by Sarah Rayne
But she paused outside the great double doors, summoning every ounce of courage, feeling the palms of her hands wet with nervous perspiration. This would be the most dangerous part yet.
The Lord of Chaos’s guests were assembled in the huge brilliantly lit hall; the long tables were set with a sumptuous feast. Deferential servants stood ready to serve wine from immense silver tubs. Musicians were grouped on the dais at the far end, and the strange, faintly discordant music, which Rumour knew must be the dark strains created to assist the necromancers in their evil magic, spun and shivered about the hall.
Rumour knew she was in the presence of the greatest and the most evil necromancers ever gathered together under one roof. The beautiful hall was thick with the dark, swirling forces of necromancy, and suffocating waves of every one of the Seven Evils closed about her. Behind her, the door swung to with a little click, and Rumour knew a moment of panic. I am shut in with them. I am shut in with creatures who will certainly fall on me if they recognise me for an intruder. Don’t think about it. Look about you as if looking for friends and acquaintances. Appear slightly disdainful.
She took another deep breath, and stood looking about her.
Misrule, with Anarchy and Murder, stood at the far end of the hall. Misrule was wearing a solid gold mask, shaped into the likeness of a fire demon, studded with rubies. His eyes, red and sly, glinted through the slits, and beneath it his thin, rather frail looking body was clad in scarlet and black robes. Between his thighs was slung a narrow golden belt with its centre thickening into a huge jutting phallus, solid gold and monstrously lifelike, resting over his own genitals. On his feet were black boots laced with silver, with heels studded with rubies.
Murder wore his swirling crimson cloak and a black, deep-brimmed hat that shadowed his face. He did not appear to speak, only to watch and listen, but Rumour caught a glimpse of cold, merciless eyes and felt a cold shiver of fear. Anarchy was dressed as if for war, in black chainmail, with a breastplate engraved with Chaos’s emblem. A white velvet cloak was slung negligently from his shoulders, and Rumour could see that it was spattered with blood and streaked with gore. But Anarchy’s eyes were bright and alert; he was studying the guests in a lively fashion, as if he found them interesting and wanted to know them better.
Rumour was unexpectedly drawn to Anarchy. She found his air of bright interest attractive, and she found his extreme youth endearing. Murder was cold and sinister; he would stand silently and watchfully inside a room, watching his victim from under the deep shadow cast by the wide-brimmed slouch hat. And Misrule looked shallow and vain. But Anarchy would probably tumble headfirst into all manner of ill-judged battles and unwise rebellions. You could very easily visualise him rampaging through towns and cities and across battlefields, calling to rebels and dissidents, overturning laws and rulers and toppling governments. He would be lively and reckless and enthusiastic, and Rumour liked enthusiasts.
Among the guests were armoured and visor’d soldiers, and Rumour recognised them as being Captains of the ancient lineage of Rodent Armies, probably summoned by Chaos from the dread Caves of Cruachan, where they guarded one of the most ancient Gateways between the two Irelands. As they moved and mingled with the guests, she saw with a shiver of revulsion that many of them had slithering, boneless tails, which some of them had hung over their left forearms, rather as a soldier will accoutre himself with a dress sword if attending a very formal event. Beneath the black visors and helmets were the nightmare lumpish blending of jackals and rats and stoats and weasels with Humans, so that whiskers and feral teeth and snouts mingled grotesquely with Humanish lips and nostrils and ears.
Many of the silk-and satin-garbed Lords wore on their breasts the legendary Silver Star of Medoc, and again, Rumour received the impression of a military gathering, where all badges of honour or valour must be displayed.
The females were richly clad, but they were nearly all thin, ravaged-faced creatures; rapacious and avid, their lips painted the colour of blood, their faces alabaster-white and their eyes huge dark pits. Rumour remembered how the Crimson Lady had possessed exactly those dark, abyss-like eyes, and understood that the greeds and the lusts that male necromancers turned outwards, turned inwards for the females. The hungers had corrupted their powers, and they had become so dependent on the dark, lustful side of their craft, that they perpetually craved blood or sexual gratification. She knew a brief anger at the poor-spirited necromancesses who had allowed the power to master them instead of mastering the power.
