by Max Gilbert
'We can come again in the morning,' Miles offered, ignoring the old man's last word.
'Tonight,' said Blaise. 'And, bless you boy, but this time I must be alone.'
'Why? What did you find back there?'
Blaise looked very old and tired. His face was ashy and drawn, his lips mauve. 'That is what Soulis meant. They didn't finish what they started. They opened a gate, God help us, to summon something.'
'What?'
'A creature, a being, you might call it a lord of hell.'
'Jesu protect us!' Miles crossed himself three or four times and devoutly kissed the Blessed Host which his uncle had given him and which he wore round his neck. 'But it's gone, surely, back to hell!'
'What is hell?' The old man murmured, as they approached the tower. 'Another place than this, a world where God's Writ doesn't run, inhabited by beings we cannot comprehend. And sometimes perilously close to our own. At such times--'
' The solstice,' said Miles.
'Aye, boy. At such times, my old teacher said, it is possible to pass from one world to another, through a gateway such as Al-Hazred opened.'
'Back there.'
'Aye. But it all went wrong and the gate was never closed. Their demon went back where it came from but the gate is still open. It can come back any time.'
Chapter 37
Sir Blaise sat in the window seat of the upper chamber, turning the pages of a great book he'd found among the Arab's magical paraphernalia. It was the same book Straccan had seen at Crawgard, written in one of the ancient languages of Arabia. So antique was the writing that Blaise could only read it with difficulty. Some of it he did not understand, but he could comprehend enough to know that this monstrous volume was both a demonary and an instruction manual of the evil rituals of Irem. It must be burned, but first he must learn all he could from it.
During his dangerous forbidden studies years ago, his teachers in the Holy Land had spoken of Abdul Al-Hazred and of this very volume. Most had doubted the existence of both the Arab and his fabled book, but one gentle old mystic maintained that the book at least might still exist, and if ever found must be utterly destroyed. He should not read it; it should be thrust straight into the flames. But his curiosity, that thirst for answers which had got him into trouble years ago, could not resist. Here were instructions on the use of colours in magical defence, something he had never heard of; and this must surely be the ritual the sorcerer had attempted in the Nine Stane Rig. Here were listed the names of all lesser demons, and greater, the very lords of hell. Beside each name the Arab had written the conjuration to raise that particular demon with the spell to bind it to his bidding and, God be praised, the incantation to banish the creature again. He read and reread it, puzzled and worried. It was almost the same as that which he had learned long ago from his teachers in Egypt and Syria, but there were differences: a word here, the order of words there. Which was right, his version or this? Blaise rubbed his aching eyes and wished he was twenty years younger.
Straccan woke soon after sunset, not that the sun had been visible, and the rain looked like setting in for a second Noah's Flood. Gilla was still deeply asleep, and the boy, in the straw under a blanket, never stirred as Straccan carefully stepped over him. In the hall, half a dozen men were finishing their supper and Bane was mending a rip in his shirtsleeve by the light of the fire.
'Where's everybody?' Straccan asked.
'Sir Blaise rode out an hour or so ago and Sir Miles went after him a bit later, and I think some of these buggers—' he jerked his chin towards the men-at-arms, a sullen group at the far end of the hall '—are up to something.'
'What?' Straccan had piled cold meat and pickles on a bread trencher and had his mouth full. He swallowed. 'Is there any milk?'
'Whatever for?'
'For Gilla, when she wakes.'
'Oh, of course. Sorry! Well, there's two cows in the byre and half a dozen nanny goats wandering round the yard, so there must be some milk somewhere. I get the feeling it's not much in demand, though. I'll get some for her.'
'What did you mean when you said they're up to something?'
'They were seriously pissed off when the witch got away,' Bane said. 'They don't want Wotsisname to leg it as well. Soulis, I mean.'
'He's in chains. The only place he'll go is to King William's gallows.'
'He may be in chains but he's not gagged, and he's been carrying on something horrible down there, so the guard says.' Seeing Straccan's questioning eyebrows—his mouth was full again --Bane added, 'Curses, threats, and sometimes he laughs; they really don't like that! He's got them very nervous.'
'I'll go and have a look at him. What's in that barrel?'
'Ale. Want some?' He held out a horn cup.
Straccan downed it in three swallows. 'Has Soulis been victualled?'
'Buggered if I know. Probably not. No one's exactly keen to open the door down there.'
'And who are you}' the prisoner demanded.
Straccan held up his torch. Whether or not he'd been fed, at some time someone more tender-hearted than the rest had pitchforked a few trusses of straw into the vault which Soulis had raked together to make a couch. Chains were fastened to an iron belt round his waist and one to a fetter on his ankle, long enough for him to walk three or four steps, no more. Now he sat on the straw with his arms round his knees. In the impenetrable blackness of the vault beyond the flaring torchlight, rats scampered and squeaked.
