Jordan and Najia focused on the light radiating from the candles between them. As they concentrated, the light gathered into a floating sphere that hung suspended, an orb of glowing gold. Areas of blue began to materialize on the surface; then an island of green and brown started to push through the azure. Cracks stretched across the sphere and a tremor set in. Flakes of blue fell off, evaporating before reaching the floor. Jordan frowned, furrows appearing on his forehead and around his eyes. Najia’s expression remained calm, impassive. The orb stabilized, and the island started to take definitive shape. Suddenly the sphere disappeared in a puff of candle smoke.
Najia leaned back, supported her body with her hands on the floor, and stretched. Jordan gave a heavy sigh. “What else we can try?” he asked.
Najia shook her head, her dark hair caressing her face. “Apparently it’s impossible to manifest an accurate map of Ireland.”
“Who blinds our sight?” he asked. “The Sidhe? The Celtic druids?”
“Both have set up barriers,” said Najia. “But there’s a greater problem with attempting an enchantment this strong from here: too much Ardor has already been stripped from Britain.”
“Ardor?”
“The energy that originally animated all life and what makes natural magic possible. There’s less and less for those with the knowledge, people like you and me, to draw upon. All magic requires some form of energy. With less Ardor our ability to cast enchantments weakens. You should know that—you’re involved with driving it from the world.”
“If we can’t even create a map of the Irish coastline”—Jordan paused in frustration—“we’ll be entirely at Kellach’s mercy when we send an armada.”
He rose and moved to the window, where he observed the strange gathering forming in the walled garden below. He had sailed here directly from Great Skellig, a journey of a few days, while it had taken the legate nine months to return to Rome from London and squeeze enough money from the Jews of the Papal States to fund the English invasion, then another month to convene this conclave. Yet in that brief time, tended by Kellach, the trees had grown twice as tall and had become fuller and more animated; each morning they twisted themselves into slightly different shapes.
The English lords Mortimer and de Vere had arrived and sat next to Kellach at the round table, quizzing him on the invasion plans. Propped up in a chair beside them was their Tylwyth Teg, Oren, who the English believed could tell if another faerie tried to deceive them. To Kellach’s right, the legate was approaching, which meant that Jordan was late. Across from Kellach, between the Vatican and the English seats, a gap remained for the Fomorian delegation. With the sun dipping into the sea, they were expected to pad up the stone steps from the water at any moment.
“The legate believes that when the Nephilim are gone, natural magic will disappear,” said Jordan.
“God may have infused the world with Ardor when he created it, or it may have come in the blood of the angels, blood the Nephilim still carry—no one knows,” said Najia. “But what I know for sure is that when Nephilim leave a land, Ardor leaves with them. That’s what caused the Ardor in Europe to fade almost as much as it has here.”
“What of Europe’s human witches, like the High Coven? They seem to be getting more powerful,” countered Jordan.
“They’ve less magic than they claim, and they’ve had to turn to taking lives to power its more potent forms.”
“Your father taught you all this? Or did you learn firsthand?”
“Don’t worry, I haven’t been hiding a dark side from you,” replied Najia. “As sorcerer to the emir, my father had to battle dark witches moving into our lands. These witches stripped the fat from stolen infants, who have the most malleable life force. Older people need to be boiled or burned alive to extract any usable energy. Do you want to try one of those methods to create your Irish map?”
Knowing that it was not a serious suggestion, Jordan ignored it, but he could not stop the images reappearing in his mind of the butchered children he had seen in the witch Marija’s lair. Trying to think of something else, he asked, “What of the exorcists?”
“They enable their magic through relics, angelic grimoires, and ancient words of power from their God. Forces that were not meant to be used by humans, at least not in the way the exorcists use them, so they do not serve them well, they corrupt.”
There were many things that corrupt men, Jordan thought, and surely Nephilim as well. From above he watched Oren nod at something Kellach said, then spoon sugar into his mouth. Jordan did not know what the Welsh faerie’s agenda was, but he was sure it was not what de Vere expected.