Several of the females had five snakes coiled in their hair, for the snake is one of the highest servants of the necromantic Houses. The snakes were moribund and turgid, but Rumour saw the occasional flicker of a thin, forked tongue or the gleam of a basilisk eye, and knew it would not take very much to waken them. Some of the necromancesses had tiny black Goblin-creatures walking at their heels, many of them carrying the satin and velvet trains of their mistresses’ gowns, sometimes simply holding golden, jewel-encrusted pouches which would probably hold mirrors and brushes and salves and pomades. Rumour glanced at these tiny, ugly train-bearers warily, knowing the limited but sometimes vicious powers of those who possessed Goblin-blood, but she saw at once that the creatures were stunted wizened beings, probably deliberately starved and made to sleep in cramped dark cupboards by the rapacious necromancesses, who would use them for grotesque sexual relief.
The Dark Royalty of the Black Ireland, all gathered together for the Lord of Chaos’s fearsome War Banquet …
The musicians suddenly struck a harsh cacophony of notes, and a stir of anticipation brushed the company. Heads turned, conversation stilled, and the scarlet velvet curtains at the back of the banqueting hall rippled from the movement of an unseen creature, and the cold, unmelodious music rose to a massive crescendo.
Rumour felt the cold fear twist her stomach again, because this was it, this was the moment when he would appear — the moment when she could be caught.
The Lord of the Castle, the Suzerain of the Dark Ireland was about to appear …
The curtains parted with a whisper of sound, and he was there. Chaos, the legendary dark sorcerer, the most powerful necromancer of them all.
Chaos, who had held the Black Domain firmly and impregnably against all assault for two centuries, who had waged war on the terrible Crimson Lady of Almhuin in the grisly, blood-soaked NightFields, and who commanded instant obedience and total allegiance, and hunted Men for sport and roasted their carcasses for torchlight …
And who., by the Well of Segais, had spun the Dark Lure over Rumour and evoked that swift, never-to-be-admitted response …
*
Rumour had thought that they would all be summoned to sit at the long tables, in order to partake of the dazzling array of dishes and to drink the wine and the spiced punch, but this did not seem to be the custom here.
There was no move to the tables, no announcement or request that the guests seat themselves. As Chaos stood framed by the scarlet velvet hangings, a slender, darkly garbed figure with slanting, glowing eyes, the guests sank on to their left knees in some kind of obeisance. Rumour, watching covertly, copied them. She would acknowledge no creature master, although she would be respectful to the Amaranth Head, but she dare not do anything to draw attention to herself.
As Chaos moved down from the dais, several of what Rumour thought would be Elders of some kind — cold-eyed, cruel-looking necromancers — moved to his side, and with them the Captains of the Rodent Army. As if this was a signal, the waiting servants began to move about the hall, each of them bearing platters of food which they offered to the grouped guests. There was roast venison and oxen and green goose and pressed duck; other dishes held portions of baked lakefish and salmonidae and ingot fish. Two of the servants were carving several sucking pigs and the foetus of young cows, which Rumour knew was considered a great delicacy, but which she did not care for very much. A side-table bore huge silver dishes of sugared fruits and honey cakes and con
fections of rose petals and tansies and elaborate concoctions made from pounded chestnuts and cream. Six of the servants stood beside the immense silver tubs, ladling wine into exquisite silver and gold chalices, which they handed to the guests.
Rumour thought it was an unusual, but rather interesting arrangement. She watched carefully to see what was done, and saw that, as the servants moved to and fro with the platters, they handed small silver bowls to each of the guests. The guests then simply helped themselves to portions of whatever they chose, eating and drinking and talking, and then moving on to other groups.
In fact, thought Rumour, momentarily intrigued, it was an extremely sensible way of giving a banquet, for it meant it was possible to move about and meet and talk with as many guests as you liked. She began to play the ‘look-beyond’ game again. If I get out of this alive, I shall give just such a feast. She visualised her own star-shaped banqueting hall inside her Castle of the Starlit Night, and saw how tables could be set in the points of the stars, and how guests could move about comfortably. A new fashion.
