The Defiler

by Steven Savile

  "All right, forget food, I think I died and went to a far, far better place," and a moment later, as she took him in her hand, bringing him back to life with her swift sure strokes, "I think I love you."

  Without a word, Urian pushed his shoulders back, unbalancing Ukko and gently guiding him into the water. He lost himself in the heat and the wet beneath the confidence of her touch as she enveloped him more completely than the water ever could.

  The water sloshed around his chest. He tasted the soap as her movement splashed the suds up into his mouth. He didn't fight it. He luxuriated in the experience. Ukko closed his eyes, savouring the rush of sensations, all thoughts of Sláine and Myrrdin banished from his mind as her lips closed on his and her breasts pressed up against him, the suds squirming between them. He felt the heat of her sex, more intense than the water, on his legs, then up, on his stomach. Between hungry wet kisses, her hands clutching either side of his head, legs wrapped around his waist, Ukko broke away, threw his head back and laughed: "You know, I wasn't kidding when I said I was starving before."

  NINE

  Leanan Sidhe led Myrrdin to a second door, two storeys above Ukko's.

  They didn't speak despite the fact that both harboured a hundred questions close to their breast. Indeed, the Glass House was silent bar the shuffle of their soft footsteps. Myrrdin had no liking for the place, nor, truth be told, its fey inhabitants. For all their undeniable beauty, and their uncanny resemblance to his people, their strange ways betrayed them: the Sidhe were far from human.

  Where humans were driven by immeasurable instincts, both rational and irrational, as often likely to succumb to some long-buried primal urge as they were to rise above it, the Sidhe were by contrast a simple people. They were capable of great kindness when it suited, and the most calculating of treacheries when kindness fell short.

  There was no concept of friendship, only fealty.

  Power rested in a cradle open only to a few chosen ones, and those around it, drawn to it, craved it and killed for it. The game of kings was brutal in the extreme. Only the most ruthless survived to rule, those that failed in their ambitions were cut down, their threat removed. That was the price of disloyalty. And yet the Sidhe fell into one of two patterns of existence; they served their lord or schemed to betray him. There was no middle ground. Strength was admired, feared and worshipped, even envied, weakness despised.

  A male child of the Sidhe faced a life of conflict, treachery and betrayal from the moment it drew its first breath. There was no room for a mother's love, no room for games and the fripperies of life. There was no easy camaraderie of youth. But then the life they were being prepared for had no such luxury. It was a life of strength and weakness: the extremes. Those who failed to live up to the demands of the Sidhe were culled, keeping the clans strong. Many of their young died before their thirteenth birthday, many more died after it, when they were sent out to complete the Isolation. It was a vision quest, a survivalist rite of passage: twelve lunar cycles alone in the harshest of landscapes, forced to fend for themselves until their true name came to them, hunted by the youngest hunters of the clans. To survive the Isolation was to be welcomed into the familial home of the clan, returned with an adult name, forged by the worst of the world. To be captured meant death and shame, not only for the child but for the mother and father who raised it, because it was their seed that failed the clan.

  It was strength that mattered, nothing more.

  The females of the species were no less twisted by the demands of their society; they were bred to serve their men, to seduce and destroy, weeding out other kinds of weakness to maintain the purity of the bloodline.

  And Finvarra had been their king, the greatest of them, before the wound that brought him low, before his imprisonment here in this limbo, denied the noble death his reign demanded, and instead forced to live with the knowledge of his own failure - constantly reminded of his weakness, the wound refusing to whiten - because of Myrrdin's meddling. The Wounded King had had centuries for his grief to fester into a deep and abiding despair, the despair into hatred. The druid didn't bother trying to fool himself; there would be no warm welcome for an old friend here.

  "Modron will see to your needs, Lord of the Trees," said Leanan, lifting him out of his reverie. Her voice was soft, its quality almost pitying, as though she were somehow party to his thoughts. "I will return soon with news of your companion. Until then, the freedom of his house is yours."

