Long ago and far away across the mists of the timeless blue sea, lay a green island circled by forests and mountains. In the hollow of the mountains stretched a lush green plain, and on the plain rose a hill. A fort was built on the hill that dominated the green plain, and in the great hall of the fort, Oscar, the High King’s foster son, woke with a start.
Silver moonlight flooded the sleeping hall from the chimney hole. Oscar sat up and threw off the wolfskins from his bed and peered into the silvery darkness. From far away, the clear, musical voices of the people of the Sidhe, and the stamping of the hooves of their fairy horses, reached his ears. At the same time, he heard the faint notes of a woman’s cry. Oscar strained his ears to make out the name she called, but it was lost on the billows of the misty sea.
Sitting on the edge of his bed in the great hall of the fort on the hill, Oscar strained every muscle as he listened. The tension broke with a metallic tinkle on the flagstones at his feet. In the soft light of the moon, he saw the cause, a bright enamel pin. He held it in his trembling hand and peered at the small figure, a green woman with outstretched hand, framed in the flame-red waves of her hair.
Oscar closed his fist around the pin and listened. The tremulous silence let fall the echo, the last syllables of a name.
“...orah,” the voice breathed, and was lost in the deep silence.
She is calling at last, Oscar thought, and his heart beat fast. His hand tightened around the pin, and he wondered how he would follow.
Chapter 3
Dusk was falling in the desert wastes that surrounded the Holy City State, and a young man flicked tousled copper-coloured hair out of his eyes. All his senses alert, he leaned back against the rock, still warm from the heat of the day, and peered into the gloom. The evening shadows of the desert smudged and ran together; they could easily be hiding a lurking danger. Years of nomadic existence had sharpened his senses, and despite the lack of furtive movement, he was uneasy.
His fire was laid, he held the flints in his hand, ready to strike a flame, but something restrained him. Something in the quality of the air made him pause, a thickening, a tingling as if something was waiting, preparing to move. In a shallow cave at the rock’s base, a dog whined. He hushed it with a sharp sound and tilted his head, listening. The silence deepened, throbbed, and was broken by the rush of wings, dozens of pairs of huge, featherless wings.
The young man cringed back as if to blend with the sandy stone, his eyes narrowed to catch a glimpse of the demon flight. Even the dogs held their breath. He turned his head slightly towards a tall jagged rock that the last of the brown daylight lit an unearthly yellow.
Wreathed in black streamers of winged creatures, the yellow rock stood gaunt and menacing against the dull sky. As the boy watched, the rock appeared to throb, and the dark holes, demon burrows, glowed with a sickly light. Demons and flying worms wheeled and scattered into the darkening air, trailing their shrill cries as they went a-hunting. The young man shivered as he peered after them, startled to see where they were heading. Never had he seen so many of the beasts in one swarm, and he wondered what was drawing them to Providence.
He leapt to his feet in surprise, a ripple of excitement replacing the furrowed concentration of building a fire. He dropped the flints and stood watchfully in the cave’s mouth. Dust billowed; a dog yelped in consternation. Flipping a wayward lock of hair out of his eyes he strained to see through the gathering shadows. Someone had called out, in a strong, clear voice that only he could hear. The sound echoed in all the chambers of his inner ear and faded into a thought that snuggled down just out of his hearing. He strained his eyes and ears, but there was nothing there—only the sinister desert winds rattling the thorn bushes.
He knew the cry for what it was—a call from another world. He was not afraid, just curious, and the ripple of excitement reached his finger and toe tips and stayed there. He wanted to shout back that he heard, and he was on his way, but it didn’t matter. She would know. After years of waiting, he was ready to go wherever she asked, to meet the one who needed his help. He knew it must be time.