She moved slowly and quite composedly through the necromancers, smiling and nodding as she did so, as if she were entirely at home and as if she had a perfect right to be here.
But all the while her heart was racing, and from the corners of her eyes, she was watching Chaos and the small group that stood with him. Elder necromancers: not rulers exactly, but perhaps Dark Lords who had attained some kind of higher power? Yes. And the Rodent Captains — six of them, were there? — were being deferential, and Chaos was listening to them, his head tilted courteously.
War talk, thought Rumour, sipping her wine. Battle talk. I believe that this banquet is something to do with the War between Chaos and the Crimson Lady. And with the framing of the thought came another: but if that is so, then Chaos does not yet know that the Crimson Lady has been imprisoned in her own fortress! Dare I believe that? thought Rumour. Did the Fomoire after all not return here to tell their tale? But why not? And knew the answer at once: the Fomoire had been beaten — Rumour herself had beaten them — and they would not dare to face Chaos with such an admission.
This was unexpectedly heartening, because it made Chaos seem less all-powerful than he had previously seemed. But Rumour thought she dared not believe in it too wholeheartedly.
But it was plain that the Rodent Captains were here to plan a battle. Rumour watched them under cover of taking a further portion of the food, and saw that they were all looking very serious. So whatever they are planning is something important, and probably something they have not yet attempted in this war. Could it be the storming of Almhuin? Cold fear gripped her, and she thought: but Andrew is still there! He is alone and he is lame in that great dark Fortress!
Anarchy and Murder stood together, Anarchy laughing and drinking wine as fast as his chalice was filled by the silent servants, eyeing the females rather leeringly and calling out ribald jokes to the males. But Murder said very little; he stood wrapped in his crimson cloak, the slouch hat pulled over his face, eating and drinking sparingly. Once the deep sunken eyes seemed to meet Rumour’s, and she tensed her muscles, waiting for the shout, the pointing finger that would unmask her, but Murder’s eyes slid over her and passed on. Rumour, her every muscle aching with the tension of fear, drew in a breath of relief.
Misrule was everywhere, peering at people’s plates to see what was being eaten, whipping up the musicians to provide louder music, occasionally leaping on to the table to caper amidst the wine-flagons and the silver dishes and the arrangements of flowers and bowls of fruit. Everywhere he went, a crackle of laughter broke out and a buzz of alert conversation, and Rumour saw that, despite the deep and serious nature of Chaos’s conversation, the necromancer’s eyes frequently turned towards Misrule, as if he was watching that Misrule did not miss any opportunity to entertain the guests.
As she turned back to where Chaos stood with the four Dark Lords and the Rodent Captains, Misrule darted suddenly to the centre of the room, and flung up his hands, calling for the guests’ attention.
‘For, my friends,’ he said, ‘we have a little amusement devised for your pleasure now.’ The mischievous eyes behind the slanting golden mask gleamed with malicious mirth, and Rumour moved to the far wall, where she could be partly concealed by a fall of gold brocade that swathed a window.
Misrule said, still in his light mocking voice, ‘My alter ego, Murder, is arranging for better lights for us, friends,’ and at once an amused cheer went up, and Rumour, guessing what lay ahead, felt cold horror clutch the pit of her stomach. Misrule flung out a hand, pointing to the thick wooden spikes standing around the hall, each one nearly eight feet in height, its end set into a heavy-looking base of what Rumour thought was beaten copper, or perhaps even solid gold. As she stared, not daring to move lest she should be spotted as an interloper, the doors at the far end were flung open, and Murder, now clad in a black cloak that brushed the floor, stood there, with behind him six chained and manacled Humans, bedraggled and dirty, their bones showing through the skimpy rags that clung to them, their eyes pale and bewildered by the sudden brilliant light of the banqueting hall after their dark, windowless dungeons.
Rumour glanced round, seeking a way to create a diversion that would enable the prisoners to break free, but knowing that they would almost certainly have been kept in the Castle dungeons for so long that their wits would be dulled and their strength so feeble that all alertness would long since have deserted them, and that they would be incapable of grasping at any sudden opportunity.
