatures that Great-aunt Fuamnach had identified as WarMongers were running and scuttling across the ground, several of them swarming straight up the sheer Palace walls, climbing easily and swiftly. From the half-open door, Tromlui chuckled, and there was the sound of clawed, leathery hands being rubbed together.
‘All the better to eat you, my dears …’
The Amaranths stared at each other, knowing that it could be only minutes before they would be facing the NightMares and the fearsome WarMongers. Tromlui’s great black shadow swelled and crepitated with malicious anticipation, and the twins, standing with Cecht and Calatin, clung together, white-faced.
‘Tromlui is taking shape,’ whispered Cecht. ‘The NightMare Stallions are giving him strength and life.’
‘All the better to embrace you, my dear,’ came the throaty whisper, and there was the sudden sound of claws scratching on the timbers of the floor outside the gallery.
‘There must be something we can do!’ cried Cerball, staring about him in anguish. ‘There must be something!’
Neit said, ‘There might be a way …’ And glanced at his brother, who said impatiently, ‘Oh get on with it, Neit, and let us be rid of these disgusting creatures!’
‘What can you do!’ cried Cerball. ‘If there is something you can do, then do it at once!’
‘Yes, he always drags out the anticipation. I remember the King of the Marshes —’
‘I am thinking of a plan,’ said Neit, disdainfully.
‘Can we not simply deny the creatures’ existences?’ said Cecht, suddenly. ‘If we simply refuse to believe in them … They are only NightMares,’ said Cecht angrily. ‘Not real at all.’
‘Yes, surely they can exist only if we believe in their existence,’ said the Mugain.
‘The WarMongers are real,’ said Manannan mac Lir. ‘Mutilation and Spite and Agony …’
Bodb Decht said, slowly, ‘If we could put ourselves beyond their reach …’
‘How?’ said Neit, and even in the heat of the moment, the Amaranths shared the thought that Neit was really rather stupid.
‘By sending themselves into a deep slumber of course,’ said Manannan mac Lir impatiently. ‘Dear me, I should have thought that even you would have thought of that, Neit!’ He turned to Cerball and the Mugain. ‘I believe you have the answer,’ he said, and his eyes were suddenly bright.
Cecht said, very softly, ‘The gods help those who help themselves,’ and Manannan shot her an approving look.
‘Precisely, my dear,’ he said. And then, turning back to Cerball and Bodb Decht, ‘It’s the only way you’ll defeat them,’ he said, and now his voice was authoritative. ‘Don’t wait for that fool.’ He indicated Neit contemptuously. ‘If you do, it’ll be the Battle against the King of the Marshes all over again.’
Bodb Decht said, ‘The Draoicht Suan —’
‘Yes,’ Manannan looked at them. ‘The Enchantment of Deepest Slumber. Swift and simple. And an enchantment so light-filled, that the Fer Caille and his armies will never dissolve it.’
‘In any case, the Draoicht Suan can only be dissolved by those who spin it,’ put in Cerball.
‘Yes,’ said Manannan. ‘Do it,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way! You can each direct the spell to one another. And once inside the Suan, once properly inside it, you’ll be beyond the reach of the NightMares and Tromlui.’
Cecht said, ‘But the Draoicht Suan is so strong that we shall all succumb to it as soon as it is pronounced …’
‘Yes?’
‘That means there will be no one left awake to dissolve the spell when the danger has passed.’ She looked at them, her eyes huge and fearful.
‘But we can’t leave anyone awake,’ said Cerball. ‘Anyone left unenchanted by the Suan would be horribly vulnerable. Whoever we left would quite certainly be killed and his soul taken into the Dark Realm for Chaos.’
‘I volunteer to die,’ said Calatin promptly, and was told by Great-aunt Fuamnach to be quiet and not to be foolish.
‘We shan’t leave anyone to die,’ said Cerball. ‘We have to put ourselves beyond the reach of the Nightmares and the Warmongers. We have to lock ourselves inside a light-filled sleep of our own spinning. Because,’ he said, looking very solemn, ‘we know that the NightMares will never penetrate the Draoicht Suan. We shall have to pronounce it and take our chance on the rest.’
‘But once we’re inside the Enchantment it could be days — years even — before we awake.’
‘Then,’ said Cerball, rather grimly, ‘we shall simply have to stay asleep for years.’ His eyes went over them all. ‘Is everyone here? There’s no time to lose now. Ready?’
The Mugain said, ‘Who knows the incantation best?’
‘We all know it.’ Cerball looked round. ‘I think we should all pronounce it. It’ll be stronger that way.’
‘And therefore deeper.’
‘Exactly. And if we form a circle, we can each of us direct it to the person in front of us.’
‘Are we ready?’ said Cerball again, and raised his hand. ‘Exactly in unison now.’