  "My thanks, Leanan Sidhe. Though I have no need of a handmaiden, a warm bath and a warmer meal will sate all the needs my body has. I would see Finvarra and have this charade over with."

  "As you wish, Myrrdin. You always were your own man when you weren't playing the Crone's sycophant. Sometimes I miss the colours of the world, and the smells and tastes. This place is beautiful, but it is no replacement for a world of so many rich experiences. I wonder, too, if it misses me and my kind, or if we have become a distant memory. Such thoughts are not easy to bear, druid. Once, I truly believed we were the light of the world; that our light would shine forever, illuminating everything around us. Now we hide in this place, the darkness pressing in all around us. This is no kind of life. Have you come to return us to our home? Home," she said, before he could answer. "I forget what it is, in truth. Dim memories lost inside me of places I am not even sure exist today. Perhaps they have all turned to grey, like this no-world around us? Perhaps that is all that is left? The colourless, the blandness. Ah, seeing you again, unchanged after all this time, has turned me melancholy. I shall leave you now in Modron's care. As I said on the beach, my sister has missed you. I think perhaps you owe her the courtesy of at least pretending you have also missed her. I will tell my king of your arrival. No doubt he will be eager to see you again."

  "I am sorry, Leanan Sidhe."

  "Do not be sorry, Myrrdin. Be strong. That is the man you are. There is no room for compassion or guilt in your world. I know you are not here to set me free, not now, not ever, just as I know you have not returned for my sister, Modron. We do not lie to ourselves here, neither should you. The sisters will care for your friend, and when he is returned to health, we shall return him to you so that you may go about your business. We have come to accept our life, so should you. Now go to her, and for a while allow her to fool herself into believing she has a place in your heart." She gestured down to the end of the glass passage where Modron Sidhe waited for him, the ambient orange glow of the walls lending her a halo of fire.

  Myrrdin bade farewell to Leanan, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgement of her words. The shadows here had substance; they were thick enough, rich enough, for pain to hide within them, its grinning mask hidden for the moment.

  "I will not lie," he said, more to himself than the woman.

  "Because your kind never does," Leanan said, leaving him.

  Modron was unchanged. He could have stepped through a portal in time as well as in space. Seeing her again, waiting at the end of the passageway, stirred things within the druid that he had not been prepared for.

  "You came back," she said, as he neared.

  "I said I would," Myrrdin said, hating himself for saying it, for pretending he had even remembered the young Sidhe and what she believed she meant to him.

  "Because your kind never lies," Modron said, not unkindly, not like Leanan Sidhe had said it, in condemnation.

  She did not embrace him, and for that lack of intimacy he was grateful.

  "Indeed," said Myrrdin.

  "So why have you returned? Truthfully? And before you think of whispering sweet lies to appease my sister Leanan, remember I know you, Lord of the Trees."

  Myrrdin could not help but smile, the ghost of old familiarities haunted her words bringing with them memories of other lies he had told when they were younger. "There never was any use lying to you, was there?"

  "No." She led him into a large chamber, not unlike the one Urian had brought Ukko to, with walls of an amethyst hue and a central b
ath, like everything else in the Wounded King's palace, fashioned from glass. Plain white towels were neatly folded and set atop a small table, and beside the table were four large crystal jugs filled with steaming water. There was a huge fireplace, as tall as the druid and wide enough for six men to walk abreast into the burning pit. A glass cauldron was suspended over the flames, warming more water. There was a bed, the frame of which appeared to have been carved from ice, covered in white furs. She looked at him, studying his face as though trying to match it with the one in her memory. "It's been a long time," Modron Sidhe said, adding another jug of steaming water to the tub and stirring it in with her entire arm. She dried the soap bubbles off with one of the towels.

  "Over six lifetimes by the count of man," Myrrdin said, moving over to the window.

  "So long? Time loses sense here. Sometimes it feels like eternity, other times just an age." She tried to smile, then turned away so that he could not see her face. "Now you make me feel like an old woman. Come, while the water is hot. Maybe then you can tell me why you have returned after so much time?"