'I’m Straccan.'
'Oh, are you? Julitta said you'd be a nuisance. She thought she'd taken care of you. She must have been quite shocked when you turned up.'
'Why did she put that spell on me? I never did her any harm, or wished her ill.'
'To keep you from interfering further, or ever putting two and two together. Didn't work. Pity. Primitive enchantments like that are notoriously unreliable. Women's rubbish! How did you break it, by the way?'
'I had help.'
'Did you? How interesting. From whom, I wonder? Someone with a little knowledge, was it? Among your comrades, perhaps? You seem to have wandered the country collecting misfits as you go. That old heretic d'Etranger, how did you come by him? And that penniless youngster, so full of futile good intentions.'
'Have they given you something to eat?'
'No, and don't trouble yourself, Straccan. I'll not eat while I'm a prisoner.'
'Then you'll get hungry.'
'Hungry? My demon is hungry. You drove it away before it was full-fed, but it has starved for centuries, it will be back.' He laughed shrilly. 'We are done for, all of us. Nothing can stop it now!' He laughed more wildly, rocking to and fro, saliva flying from his lips as his head jerked back and forth.
'You're mad,' said Straccan, shivering. 'Mad, a murderer and traitor both. The king you meant to betray will have his justice of you.'
'That old fool?' Soulis sneered, and spat in the straw. 'The Lion, they call him, that toothless senile luckless nithing. A laughing stock throughout Christendom. It'll be a cold day in hell before he can harm me! Is it night yet?'
'It's getting dark.'
'It will get darker. You've seen the light of day for the last time, you and your party of fools. You think you've saved your precious daughter? I told you, nothing can save her now!' His braying mirth sounded like something bawling in the torments of hell. No wonder it made the guards nervous; it turned Straccan's own nerves to water. He turned his back on the prisoner and slammed the door of the vault so hard the draught blew his torch out.
'Sod it,' he said with feeling and stumbled up the slimy steps. He was still shivering and felt the unwelcome nudge of a headache.
'What's going on?' Larktwist, clattering down the tower's irregular steps, almost collided with Bane coming out of the hall. Outside, below in the bailey, could be heard shouts and a woman crying.
Trouble! The mother of that kid turned up. Saw the body before anyone had the sense to stop her. Went crazy. You can hear her. She'd brought folk with her—neigh
bours, friends--they're howling for blood.'
'I don't blame them.'
'Nor me. Thing is, the men here wouldn't mind seeing a bit of blood; they've seen the kid's body. They know how Lord Robert died, too. They feel cheated of the witch so they want to be sure of the warlock.'
'Where's Sir Blaise got to? He means to take Soulis to the king,' said Larktwist.
'They went back to the stones, him and the youngster.'
'What the devil are they doing there?'
'Unfinished business, the old man said.'
'What did he mean?'
'Don't ask me! They were up there earlier, and after they came back the old man had his nose in that Arab's book for hours. He ought to have been resting, he looked like death warmed up. Then he got on his horse and was just leaving when Sir Miles came down and caught him; said he ought to be in bed, not buggering about in that bloody circle. They had a proper row, hammer and tongs, just like married folk. The young un wanted to go along, and the old man wouldn't let him. Ordered him to stay behind, he did. So Sir Miles just watched him out of sight and then saddled up and followed.'
'It's getting on for midnight. They should be back by now.'
The angry noise below grew louder and more insistent. 'They mean to have him,' said Bane uneasily.
'Let em,' said Larktwist. 'Good riddance!'
They had planned to leave on the morrow: Blaise to the King of Scots with Soulis under guard, Miles to his Templar uncle, Straccan and Bane, with Gilla, home to Stirrup and Larktwist wherever his peculiar occupation called him. But as Straccan struggled to get his scarred boots on, the symptoms were unmistakable. Not now! I must get Gilla out of here. What did he mean, that devil, that nothing could save her now? God, Christ, I can't be ill now! That lot below are thinking of lynching Soulis, or I'm no judge. Not that I give a damn. Where the hell has Blaise got to? I need to talk to him. The familiar iron band screwed itself tightly round his skull, pain shot down the back of his neck, he was cold and his legs felt watery. By the time he found Bane his teeth were chattering.
'Pox on it,' said Bane. 'Not now!'
'Never mind that. Where's Blaise?'
'You should be in bed.'
'Not yet. Where is he?'
'Him and Sir Miles went back to the stones.'
There was a rushing noise in his ears, swelling, fading and returning, and the disorienting visual effect of seeing everything apparently at the far end of a long tunnel.