And then she saw that, surrounding the prisoners, leaping and whirling, the horrid slit Humanish skins flying wildly, were the Fomoire.
*
The necromancers and their attendants moved back, leaving the centre of the floor clear. A hum of pleased anticipation went up.
Misrule was dancing around the edges of the room now, the golden mask glinting cruelly, the ruby heels of his shoes sending out sparks of baleful red light. Rumour, still partly concealed by the curtain, saw that he was dancing nimbly and agilely beneath each of the rearing wooden stakes, and that, as he did so, the sparks from his ruby heels collected and coagulated, until a tiny pool of crimson formed; thick, viscous fluid that coiled and swirled and sent up tiny hissing spirals of smoke. Within the smoke there appeared glowing coals, black as ebony, but emitting such fierce heat that the necromancers drew back.
Rumour heard someone say, ‘Misrule has made sure of the heat tonight,’ and another answer, ‘Can you blame him? We all remember the time when the Humanish had to be set alight from the wall-torches, and how long it took for them to burn up.’
The heat glowed in fierce pools of molten brilliance, and Murder moved forward, the prisoners shuffling after him in horrid obedience, the Fomoire prodding them, leaping and jeering, singing their terrible Hunting Song.
‘Give us fire to burn the hair
Flames to light the Humanish vair.
Give us heat and glowing meat;
Sparks and flames and smoke and fire.’
They pushed the prisoners forward, jabbing with their long, bony fingers, their wizened faces just visible through the Humanish cloaks, the mean little eyes gleaming with malevolence.
Misrule stood at the centre of the room, his hands on his hips, and Murder stalked forward and stood beneath the first of the stakes. He looked round at the watching throng, and the smallest of smiles touched his thin lips. Rumour thought that it was if he were saying: ah, you puny creatures, you laugh and cavort with Misrule, but it is I who can command your full attention now! It flickered on her mind that there might be jealousy between Chaos’s three henchmen, and there might certainly be rivalry, and for a moment she wondered if this was something she could use.
The Fomoire had reached for one prisoner’s chains, skittering excitedly across the floor on all fours, the empty-eyed skulls of their cloaks jerked backwards as they did so. They began to drag the prisoner forward and, as they did so, the crimson pool of fi
re created by Misrule flared up, washing the scene to eerie glowing horror. The prisoner, who had seemed bewildered and barely aware of his surroundings, looked up as the monstrous shadow of the stake fell over him, and terrible comprehension dawned in his eyes. At once he screamed and jerked away, trying to free himself. The Fomoire shrieked gleefully, and four of them bent down in front of him, seizing the slithering iron chains that trailed from his legs, hauling him forward to the waiting stake and the leaping flames.
The swirling crimson pool flared up again, and as the flames licked the base of the stake, a scent of burning wood drifted across the banqueting hall. Rumour, who had sat before innumerable blazing fires stoked high with applewood and pearwood, found it unbearable that such beautiful and evocative scents should be so horribly mixed in with such grisliness and such pitiless torture.
The prisoner was at the foot of the stake now; the leaping flames were before him, and he was screaming like a trapped hare.
Anarchy, who was standing in a semi-drunken state nearby, lifted his wine chalice and shouted, ‘Misrule has neglected to sew the prisoners’ mouths again!’
‘Shame on him!’ cried the necromancers, and low chuckles broke from them.
Misrule grinned and capered around the circle of the watchers, holding out the jutting golden phallus, thrusting it obscenely at the females.
‘Let the Humanish squeal!’ he cried. ‘Let us hear them squeal and smell them roast!’
Murder was standing directly behind the wickedly sharp stake, the black cloak wrapped about him, the deep-brimmed hat pulled over his eyes. The flames leapt higher, illuminating his silent watchful figure, black against fiery red, and Rumour shivered, knowing that, although Misrule might be vain and malicious and Anarchy feckless and shallow, Murder was far and away the most evil of Chaos’s henchmen.