Jordan knew that Oren had betrayed his own kind at least once already, a century earlier, when he had revealed the hiding place of the Croes Naid. The English king Edward I, known as Longshanks for his imposing height, had celebrated his conquest of Wales by having Dafydd, the last Welsh prince, drawn, hanged, disemboweled, quartered, and his head shipped to the Tower of London to be displayed on a spike. However, relentless attacks by surviving Tylwyth Teg and groups of allied Trolls threatened to destabilize Longshanks’s newly won holdings before he could build castles to protect them. Then Longshanks’s cousin, Count Philip of Savoy, sent him Oren as a present. With little persuasion Oren disclosed that the Croes Naid, containing a shard of the True Cross of Jesus, had been used by generations of Welsh princes as an effective talisman against Nephilim attacks. Once the VRS League began using the powerful relic, Longshanks had the calm he needed to build this fortress at Conwy. Construction went so smoothly that he finished it in only four years. As soon as Jordan had arrived, he had demanded that the Croes Naid and its exorcist keepers move from the castle chapel to the church in the town. While his excuse was the comfort of Kellach, in truth it was so that he could practice his new art undetected.
Jordan heard the rustle of cloth as Najia pulled her frock off over her head and threw it on top of a chest next to the bed, but he did not turn around. He had too many other things on his mind. She slid up behind him, pressing her breasts against his bare back. Rising up on her tiptoes, she looked over his shoulder at the scene below.
“Once Kellach gets you to Ireland, the plan is to turn on him?”
Jordan had learned during their short time together not to bother lying to her. “Yes. The Vatican and the English will double-cross him and turn on all his kind.”
“The Skeaghshee and the Fomorians are betraying Ireland in their lust for power,” said Najia. “In turn they’ll be betrayed by mortals who lust for land. And the last beacon of Ardor in our world will be snuffed out. Then the breath of the world will fade, and she will begin to die.”
Silence hung between them.
Below, shapes rose silhouetted against the last sparkle of a sunset sea and moved cautiously up the stone stairs to the garden, where torchlight glinted from their leader’s single oversize eye. Jordan wondered if it was the same Fomorian king who had assisted them at Great Skellig. The answer came as a pair of female Fomorians unwrapped an oilskin package and draped the sable cloak over the king’s shoulders.
“Richard’s greatest victory begins at this castle,” said Najia. “As will his ultimate downfall.”
“Prophesying without entrails now, witch,” Jordan snapped.
Najia laughed. “I learned to draw upon Ardor through study and practice. You were born with the gift, though you didn’t know it. You thought you were just lucky. Then you discovered enchantments, enchantments that always worked the first time you tried them, and your success increased.” She ran her hand down his bare chest. “Not a single scar from all your fights. Not one. Yes, I’m a witch, but what are you?”
Jordan pulled away from her touch. That was becoming too nagging a question. He grabbed his tunic off the bedpost and put it on, hurriedly adding the rest of his ensemble.
“What are you going to do when all the bad luck you pushe
d aside comes back to you? What will you do when there’s not enough Ardor left to draw upon?” Najia asked, plopping down on the bed and watching him dress. “What will you be then?”
“My position will be secure. I’ve an agreement to become grand marshal, bound with the legate,” said Jordan, pulling on his boots. “It’ll restore my family name.”
“Fine compensation for ensuring that the only magic left in this world will be that of dark witches and corrupt exorcists!” Najia exclaimed. “A splendid strategy.”
Jordan regarded her sternly, then left the chamber heading for the war council.
By the time he reached the table, negotiations with the Fomorians were already well advanced. Jordan knew what Kellach had offered: if they joined the invasion, they would receive the seaward half of the Irish kingdom of Connacht.
13
Outside Tara, Ireland
That Night
Aisling awoke to hell. She was bound to a dead tree in the center of a clearing, her hands tied with a crude rope looped over a branch above her head, her feet tied at the base. Her bruised, naked body throbbed with pain. The waning moon cast its harsh monochromatic light, revealing Conor staked out on the ground, struggling against his ropes. Several dozen Woodwose danced around a fire, chanting and shaking. A high rock face established one side of the clearing, the large black mouth of a cave at its base.