* * * *
He had been walking for three days when she called again, and this time her voice was fainter and indistinct. He wondered with a pang if she might be leaving him. The desert boy let his feet be guided by the pups. He marched among his pack of dogs, twenty wolf-dog pups, their tracks weaving in and out of his footsteps. Some danced ahead, some trotted beside him, others scampered behind—all pricked their ears and listened when she called with a mixture of curiosity and excitement. The boy bent and stroked the head of the nearest pup, sharing the electricity that sparked in its fur. The dogs knew; they knew who was calling. He shivered with pleasure and let himself be submerged by the warm, panting canine sensations.
They left the deep desert behind, the massive buttes and mesas, profound canyons and twisting gullies. Night cries followed the pack and its leader, the sinister sounds of slowly flapping wings and hissing breath. Scaled and furred creatures, with savage fangs and blind beads of eyes that never saw the light of day, followed in his tracks or flapped overhead, hidden in the banks of gloomy cloud.
But the young man was not deterred. He kept a small fire burning through the night to keep evil things at bay and slept in snatches. The pups growled and whined at every rustling and scratching of the thorn bushes, but they too were full of the echoing sound of the call and dozed through the night hours rather than sinking into exhausted sleep. The boy dreamed, and in his dreams he was filled with an intense joy. Everywhere was light and warmth, and he carried the softest, tenderest warmth in his arms.
Not until he was within the shadow of the craggy outer walls of the citadel did he stop and make a proper camp. Beneath the hated walls, beneath the dull gleam of the crystal Hemisphere, memories of his childhood returned, flitting just beyond the glow of the campfire, taunting him. In his ten years of wandering he had avoided the place, avoided even the sight of the Hemisphere, putting the towering mesas between him and the gleaming dome. The caller had summoned him here and he had returned, he sensed, for the last time.
The young man crouched beneath his shelter of rusting metal panels picked out from the scattered debris of the ancient building site, and waited. He tried not to think of what lay within the crystal dome, tried to remember rather the Dananns’ underground homeland. He had been happy there, he recalled, snatching moments of wild abandon from the fear and misery of life in Overworld, with its drudgery in the sanitation plant.
But that was finished with now. He understood that. He had been called to take part in something huge, something wonderful. He hugged his knees to his chest as a ripple of excitement ran through him. That was what he had been waiting for all these years, to find out what it was.
Chapter 4
In the tunnel that still vibrated with the ringing of the smashed lantern, Zachariah forced his flailing arms to be still and took deep breaths. It was just dark, that’s all. Nothing to panic about. When he had calmed, reason told him it must have been a gust of wind that blew out the lantern flame and threw some dry, furry debris into his face. He had studied the wind a little in advanced science class: it was nothing supernatural, not really the breath of the Wise God, just moving air, and it meant the tunnel ended Outside after all.
Carefully, feeling his way forward with outstretched hands, he placed one invisible foot in front of the other and plunged deeper into the tunnel. His hands fluttered before him like a blind man’s cane, recoiling in fear and disgust whenever he touched something that was neither earth nor rock. The memory of the dank fur sweeping across his face returned. As the darkness grew thicker, he imagined it gripping his throat with unseen fingers, suffocating him. He seemed to hear the howl still echoing in the further reaches of the tunnel.
He lost all notion of time, had no idea how long he had been walking, whether it was hours or only a matter of minutes. The darkness reached into his mind, crushing his ability to reason. It pushed out
all thought of the Garden and his journey into the mountains and replaced it with pure fear. The darkness opened deep chasms in his path, became gargoyle faces, fangs dripping with blood. He sensed the presence of furred and scaled creatures waiting in every hollow in the tunnel wall and hanging from the tunnel roof. His nostrils filled with the stink of corruption, his ears with the swish and scratch of rapid, furtive movement.
He turned about wildly. He had to get out of this place that had never known light, even if it meant abandoning everything and running back to the tunnel’s mouth. But to his horror, the blackness was as thick behind him as before. He spun on his heels, and the blackness followed him. Now he no longer knew in which direction he was facing.