  The druid shed his clothes and stood naked before a woman for the first time in centuries. He felt uncomfortable under Modron's scrutiny, more so as he matched her gaze, looking at her for the first time since entering the room and remembering the woman beneath the gown, and his body began to stir. Seeing his discomfort, she chuckled softly and turned her back, going over to the fireplace. She pinched some fragrant herbs between her fingers and powdered them into the simmering water. A moment later the sweet aroma of lavender and something else, vanilla perhaps, filled the room.

  Myrrdin sank into the water, grateful for the thick suds that hid his erection.

  He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, felt Modron's hands on his skin, working the lather in. There was nothing sexual about her touch and yet everything about her touch was purely sexual.

  "Talk to me."

  "What would you have me say?"

  "No lovers' promises, no sweet words, tell me about the world I left behind for you. I am sure much has changed in the time I have been gone. I think of it sometimes and it pains me that I do not know if my brothers live still, if my people still abide or if we have become a thing of the past. Do they speak of the sacrifice of Finvarra?"

  "No," Myrrdin said, honestly. "The memories of humans are short, like their lives. Memories of Finvarra are all but gone. Your people no longer dwell within the realms of Tir-Nan-Og, you have your own place within the El Worlds."

  "So my people are exiled just as we are exiled?"

  The druid winced at the frankness of the comparison. "Not truthfully, no. After the fall of Finvarra, the Morrigan opened a way for survivors to flee, a doorway beneath the hill of the chalk man. It was that or death at the hands of the short-lived ones. Whether you choose to believe it or not, she saved your people."

  "I am sure the Crone wept for us as she closed the door, banishing the Sidhe from her realm," Modron said, her hands lingering.

  "It was that or extinction, Modron. I brought the sisters here at her behest, to serve Finvarra until his return. She is many things, but she is not evil. What she does, she does for her land."

  "Would that we were all that selfish, Myrrdin. Would that we could all justify our wickedness with promises of the greater good. It is easy to justify slaughter that way, winning a dream, though everything to those that don't share that dream is lost."

  He breathed deeply again, savouring the aroma, feeling the water and Modron's hands relaxing the tension in his muscles. He felt almost light-headed with the release.

  "Tell me, my sweet, why are you here?"

  She took a jar of unguent from the table beside the bath, smeared her fingers through the oily substance and spread it across his chest, over his lungs and up, working it into his flesh. She talked to him but the words lost substance, running into images and memories as they swam around inside his head, blurring into one another. He felt himself slipping lower in the tub, the water rising up around his throat, the soap matting in his hair. The heat was soothing, the smell intoxicating. He felt his faculties beginning to drift, his reasoning failing. She entered the water, reaching down to take him inside her. He felt her heat, felt the rush of her heart against his, felt the salve sinking into his skin, everything suddenly tactile. He inhaled again, dimly aware that something in the air had undone him, something that didn't seem to affect the Sidhe woman even as she coupled with him, her movements matching the roll of the water in the cramped tub. But awareness was no defence. The words came out of his mouth, words he never should have said:

  "I have brought her champion, he gave his life to the Huntress and this was the only way I could think to save him so that he might fulfil his destiny."

  "The Defiler?"

  "I do not like that title." His words blurred, his tongue thick in his mouth, too large to wrap around the words he wanted to say. He closed his eyes again, surrendering. "His name is Sláine." He didn't know if he said it or merely thought it.

  "Names do not matter, you old fool. You brought him here. How could you?"

  "He is dead."

  "Then best leave him that way, sister," Leanan Sidhe said, sweeping into the cold room.

  It was a grim chamber deep beneath the glass of the house, buried deep into the stone of the hillside, close to the essences of the earth, lit by six oil burners, each filling the air with its own soothing fragrance.

  In the centre of the room Sláine lay on a table like a sacrifice on a glass altar. He was naked, his flesh immaculate. Not one of the wounds that had brought him down marred his flesh. There was a bluish-grey tinge beneath the skin that betrayed death's malignant presence.

