Khartyn presented a confidence that she did not feel. She was still shaken by the swift appearance and disappearance of the Artemis illusion and Emma’s abduction. ‘You know as well as I do that Emma’s child is regarded as holy by the Goddess. If the child is harmed in any way due to your intervention, the Goddess’s wrath will be directed at you, Ishran!’
Ishran held up his hand to inspect his long, black polished fingernails.
‘Your scrawny, wrinkled throat bores me, Khartyn. All this talk of the Goddess. Goddess indeed! Squawk, squawk, squawk! Like an antique whingeing hen! How dare you mention your goddess in Azephim territory? Don’t you have any fucking decency? Any respect for the holy words of others? Oh, haven’t you heard, Old Mother? The old useless gods are falling in Eronth. A new religion is forming. The phoenix from the ashes of the Goddess. A religion of the times. A religion free from your obsolete nature rituals, a creed for the new millennium. A religion based on personal power, strength, abundance. A spirituality based on the Dark Father, not the light! That’s what the worlds are crying out for, Crone!’
‘With you at the helm, I suppose?’ Khartyn’s voice dripped sarcasm. ‘Worship of the Father hasn’t worked in other worlds, Ishran. It’s not new, and it’s not the way of the future. Surely you cross into other worlds enough to know that! The Bluites and others are abandoning their churches and temples where the Goddess is not represented. You’re a fool if you think otherwise. And you’re a fool to think you have the power to head a new religion! Your mother Seleza had power and strength; she was an Azephim to be proud of. But all you ever do is loll about your stinking castle with your trollop Bindisore and push brainless Solumbi around! You’re nothing but an overgrown vampire bat!’
Ishran narrowed his eyes. ‘Kill her.’
The guard angels sprang forward, fangs bared and claws outstretched. Khartyn faced them defiantly. Her ancient eyes blazed with fury.
‘No, wait!’ Sati held up a chalk-white hand. ‘Kill the Crone and you destroy the old witch’s knowledge and secrets. Better to lock her in the holding cages where I can keep her as my pet. I can torture her to reveal her mysteries. Her apprentice can be kept in a cage, too, so they can each enjoy the spectacle of the other’s torture.’
Ishran studied the golden-haired beauty of Rosedark.
‘Yes,’ he agreed at length, ‘the maid might provide some form of pleasure for me and my men, although Faiaite whores are not normally to Azephim taste. But she will suffice. As for the Crone, I cannot wait to wrap my wings around her and give the kiss of sweet life. Take them to the cages!’
Khartyn began praying to the Dreamers as the Azephim guards seized the two women and dragged them roughly from the room.
Dear Mother, she prayed frantically, if blood needs to be spilt, let it be mine and spare the maid. May Artemis protect us!
Bitterly she cursed herself for being foolish enough to bring Rosedark and Emma to Ishran. Although a gifted apprentice, Rosedark would never withstand being raped repeatedly by the angels. Emma might be the most powerful Crossa that Eronth had ever seen, and her lineage may be of the Webx Elder race, but Khartyn knew it would be difficult for her to remain sane in the underground for long. The underground either claimed minds or lives, and nearly always both.
As Khartyn and Rosedark were pushed into a large silver cage in the Azephim dungeons, Khartyn was struck by the mute terror on the face of her apprentice. The cage was lined with the bones of the previous occupants, and the vibrations of their terror lingered still. For the first time, she seriously considered teaching her apprentice how to release her sparrow voluntarily so the two of them could destroy their bodies before the Azephim did . . .
The Goddess might forgive this breach of sacred lore. But there was still Emma to consider. Khartyn had not yet assessed the extent of Emma’s power. She might very well have retained her Webx sense memory and be able to rise from the underground — as far-fetched as this seemed. The Crone reflected with a painful spasm of her heart that if the Azephim managed to get their hands on Emma’s baby, Eronth would be lost to the angels. Forcing herself to focus, Khartyn ignored Rosedark’s sobs and began to examine their surroundings. May the darkness give light and be merciful! she thought, fighting the soft tongue of panic within her. The bars of the cage were far too closely knit together, making it impossible for them to transmute their bodies into another life-force to slip through them. And that was assuming her panicked apprentice could even remember the all-too-brief lessons she had received in that particular art.