In his terror, alone, adrift in the darkness, the horrors crowded round him, the images grew more solid, their voices louder. He imagined the cold reptilian breath of demons, heard the slither of scales on the rocky floor. He strained so hard he began to hear wordless whisperings, from mouths with fleshless lips, fluttering inside his ears. Unable to control his fear any longer, Zachariah crouched down like a terrified foetus with his arms clasped tight at the back of his neck and his face hidden against his chest.
When the wild thumping of his heart had calmed, he took deep breaths until he had mastered his trembling, then he slowly raised his head and opened his eyes. It seemed as though, a little to his right, there was a thinning of the blackness. It was either the light of Outside and the end of the tunnel, or the pale lamplight that marked the beginning of the way he had just come.
He hesitated. He knew if he once came out of the tunnel and found himself back in Underworld, beneath the feeble lamplight on the derelict road back to the Dananns’ Homeland, he would never have the courage to confront the dark path again. To walk towards or away from the light, he had to choose. Instinctively, he chose the light.
Soon it grew stronger, and he could make out his feet and the sandy texture of the floor. He stopped, tasting the air as he drew it down into his lungs, fearing the sharp, tearing sensation of poison gas. It was gritty certainly, dry and light, not tepid and oily like the air beneath the Hemisphere. But not toxic.
He carried on cautiously, sensing he was almost there, but slightly uneasy that the light was not stronger. What if the worked road petered out into a fissure in solid rock that only rabbits could scramble through? He walked quicker, despite his fears and tiredness.
He came upon it suddenly, a rock fall completely blocking his path. A faint glimmer filtered over the top of the obstruction, lighting up the roof. He refused to go back, not now. He scrambled up the scree, setting stones clattering to the bottom. He tore his trousers, broke his nails in his hurry, slithered and fell, grazing hands and knees. The thought of the darkness behind pushed him on. He would die rather than face it again.
With a final effort, he heaved himself to the top of the mountain of stones, his head at roof-level. He laid his cheek against the rock and peered sideways across a jumble of rocks that finished in a ribbon of light so thin it appeared to falter and flicker. Zachariah blinked in disbelief. There had to be a way through! Carefully he edged his way across the rocks, until he found a gap large enough to wriggle across.
Slowly and painfully, he dragged himself towards the faint ribbon of light that blinked at him from the world Outside. His hands and knees were skinned raw, his forehead and scalp torn and bruised. He could see now the gaping blackness where the roof had fallen in, leaving a hole full of impenetrable shadow. He held his breath. Something caught his eye—pale shapes scattered among the rocks that gleamed dully in the faint light, pale and dead, bone-white. He shivered.
As he hesitated, he heard a sound, a faint rustling and scratching in the darkness overhead, like something dry and wizened and very, very old swinging backwards and forwards against the rock wall.
Zachariah forced his terrified limbs to move. The hollow blackness above filled him with terror, and the back of his neck prickled with the cold air stirred by the pendulous horror creaking and swaying in the shadows. Occasionally he felt a rock shift beneath his weight, and he held his breath until it settled again. Little by little he was getting there, away from the ancient, shrivelled thing that hung above his head.
By the time his numbed fingers hooked around the final rock, he was so exhausted, his nerves so tattered, his body refused to do anything but crawl. With a final heave he pulled himself into the light and let his weary, bruised limbs slither down the far side. Whatever was waiting for him at the end of the tunnel, he had no choice now but to face it.
Chapter 5
Whoever it was holding Deborah made a clicking sound with his tongue, and a small compact body covered in warm fur surged past, brushing her legs in its eagerness. Still holding her firmly, Deborah’s captor leaned out of their hiding place so they could watch the small creature hurtle towards the monster, swerve at the last minute to avoid the snapping jaws, bolt out of the cavern and out of sight. The monster swung its massive body about, the size of a bull and muscled like a tiger, and bounded away in pursuit, its three heads still baying madly.
“Go on, outta that! Three heads and thick as shit in a bucket.”
A low chuckle followed, and the rough hand was removed from Deborah’s mouth. She pulled her head away sharply and wrenched her arms free of the grip that had suddenly relaxed.
“What the hell was that?”