  Four Sisters of Preiddeu stood around him.

  "You know what he is?" Sister Luna said, turning to Leanan. A curious mix of dread and excitement lit her eyes.

  "I know he bears her mark," Leanan said, looking down at the corpse. "Modron is with the druid now, learning his secrets."

  "But what do you think, sister? Do you believe he is her chosen one?" Sister Helios asked. Unlike Luna her face was not torn, there was no excitement. She was scared. "There is something about him, I can feel it, can't you? It's like a furnace raging beneath his skin, even now."

  The door opened behind them, creaking back slowly on tired hinges.

  "He bears the weight of destiny," Leanan said, "that much is clear."

  "More than that," Modron said, coming through the door. "He carries death with him. He is the Death Walker."

  "The Defiler?" Leanan said. "Can it be possible?" and then, more tellingly: "Why would the druid bring him here?"

  "Unless to destroy us, you mean?" Modron said.

  "So if we save him we seal our doom?"

  "Not necessarily," Leanan mused, looking down at Sláine's wide, almost innocent face. She touched his cheek, lingering over the harsh beginnings of stubble prickling his chin, feeling the ghost of the man in each bristle. "The geas on Afallach could conceivably negate the threat he poses... Hear me out, now. If our sister is correct, the druid has brought the Death Walker into our hallowed halls. And where he walks, slaughter follows in his shadow. That is his curse, he is the Butcher of Worlds, the Death of Humanity, the Lord of Ruin, he is all of these things and more, but tell me, sisters, what is the nature of geas that holds us here, out of time?"

  "Death cannot abide, there is no place for mortality, time does not flow, we are beneath, behind and between the worlds, outside of everything," Luna said, following her gaze if not her train of thought.

  "And what is protected here cannot leave lest it withers and fall, that is the nature of the geas that binds Ynys Afallach. If we use our gifts to reunite the warrior's soul with his flesh the ensorcellment itself will only serve to make him a part of the magic of the island. He will be less than human, or more if you prefer; a creature of sorcery as much as of flesh and blood."

  "And the geas will not allow him to leave," Sister Helios said softly, understa
nding.

  "And the geas will not allow him to leave," Leanan agreed, her fingers tracing the line of Sláine's jaw and moving down, lingering over his throat. "So we can do the druid's bidding in good conscience and without condemning our kin."

  "It is a risk, sister. What is to say the geas will hold him and we won't be ushering in the end of times in our naïveté?"

  "Look at him and tell me, does he look like the death of us?"

  "Death comes in many guises, sister, sometimes it is in a pretty package, other times it is dressed in robes of lies and ugliness. Do not allow lusts to cloud your thoughts."

  "He is a man, sister," Leanan said, smiling softly. "I harbour no illusions as to his length or girth, nor his prowess, I need only reach down here," she moved her hand lower, "to know he is all that and more. I will not lie to you, I do miss the companionship of a man, the feel of him inside me. I will not deny the pleasure of the flesh appeals now temptation is placed before me."

  "There is something wrong with looking at a corpse and feeling arousal, sister," Luna said.

  "Would you not want to share him if he were awake, sister mine?" Leanan answered. She turned to Modron, "What did the Lord of the Trees say once his tongue was loosened?"

  "Stupid words of love, in the main," Modron said with distaste, "as though he expected me to still yearn for him after all this time. The vanity of the man is immense. I almost pitied him. Almost."

  "And of the Defiler?"

  "Precious little that I understood; a lot of nightmares and incoherent ramblings, though I pieced together some few things."

  "I would hear them, sister."

  "He is of the Sessair tribe, to the north, in the Land of the Young. A follower of the tripartite Goddess, Danu, Earth Mother, Maiden and Crone, he is touched by her strength, a Warped One."

  "A Warped One?" Leanan said, savouring the thought of the power caged within the mortal flesh beneath her fingertips, imagining it unleashed, unfettered, imagining the life-force the man possessed.