Torches of flames illuminated the dungeon’s walls, which were decorated with the skeletons of former Crones like an obscene lace border. A myriad of large dome-shaped jars was stacked neatly against the mossy stones of the dungeon wall. Recognisable human and Faiaite body parts floated inside them. Various smaller jars contained caged owls, some with two heads, and Khartyn felt cold fury at the cruel experimentation and mutilation that the angels were clearly involved in. In the far corner of the room a strange being whimpered in a secured wooden cage. It had the body of a human child and the head of a ilkama. But even more nauseating to the Crone were several large-sized webs that stood like trophies against the far wall.
So, the rumours are true! They continue their drinking practice! The Crone was disgusted and enraged. She began to go deep inside herself, seeking an answer.
*
The door that opened to darkness opened again and the night breathed footsteps.
‘Emma? Are you hungry? I’ve brought you some food.’
I craned my head restlessly, attempting to see.
‘Your eyes have not adjusted yet? Don’t fret, they will.’
The voice now stood within arm’s reach of me. A faint smell of sandalwood, orange and cedarwood wafted through the air.
‘It’s grape juice, some bread and cheese.’ The voice continued. An object was pushed in front of me. ‘Please eat, Emma! You have to keep your strength up. Your baby needs food.’
Fumbling, I located the tray and the juice, which was in a large stone pitcher. The cool grape juice was delicious and soothing to my aching, dirt-lined throat. The rolls and cheeses that I attempted to eat had a lifeless quality to them, although I forced myself to swallow a few mouthfuls of the food. For the baby, I told myself dully.
‘Good!’ Persephone sounded pleased. ‘The live ones don’t normally eat. Sati was right, you are the best friend I could have in the underground!’
I stared until my eyes ached into the darkness wishing I could see the goddess.
‘Persephone, don’t you realise what a black soul Sati has?’ I began. ‘She is trying to destroy Faia and using you as a means of doing so! The longer you remain in the underground the worse the famine in Faia becomes. The people of Faia need their crops to rise!’
The feet moved quickly to the door. ‘I’m sorry, Emma. If you’re going to keep talking about me rising I have to leave. I don’t want to punish you, but I will anyway. I’ll leave you longer on your own this time!’
‘Persephone, wait!’ I shouted after the voice, but the sound of a door closing was my only response. I swore and sat in the darkness on the cold soil with my head bowed.
As I stared into the bowels of the earth a realisation came to me. Khartyn and Rosedark are in great danger! I saw them, enclosed in a silver cage, Hecate standing near, watching them through her dark veils. I had to reach them somehow! Closing my eyes, I summoned the will of every fibre of my being. I visualised my Stag Man, and I began to call to him.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Could make a ladye seem a knight,
A nutshell seem a gilded barge
A sheeling seem a palace large
And youth seem age and age seem youth
All was delusion, nought was truth
— ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel’, Sir Walter Scott
Gwyndion! Gwyndion!
Knower of neither love nor of sin!
Let yourself rest here,
Let your roots grow here!
With our Faery hands we’ll remove all your fear!
— Imomm Faery song
And thus it was the great wood man came to the Hollow Hills (plus his stinky meerwog). Great was the excitement with we small Faeries, as in all recorded Winski history no tree man had ever been captured before.
It would not be an idle boast to declare that I, Jig Boy, son of Elven foot, was one of the first Winskis to summon the courage up to poke him in the eye. How we clapped and cheered and somersaulted! Even as I write, my throat is red, and my hands still sore. The meerwog, stinky thing that it is, has proven to be a delight. Fat and soft and pinchable. We spend countless moon ups pinching and poking the small fat ball, making it scream and cry. Several of the older Winskis wanted to kill the fat ball straightaway, disliking the smells that it brought into the Hollow Hills. But our fair Queen, Diomonna, forbade the killing.
The tree man is such a sight that my pen is shaking as I write this. We are all hard at work, composing songs about him. His hair is white, almost silver, and leaves grow around the strands. Imagine — if you can — eyes the colour of the moon, but then they change to blue! From silver to blue, he is a strange thing to observe. But wait! I have left the best to last. His organ is enormous, and many of the Winski women are oohing and aaahing from moon down to moon up, beating their breasts, fluttering their eyelashes, and declaring — as only a silly Winski woman can — to be in love with him. What foolishness! By the beard of King Pysphorrus, women are a stupid, feeble breed indeed, to lose their senses so quickly over a Webx man! Believe me, he is nowhere near as fair as they claim.