The Amaranths moved silently into a circle, their palms raised upwards, their faces intent.
And then Cerball brought his hand down, and the gentle, strong chant of the ancient Draoicht Suan flooded the disused west wing.
Chapter Thirty-eight
It was only when Andrew had finally fallen into a deep, calm slumber, and Rumour was sure that she had managed to quench the pain, that she summoned every ounce of her strength and descended to Almhuin’s bath-house once more.
The Lady had not moved since Rumour had caged her; she had simply crouched in her cage, the blood-caked hair tousled and curtaining her face. But now, as Rumour entered, and as the torchlight fell across the blood-smeared stone flags, she looked up, snarling and trying to strike out at Rumour with bloodied, talon-tipped hands.<
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Rumour stood in the centre of the room and regarded the creature. She saw that there was already a film over the Lady’s great pit-like eyes, and understood at once that the light was already quenching this creature who had for so long served darkness. The knowledge lent her extra strength, and she was able to stand before the creature calmly.
‘Well, madame,’ said Rumour. ‘It seems that the time has come to make your imprisonment a little more secure.’
For answer, the Lady spat and sprang at the bars, her long pale fingers curling about them.
‘Useless,’ said Rumour crisply. ‘My sorcery is too strong for you. The bars of light will hold.’ She studied the creature. ‘I am considered to be really rather good, you know,’ said Rumour.
‘You are considered to be the whore of the Amaranth House,’ said the Lady in a voice of icy fury.
‘Am I really? Now that pleases me enormously.’ Rumour moved round the room thoughtfully. ‘I do think it is gratifying to know that one’s reputation has preceded one. You, on the other hand, are really hardly known at all outside your Realm, are you? It’s such a pity, my dear, because I do think you could have had quite a useful career if you had not been so vain.’
‘Chaos will send his Armies against you,’ snarled the Lady. The Fomoire will already have returned to his Castle to report that Almhuin is in the hands of an Amaranth. And,’ she said, with sudden vicious hatred, ‘he will certainly know which Amaranth.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Rumour at once, but a swift, small smile lifted her lips. Of course Chaos would know which Amaranth. He would be furiously angry that the Fomoire had not taken the Almhuin Citadel, but he might also be intrigued. And I almost believe I can handle Chaos, thought Rumour. At the moment I believe I could take on the entire Dark Realm and win.
Because I forced open the door to the light, and that door is still ajar …
She turned back to the snarling creature with the tangled, matted hair and smeared white skin. ‘There is nothing for it,’ said Rumour in a bored tone. ‘It is really quite stultifyingly tedious, but I am afraid there is only one thing I can do with you.’
The Lady glanced slyly at Rumour from the corners of her eyes, and Rumour felt the animal fear emanating from her. At length, she said, ‘Well?’
Rumour smiled rather pityingly. ‘I am going to brick you up in the dungeons and leave you for ever in the dark,’ she said.
*
For ever in the dark. To be bricked up, to be shut away for ever in a tiny lightless, windowless cell, without hope of reprieve, without even the sound of another voice. A truly terrible fate, thought Rumour. I can scarcely believe I said it.
But I will do it.
The Dark Realm had little light, of course; it had no day and no dawn and no sun. But there was light of a kind here. It was told how the Dark Lords enjoyed their dissolute, flame-lit banquets, and how, when they travelled in the Black Domain, they did so by the lights of hundreds of flambeaux carried by servants. And Rumour had already seen that Almhuin was well provided with wall-sconces. Yes, the Lady served the dark powers, she exulted in darkness itself, but she would not find it an easy punishment to bear.
Bricked up and left in the dark for ever …
There must be no possibility of a rescue. The sentence must last until the creature died. It must be immutable. It would have been better to have killed her outright, but Rumour knew she had not sufficient strength. She knew that she had overcome massive forces simply to cage the creature; to end her life and render up her soul would require the strongest, purest sorcery ever spun. Rumour thought if she had had with her the entire House of Amaranth, they might have managed it. The slaying of the necromancess … Yes, together, their several strengths combined, they would surely have been victorious.
And all the time, beneath the cool logic and the cold planning, ran a seething anger. Why should the creature not be made to suffer for what she has done to Andrew and all those other poor wretches? Why should she be accorded a swift, painless ending … ?
She left the slaughterhouse and went quickly down the narrow curving steps that led to Almhuin’s dank dungeons, wrapping her cloak about her, but feeling how it still dragged in the seeping moisture of the stone floors and brushed against the crumbling walls with their thick crusting of lichen. Horrid! thought Rumour, shuddering. But she began to play the old, childish game again, that was not really childish and was not quite a game, of looking beyond.