A Woodwose wearing the hollowed-out head of a boar as a mask stepped away from the dancers, pointed to Aisling, and gave a cry. The dancing intensified.
The shaman, Aisling thought. She forced a swallow down her burning throat, then croaked out an enchantment. The only result was a waver in the mouth of the cave, as if black velvet curtains had caught a breeze, but there was no breeze. The ropes holding her remained intact.
A squat figure emerged from the cave mouth. Three feet tall with a chubby, hairless body and pointed ears, he gave a high-pitched, squeaky giggle, revealing sharp teeth. The fear that Aisling had been fighting off overwhelmed her—it was an Imp, a demon familiar.
The Imp climbed onto a long stone slab set before the cave. One end of the slab rested on a rock, causing it to slope. Shallow troughs had been carved at an angle down the face of the slab, joining into one deep trough down the center, which led off the low edge.
The shaman turned back to the dancing Woodwose and placed his hand on the shoulder of one, a young woman. All dancing and chanting stopped. Four men walked her, unresisting, to the slab. The shaman pulled off her loincloth to the laughter of the Imp, who thrust his hips forward to show off his tiny erection, barely visible under his sagging belly. He scurried to the high end of the slab as the men placed the young woman on it, head down.
The Imp squeaked some words Aisling did not understand, and vines crept up across the young woman’s body, binding her to the slab. The watching Woodwose restarted their chant, their bodies waving with the rhythm. Laughter trickled from the Imp as he broke into a mocking dance on his perch.
The shaman selected a skull from a pile beside the slab and picked up the stone-headed ax lying next to it. He inverted the skull and placed it under the trough at the low edge of the slab. Aisling’s eyes locked onto the eyes of the young woman, where she saw only acceptance, until the shaman’s ax severed the woman’s head.
There was a thud as the Imp laughed so hard he fell off the slab. He ran around, grabbed the head, and scurried back up to his high perch, where he stood studying the dead face. He giggled, kissed the dead lips, giggled again, and began to suckle blood from the neck, red running down his chin and pudgy chest. The Woodwose resumed their dance.
“Conor!” screamed Aisling. “My enchantments aren’t working! There must be a demon in the cave countering them!”
“Keep trying!” Conor called back, pulling futilely at the ropes holding him.
Aisling closed her eyes and tried to focus her energy, but it immediately drained away from her. The chanting of the Woodwose filled her head. When she opened her eyes, the shaman was retrieving the inverted skull, now full of the young woman’s blood. He held it up to the cave in a salute. With one hand he removed his boar-head mask, dropped it on the ground, and took a long drink, and then he hurled the rest of the blood into the cave. The blackness covering the opening erupted into a boil.
With a loud screech, the Imp tossed the severed head of the young woman at Conor, hitting him in the stomach. Men pulled the young woman’s body off the slab as the vines released her. Others cut Conor loose and dragged him, struggling and cursing, to the slab. Pinned by the returning vines, his head at the high end of the slab, Conor shouted to Aisling, “Whatever they do to me, stay strong, try to protect yourself!”
The shaman again placed the inverted skull under the trough at the low end of the slab. Aisling desperately projected an enchantment of comfort and pain relief but could tell immediately that it did not work.
The Imp’s erection returned. He crawled down and sat on Conor’s chest, watching as the shaman grabbed Conor’s testicles with one hand and raised a flint knife with the other. The Woodwose roared their approval. The Imp giggled and began to masturbate. The shaman slowly brought the knife down.
An arrow exploded from the shaman’s throat, and he collapsed before the knife could castrate Conor. Tadg stepped from the edge of the clearing, loosing arrows as fast as he could draw them. Woodwose near the slab fell. Tadg advanced as Liam sprinted from the trees toward Aisling.
Woodwose rushed Liam with abandon. Liam cut through them, sword in one hand, dagger in the other. Bodies piled at his feet, and he stumbled, forcing him to step back to keep his footing.