“Who knows? Some kind of mutant the fall-out from the bombs created. I call him Cerberus. You can call him whatever you like, Mandy, Cuddles, Yah Ugly Bastard. He wouldn’t know the difference.”
Deborah could hardly believe the matter-of-fact tone of the shadowy individual who had just saved her life. She must have looked incredulous because the voice went on, “He’d have eaten you though, if you’d stood there. He doesn’t know any better. It’s the way he was brought up.”
The speaker was a boy wearing a collection of rags and bits of skins, and over his shoulder was slung a bag and a short bow. As her eyes grew accustomed to the light, Deborah could see he was older than his wiry frame suggested—a young man, easily old enough to be married. His skin was creased round the eyes and mouth from living outdoors, and his thick, coppery hair was tied back out of his eyes by a narrow strip of leather. A single lock escaped and curled over his left eye. The young man shook his head like a dog to flick it away, a gesture Deborah guessed had become involuntary. His face was long and fine, and he carried his head forward as though constantly sniffing for something. It gave him an animal-like appearance, which would have been sinister if not for his eyes, which were as green as Deborah’s, but unlike hers, they sparkled with laughter. He grinned as though they had just shared an extraordinarily good joke.
Deborah was less than amused. “Was that absolutely necessary?” she asked stiffly, her pride ruffled. “Couldn’t you have just tapped me on the shoulder?”
The young man roared with laughter, revealing gleaming white teeth. “I could! And I could have read you a bedtime story too, while old Mutt Heads ate the face off you.”
Deborah stared at the ground, chewing her lip, annoyance battling with some other feeling. The sound of laughter, that particular laugh was familiar. She had heard is so often in her dreams there could be no mistaking it. But this was not how she had imagined the owner of the laugh. Her thoughts went back to the haughty, handsome boy in the House of Correction. This boy, however, dressed like a barbarian and with the wild, unkempt look of a desert savage was a bad joke! No, she decided, she must have been mistaken. A laugh is a laugh. Simple coincidence.
“If you’re dead set on being a dog’s dinner, I’ll leave you to it,” he said airily. “The Ugly Bastard’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Okay, I get the message,” Deborah snapped. “You want me to beg? Oh, great and shining hero, help me get out of here.”
“Please?”
“Please!”
The young man took her arm with another broad grin. “Allow me, your majesty.”
Deborah’s first shuffling step trod on something that yelped and squirmed out of her way, and she let out a shriek. The ground around her feet was a carpet of furry bodies.
“Mind your great feet! It’s just the pups.”
“Aren’t I big enough for them to see, or what?” Deborah retorted.
“Most people would step around,” the boy said, his good humour souring to irritation. “They’re not used to goms trying to barrel their way through them.”
* * * *
They made their way in a stony silence, broken only by the boy’s clipped directions. Deborah bent her head and put her feet where she was told, following the tunnel into another cave, which in turn opened onto a wide vista of empty desert. Dusk was deepening to night, and she could barely make out the tumble of loose scree that marked the way down to the plain. The boy moved out of the shelter of the cave. Deborah hung back.
“Just take my hand and trust me,” he said, his voice softening as he sensed her reluctance.
After a second’s hesitation, Deborah grasped the strong, firm hand that was held out to her. As her fingers closed around the hand, another piece of memory slipped into place. She accepted it finally, and with the acceptance came a curious feeling of safety. She held the boy’s hand tightly, and together they picked their way down without setting more than the odd pebble rolling.
“Now we have to move it,” the boy whispered. “We can’t risk being caught out in the open. Come on, this way.”
Bending low to the ground, they ran, keeping to the side of the hill, avoiding the piles of rubble that constantly barred their path. In the distance they could hear the sound of hounds baying, and closer to hand, the sinister flapping of scaly wings. Soon, another distinct sound could be heard beneath the ominous, furtive noises of the desert—the plop of bursting bubbles. The air was full of a noxious stink, and the ground underfoot was slippery and treacherous.
The Dark Citadel (The Green Woman) Page 13