Look beyond. When I am out of here — when Andrew and I are both out of here — I shall he for several hours in a deep scented bath with every expensive perfume and every sensuous oil I can find.
When I am in my own Castle again, I shall hold a tremendous banquet with every exotic food and every potent wine I can think of.
There was no light down here and she held aloft the flambeau, seeing with a shudder how it showed up the creeping mould and the pale fungal growths on the walls.
Somewhere close by, water was dripping steadily, echoing bleakly and coldly in the enclosed stone tunnels. Rumour shivered and held the flambeau up, trying not to see how tiny scuttling things ran away from the rays of light, or how there were stagnant pools of moisture on the floor.
Don’t notice it. Don’t see it. Think about hot scented baths and thick fluffy towels, and velvet robes and silken underthings that slither over your skin with a soft, sensuous whisper …
The dripping of water was exactly the sort of thing that would prey on your mind and fray your nerves. Drip-drip-drip … It was better to ignore it. It was better to look forward to the silks and the perfumes … A deep soft bed with a fire burning and silver wine carafes with diamond-bright chalices set out. Two chalices, of course, thought Rumour, the corners of her lips lifting in a sudden, mischievous smile. There was no point in scented baths and perfumed silks and firelit bedchambers if you were not going to share them with a lover … Oh Andrew, my love, there must a way to get you of this terrible place.
She thought she was directly beneath the keep now. She had stayed in innumerable Castles throughout Ireland, sometimes as a guest, sometimes as a business arrangement when a sorceress was required; occasionally clandestinely, when the Lady of the Castle was away, and the Castle Lord engaging in a little dilettante dalliance. She had many times slipped quietly through dark galleries and halls, sometimes with a torch to see the way, sometimes not. And she knew that the general layout of such places varied very little.
Even so, there was something overwhelming about knowing that the immense weight of a great dark Castle was directly over your head. Rumour lifted the flaring torch cautiously, and saw that above her were the curved, undressed stones of the tunnel roof, but that here and there were huge joists, great iron rivets and groynes.
The smallest of the cell-like dungeons was at the far end of the long narrow passage; it was very small and very cold and very dark. Rumour stood surveying it, frowning a little, holding the flambeau up to see the solid stone floor and the thick walls. How large? She paced it carefully. Four paces its length; three paces its width. Enough for the creature to lie flat if she wanted to. I am inflicting a terrible revenge, thought Rumour, and for a moment, standing there in the dank, foul-smelling cell, with only the thin torchlight, her resolve wavered.
And then: but the creature wounded Andrew! she thought angrily. She wounded him, and she would have killed him slowly and agonisingly. She has done so to countless others. Let her suffer! thought Rumour in silent fury.
The door was narrow and very low; Rumour had had to bend almost double to get through. She thought it would be fairly easy to block it up. There had been a partly crumbled and collapsed section of wall further back. She could move the bricks and the stones; there was actually a brief and very easy Spell of Labour that would do it for her. She would force the evil creature down here, keeping her inside the cage of light, and she would fling her into this cell, and she would have the Spell of Labour ready and waiting. And then, once the tiny door was bricked up, and
the creature helpless, the bars of light could be withdrawn. Rumour stood in the tunnel, considering.
Was she then going to leave the creature to die of hunger and thirst and madness in the dark? Could she do it?
But if she was not to die, then someone would have to remain in the Castle as Gaoler. Someone would have to be here to pass the creature food and water through a hatch.
Who?
*
Andrew said, ‘She must not be left to die. Punishment if you will, but she must be allowed the opportunity to repent of the evil.’ He sat hunched over the fire in the small stone room, his face haggard and white with pain, but his eyes sensible.
Rumour had found the Lady’s sculleries — grim, vaulted chambers below the great dining hall — and had brought up a cask of good red wine which they had heated over the fire, together with wedges of some kind of dark rye bread, and a wheel of rich, ripe cheese and a spicy preserve to go with it. There was a dish of velvet-skinned plums.
Andrew cupped his hands gratefully about the silver wine chalice, feeling the warmth soak into his skin. His mind was still reeling from what had happened to him, and he knew that there would still be days of pain for him: he knew he had been so severely wounded by the one called Bailitheoir that he might never walk normally again. Lamed. Mutilated.
But I am alive, he thought, rallying. I am alive and I am whole. I am surviving, and Rumour is surviving with me. We shall beat this Dark Land and Theodora will be safe. And I believe I am drawing nearer to the Black Monk, he thought. He served the Crimson Lady for a time, she told Bailitheoir so. I am nearer to fulfilling the quest for my Order, he thought, and derived an unexpected comfort from this. As Rumour had been able to look beyond Almhuin to the scented baths and lavish banquets of her own Castle, Andrew found himself looking beyond it to the resuming of his quest; the taking back of the traitor of his Order.