'Get me a horse,' he said, clinging to the door frame as the floor rose and fell and the walls advanced and retreated.
'You're not going anywhere,' Bane protested.
'Yes I am. They're in trouble, I know it. Something's wrong there. You stay here. See no harm comes to Gilla.' He gripped Bane's arms and almost shook him. 'You hear me? Look after her!' At the foot of the hill he dismounted, but before he could wrap the reins round a branch his horse reared, screaming, and bolted. He could see nothing that might have spooked it and stared after the thudding hooves, astonished.
The pain in his head was worse now, and vertigo made him feel sick and weak. Had the hill been this steep last night? Christ, help me, he prayed. Christ, who guarded my girl, guard me now! He went down on all fours, scrambling towards the stones. It felt as if he was pushing his way through water. It was darker up there, too. Or else it had taken him a damned long time to climb, for he'd been able to see quite well in the lingering northern twilight when his horse ran off. There were no stars. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
The gaps between the stones were doorways into deeper blackness. Lord, help me! Suddenly he thought of Janiva: her strength and courage the day she found Julitta's ill charm; and the children, Gilla and Hob, armoured in innocence and brave beyond reason in the face of evil. Taking strength from their courage, he forced himself to keep moving. The thunder was nearer now. Sweat poured from him as he stepped between the stones. He was immediately aware of a painful pressure which hurt his ears and made it difficult to breathe. It was pitch dark but then lightning split the sky and he saw Blaise, fallen in the centre, and Miles crouching by one of the stones, hacking desperately at the turf with his dagger.
Crossing the circle through the resisting air took for ever, as if in a nightmare. His legs were as heavy as lead. Even his words came slowly. And Miles's replies.
'What's ... going ... on?'
'Bury ... these.' Miles clutched the broken reliquary chain.
'One ... by ... each ... stone.' There were two left. 'This ... in ... centre.' Gasping for breath, he shoved the last one at Straccan.
'Take!' He fell forward on hands and knees, his head hanging. Straccan closed his hand on the reliquary and turned to Blaise, seeking the pulse at the side of his neck. It beat faintly, erratically, but the old man was alive.
'Blaise. What happened?'
Blaise opened his eyes. 'It's coming,' he whispered. Straccan bent his head to catch the slurred words. 'I made circles of power to contain it. Won't hold for long. Close gateway. Quickly.' His icy hand grasped Straccan's. 'Must be eleven relics. Only ten here. You have ... last one ... finger of Saint Thomas. Quick! No time! Bury them here.'
Straccan heard Miles cry out. He turned.
What was that? Pouring down from the black starless vault above, a blacker shadow in darkness, glinting wetly as it moved.
'Too late,' whispered Blaise.
Straccan drew his knife and stabbed the turf. One. Two. Into each slot he pushed a reliquary, the second the little latten case he had carried for so long. He thumped the palm of his hand down hard to flatten the earth over them.
Whatever that was, didn't like it. The demon screeched and writhed, and as it strove to break through the circles of power Blaise had wrought, they became visible, beautiful intricate webs of silver light that tightened and cut like wire into the bulging horror within.
'Lord, protect us,' Blaise whispered.
Thunder broke directly above. Gilla, thought Straccan. Janiva. He fought the deadly weakness and the throbbing in his head, and got up drawing his sword, for all the good it might do. Lightning tore the darkness apart, illuminating the lightless impossibility straining to escape. Straccan's legs gave way, but as he toppled forward he hurled his sword into the middle of the creature and thought he saw lightning streak along blade and hilt as it flew, a long glowing cross, to split the shadow through.
There was a hideous braying roar. With a great thump the ground heaved, as if earth's vast heart had beaten once. Lightning ran down the sides of the stones into the ground, sizzling. The wet grass steamed, and there was a metallic stink of burning.
The demon was gone. The air within the Nine Stane Rig had a scent of wet grass and wild thyme. A damp west wind, gathering force as it came, flung down a faceful of rain and shouldered the clouds aside to liberate the moon, which now swam out amidst a shoal of stars.
Together, Straccan and Miles half-dragged half-carried the old man out of the circle. In the moonlight Blaise looked bleached, skull-like, dead, but the thready stumbling pulse still beat.
From below came a shout. 'Sir Miles! You there?'
'Larktwist,' Miles yelled back. 'Up here!'
The spy came panting up. 'Bane sent me, he said something was up. Christ, what happened? Is the old man dead?'
Tears and rain mingled on Miles's face. 'He's still alive,' he said. 'Straccan's in a bad way too. We must get them back to Skelrig.'
From the direction of the tower there was a bawling beast-like noise, which rose and fell, growing ever louder. The din resolved itself into a continuous baying, and presently folk could be seen running towards the Nine Stone Rig, dozens of them, with torches.