Even our own exquisite Diomonna is fluttering her eyelashes, and eyeing his organ hungrily when she gets the chance. She thinks I do not notice, that I am like all the other pebblebrain Winskis, wishing only to dance and sing and somersault. Life is intolerable at the moment; with any luck they will decide to kill him soon, and conversation in the Hollow Hills will improve.
The weather has been on the cool side. Persephone has not risen, although that is no concern of Winski folk.
Lightbright had a baby boy. Mother and son well.
Yes, I look forward to the Webx being killed. I know then that I will not have to listen to this manic talk about his organ. Once he is dead Jig Boy will be far more content.
— Account written by Jig Boy, son of Elven Foot, in his First Turn of the Wheel.
*
When Gwyndion eventually opened his eyes he gazed upon a face that belonged to his dreams. It was beautiful, ethereal, with enormous green tiger-eyes flecked with yellow. A dream face, a dream woman. Skin of flawless porcelain. Red, long, curling glossy locks fell to her waist, decked throughout with cowslips and pansies. He recognised the woman’s features as belonging to the Imomm, one of the earliest, most reclusive Faery tribes in all the known worlds. The dream smiled at him and spangles of coloured light dripped from her eyes and skin onto his upraised face as she spoke.
Her words were in Xon, her native Faery tongue. ‘Hail and merry meet, young Webx from the land of Zeglanada! My men have carried you to me and you are now the captive of the Faery people of Imomm. I am Diomonna, Queen of Imomm, daughter of King Pysphorrus. You have trespassed upon Faery hunting ground. It is Imomm law that yeself — and the meerwog — must be put to death unless you can explain the impudence to my satisfaction! Hiss! Claw!’
‘Samma?’ Gwyndion managed to stammer, fearing that he had lost his wits and finding the obscure Xon tongue difficult to speak.
A frown marred the perfection of the Faery Queen’s brow.
‘Samma is the form you perceive as meerwog?’ she enquired icily, a note of condescension in her voice. ‘The meerwog has been taken to a holding pen while we evaluate her condition. Now, Webx, you must rest and prepare yeself so you can provide an explanation for the transgressions to the Imomm people.’
In her elongated porcelain hands appeared a blue china jug and mug. ‘Drink from this jug and you will ne’er be thirsty.’
Gwyndion took the proffered jug and sipped cautiously. He was well aware of how the inhabitants of the different worlds of Faery were skilled in using food and drink to enslave those foolish enough to partake. The brew was delicious, like sweet caramel, and tiny pink primroses floated on the surface. Despite his fears he could not restrain himself from draining the jug. Instantly, he felt lighter, more insubstantial. Diomonna laughed briefly, her enormous gold and mauve wings fluttering behind her. Her face was a perfect synergy of good and evil. Tiny golden Winskis encircled her head.
‘Kill the root man!’ they chanted in a furious little falsetto. ‘Kill him dead! Deader than dead wood! Kill eyes! Kill heart!’
Immense butterflies of a brilliant blue colour applauded the Winskis’ taunts as they encircled Gwyndion’s head. Gwyndion, sedated from the Faery brew, felt a weight upon his eyelids and he nodded, growing drowsier by the second.
Diomonna clapped her hands. ‘I shall return. Hiss, claw.’
She dissolved into silver dust as Gwyndion fell into a heavy slumber.
*
When Gwyndion came to he felt more aware of his surroundings than he had before. He knew himself to be in the fabled Hollow Hills of the Imomm tribe, the basis for many tales the storytellers had spun over the centuries. In every direction the Webx looked he was dazzled by the beauty of the white limestone cliffs that surrounded him.
Fool’s gold glinted next to enormous slabs of amethyst and quartz crystal. Petrified wood seemed to contain secrets of long-lost worlds. Dazzling diamonds were flung casually onto the floor. Huge Faery chandeliers of deer antlers and maja webs revolved slowly from the ceiling. Treasure pilfered over centuries from all the known worlds were heaped carelessly in unordered piles. The effect was beautiful but surreal; the impression was like gazing into a mirror and viewing the reflection, not the reality. Air elementals swooped in a graceful dance as a young Imomm woman sat in the corner with a beautifully polished wooden harp, her long Faery fingers moving over the strings with practised ease. An elderly woman who looked Bluite was in the corner pounding leaves and berries to dye clothes. Her hair was grey, thin and like pieces of string; she had a few bald patches on her head. She had an ample figure with large drooping breasts. Her clothes were patched and worn. Her long cotton dress was faded from numerous washes, and she wore a stained red apron. Her hands were large, red and chapped. Winskis circled her head in excited formations. She looked through him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. A name came to his mind. Old Patricia.