Tadg was almost to the slab when he drew and loosed an arrow at the Imp. There was a flash, and the arrow became ash in midflight, the iron arrowhead falling to earth. Tadg tried to draw another. His bowstring vaporized. Dropping the bow, he reached for his dagger but was knocked to the ground by charging Woodwose. The Imp jumped down, pulled the dagger from Tadg’s belt, and sliced across the back of one of Tadg’s legs, then the other, severing his hamstrings. Tadg cried out in pain.
Liam retreated a few feet from the line of Woodwose between him and Aisling, his sword held in a high guard, his dagger low. He looked toward Tadg and Conor and spotted the Imp approaching cautiously from his right. Liam started to loop left, giving him an angle past the mound of dead and dying Woodwose for his charge to Aisling.
“Liam! The cave! There’s a demon!” screamed Aisling.
Liam risked a glance over his shoulder to the cave, now behind him. A wave of blackness was flowing out along the ground toward him. He quickly surveyed the clearing, noting the Woodwose between him and Aisling and the Imp creeping closer. Even with his half-Sidhe ability to anticipate the moves of an attacker within blade reach, there were too many adversaries about to rush him at the same time. He looked straight at Aisling, raised and threw his dagger, severing the rope binding her hands. The blackness crawled up Liam’s legs and enveloped his struggling body.
Aisling wrenched the dagger loose from the tree, cut her feet free, and stepped forward. Tendrils of black flew through the air from the cave and slammed her back against the trunk, binding her there once again.
Lord Maolan rode his horse into the clearing. A hush descended on the Woodwose. He looked around. The bodies of Woodwose lay strewn about. A shape smothered in black stood fixed where Liam once was. Tadg had dragged himself onto the slab, where he was pulling ineffectively at the vines binding Conor.
Dismounting, Maolan addressed the Imp. “Why are they not dead yet? There will be no coronation tomorrow without Aisling. With no king and no Goddess, your master and I will rise to rule the dual worlds. Stop playing around and finish them.”
The Imp gave an exaggerated bow, sweeping one hand to his feet. Rising, he giggled and pointed to Tadg. Two Woodwose grabbed Tadg’s useless legs and dragged him off the slab. Flipping him faceup, they tore off his c
lothing and pinned his arms and legs down.
Using Tadg’s dagger, the Imp carved a red arc across his stomach. Tadg gritted his teeth against the pain as small, glistening cavities puckered open along the path of the dagger’s point. Blackness crept along the earth toward him. Tadg stared at it wide-eyed. Black tendrils reached out and tore the wound fully open, dragging out intestines, to Tadg’s screams. The Woodwose released his limbs and backed off as the blackness enveloped Tadg’s body. Tadg’s screams became muffled, then stopped suddenly.
The Imp rolled on the ground in uncontrolled laughter.
Maolan raised his arms and cried, “Consume them all!”
“Aisling.” A soft voice penetrated the fray. “Aisling, you must stop them.” Brigid was standing in the clearing.
“Brigid!” cried Aisling. “Send help, hurry!”
“There’s no one who can help here but you,” replied Brigid.
The Imp, his head cocked, studied Brigid. “That is not an apparition,” he squeaked. “She is really here.” He rushed at Brigid. She grabbed him by the ear and held him off to her side. He slashed at her arm, and a red line appeared. She twisted the ear, and the Imp cried in pain, dropping the dagger and falling to one knee.
“Aisling,” Brigid continued in her soft, level voice, “you must put a stop to this or we’ll all die.”
“I can’t,” sobbed Aisling. “Not by myself.”
“You will all die!” shouted Maolan. He took a step toward Brigid and gestured at the cave mouth. “Kill them!”
“Aisling, you have journeyed between this world and the Otherworld for fifteen hundred years. You have the knowledge. You must now find it within yourself if you are going to save us.”
A fresh wave of black flowed from the cave and washed around the base of the sacrificial slab. Tentacles reached for Conor. Aisling closed her eyes, tried to still her mind.
The Last Days of Magic Page 17