‘Your Webx has woken!’ she called out with a sour expression. Nobody appeared to react to her call, with the exception of a group of Winskis who began to shriek and clap.
Gwyndion was aware of a barely detectable odour that made his nostrils wrinkle with distaste. It was the odour of Faery, that unmistakable smell that was not animal, not vegetable or human, but a disconcerting mixture of all. There was a bestial note to the odour, and the Webx found it repellent.
Gradually he became aware that he was tethered to a large oak tree that grew within the hills, held by a thick maja web. As he watched in horror, the feared maja spider, so revered in the worlds of Faery as a steed, continued to busily spin the web that entrapped him.
Gwyndion attempted to communicate with the oak, but was met only by a string of abuse from the Faery loving tree. Then he heard Samma’s whimpers, and anger swept through him. They had tethered his meerwog nearby to his right, in more dense maja webs against the wall. His view was obscured by the careless heaps of treasure. As disorientated as Gwyndion was, it was obvious to him his beloved Samma was bleeding and in pain. The Webx howled his anger, wishing he could kill every last one of the vermin Faery Imomm for the hurt they had inflicted upon his faithful friend. Deaf to his cries of rage, the Faery harpist did not cease her playing. Instead her fingers flew faster and faster over the harp strings. Faeries and Bogies and the ever-taunting Winskis came flying from all directions in a chorus of excited chatter, enjoyi
ng the spectacle of the Webx’s rage. Faery women clasped their hands to their exposed breasts, sighing their desire for the handsome young Webx who screamed his fury for their callous treatment of Samma. Faery men stood jealously nearby, surrounding the shootling and taunting him with Imomm curses on both him and his race. Some of the smaller Faery children cried at this terrifying, raging alien in their midst. The smallest ones attempted to fly away, panicked by the first Webx they had ever seen outside of their picture books.
Amid the chaos, Gwyndion continued to howl his fury at his meerwog’s plight. Suddenly three Faery handmaidens of Diomonna’s flew in among the wild Faery throng. The three were so radiantly beautiful that even Gwyndion paused. As befitting their exalted rank in the Imomm tribe, the ravishing trio wore transparent silver gowns. Their hair, like the majority of the Imomm women, was worn long and was carefully curled with magical flowers placed in wreaths around their heads.
The beauties advanced toward the Webx and the crowd fell back respectfully, although now and again a smothered giggle could be heard. Gwyndion was dazzled by their sheer beauty as they approached him. Holding their perfumed arms out to him, they sang in soft, lilting Faery voices.
Gwyndion! Gwyndion!
Knower of neither love nor sin!
Let yourself rest here,
Let your roots grow here!
With our Faery hands
We’ll remove all your fear.
With that the handmaidens fell upon him. Their soft Faery hands caressed his face, and their voluptuous Faery bodies pressed firmly against his through the spider’s strands that held him. They pressed their perfumed breasts against his and their delicate moist tongues trailed with sensuous fragility along his hardened, weathered Webx skin. Aroused, Gwyndion forgot all about his cries for Samma. He forgot all about how much he despised the Imomm for what they had done to him. All he knew was that he wanted to sink himself into the three bodies that offered themselves so openly to him. He could glimpse flashes of their tempting flesh through their loose gowns. The rosy tips of their budding breasts were made darker by the berry stain with which the Imomm women adorned themselves. The enchanting slit between their Faery thighs, with a mixture of dark and blonde pubic hair, aroused the Webx still further. Furiously he battled with his maja chains in an effort to wrap himself around them. The Faery women giggled excitedly at his efforts, and then the blonde handmaiden dropped to her knees and brushed the maja strands away from the Webx’s swollen member. An audible gasp was heard from the assembled Imomm women as the handmaiden ran her tongue quickly up the wooden bony shaft. Gwyndion moaned softly, all rational thoughts forgotten as the three handmaidens shared his organ between them.
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