‘I’m surprised to see so many here this early,’ said the Spook. ‘The fair itself is still several days away.’
In the grey dawn light the field was bustling with activity. Some had set up stalls and were selling food: strings of sausages, onions and carrots. There were a large number of animals too – horses were being galloped up and down the field, presenting a great risk to those on foot.
‘These people don’t seem to be starving,’ I commented.
‘There are always some who prosper, however bad things get,’ Shey replied. ‘Believe me, there are a lot of hungry mouths out there. Many folk will be too weak to walk to Killorglin. Despite that, the fair gets bigger every year. Winter or summer makes no difference: even in bad weather, hundreds are drawn here. They come from miles around. Many are traders who bring animals to sell or barter, but there are also tinkers and fortune-tellers, as well as thieves – particularly cut-purses. The town quickly becomes too full to accommodate them all. This field is just one of many that will eventually be filled to bursting.’
‘What about the mages?’ asked the Spook.
‘They will have commandeered most of the accommodation in the town – particularly overlooking the triangular market at its centre, where the platform is erected. For the duration of the main festival, Killorglin effectively belongs to them. But this time we’ll give them a surprise!’
We entered the town late in the morning, jostling through the narrow streets towards its centre, where a market was being held. The stalls were packed tightly into the cobbled heart of Killorglin. Most small towns had a square or rectangular market area, but this was indeed triangular; it sloped away towards a lane that led down a steep hill to a distant river and bridge.
Shey had donned a rough woollen cloak to hide his fine clothes and nobody gave us a second glance. We mingled with the throng of people while he hired a room in what seemed to be the smallest and shabbiest of the many inns overlooking the busy market. We quickly appreciated that it was an excellent choice for, unlike the majority of the other inns, it was accessed from a street parallel to the western edge of the cobbled triangle, and we could enter and leave without being noticed by anyone in the marketplace.
‘This is the last inn the mages are likely to choose,’ Shey said, smoothing back his white hair. ‘They like their comfort and are also protective of their status – only the very best for them. If it’s been booked at all, this place will only be used by their servants.’
We returned to the field, where Shey’s men were cooking over a fire. However, before the sun went down, word reached us that a small group of mages had travelled through the mountain passes north of the Staigue ring fort and, walking through the night, were heading directly towards Killorglin. They would be here before dawn. We’d arrived just in time.
Taking some provisions for our vigil, we went back to the room overlooking the marketplace, from where we could watch for the arrival of our enemies. We drew the curtains across the window, leaving a small gap in the centre. The sky was cloudless, and a moon that had waned three days beyond the full cast down a silver light onto the empty streets.
About two hours before dawn we heard the clip-clop of hooves. Two riders came into view, followed by four men carrying large bundles over their shoulders.
‘The mages are the ones on horseback,’ Shey explained. ‘The others are workmen who’ll construct the platform.’
Both horses were thoroughbreds, black stallions designed for speed, and their riders were armed with large curved swords that broadened as they reached the point – the ones known as scimitars. The mages dismounted and made for the highest point of the cobbled triangle. They were tall, powerfully built men with dark bushy eyebrows and short pointy beards known as goatees; so called because they mimic the tuft of hair on the chin of a goat.
They pointed down at the cobbles and, without further delay, the four carpenters set about erecting the tall wooden structure that would house the platform. Their bundles consisted of tools and what looked like specially crafted pieces of wood. A pair of the men soon went off and returned after a few minutes with two large wooden beams. These must have been produced locally, ready to meet their needs. No sooner had they laid them down beside their tools than they set off again, returning with more wood. Soon the sounds of hammering and banging disturbed the peace of the night, and the tower slowly began to take shape.
All through that day the carpenters worked, while the mages squatted on the ground or prowled around the growing tower, issuing instructions.
The people of Killorglin stayed away from the marketplace, and that day no stalls were set up.
‘Are they scared of the mages?’ I asked. ‘Is that why there’s no market today?’
‘They’re scared, all right,’ Shey answered. ‘During the construction of the platform, they usually give the area a wide berth. But once the goat is in position, they come back, and the market is busier than ever – though mostly with those buying pots of ale and bottles of wine. Many people get drunk – perhaps to escape the horrors the mages bring to their town. For others it’s one of the two highlights of the year, and everything is taken to excess.’
‘When do you plan to try and snatch one of the mages?’ asked the Spook.
‘At dusk,’ Shey answered. ‘We’ll burn the wooden tower too. No doubt they’ll rebuild it, but that’ll mean bringing fresh materials from Staigue. It’ll set their preparations back a little at least.’
‘Will they use dark magic to defend themselves?’ my master wondered.
‘They may try,’ said Shey, ‘but’ – he gazed at us steadfastly – ‘I have faith in our combined strength. I’m confident of success.’
‘Well, I have my silver chain,’ said the Spook. ‘The boy too. That’ll bind him more securely than any rope.’
A silver chain worked against witches and most mages. It seemed straightforward: we outnumbered the two mages and their workmen, and would have the element of surprise. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Alice’s expression. She looked worried.
‘What’s wrong, Alice?’ I asked.
‘Ain’t binding the mage that bothers me,’ she said. ‘It’s afterwards, when the others find out what’s been done. They’ll come after us – and there’s lots of them.’
‘That’s all been thought through and carefully planned, girl,’ the Spook told her. ‘The captured horses and any other prisoners will be taken southeast, back the way we came. But the four of us, with our special prisoner, are going in another direction – down the coast. There’s a castle there – Ballycarbery, the home of another of the landowners; it’s a strong fortress, where we can question the captive mage in safety.’
The sun went down and, as the light began to fail, it was time for us to act.
Below us, the structure was almost completed: a tall square wooden shaft balanced on the cobbles; at over thirty feet high, it now dominated the market area. It was a remarkable achievement for just one day’s work. The exhausted workmen were packing up their tools while the two mages waited patiently with folded arms, their horses tethered to a post at the far corner. Our men had reported that they had taken rooms in the largest of the inns facing us, and would soon retire there for the night.
We left our vantage point, went downstairs into the street and headed for the edge of the market area, taking care to keep to the shadows. With the Spook and Shey in the lead, we began a slow, stealthy approach, knowing that our armed forces were moving in from behind, cutting off any chance of escape.
Suddenly the tethered horses reared up and whinnied nervously. They must have caught our scent and, instantly alerted, the two mages drew their scimitars and took up a defensive position, back to back. Shey and my master left the shadows and began to charge towards our enemies, with Alice and me close behind them. I could hear shouts of command and other footsteps running through the darkness as our force converged on its target.
The nearest mage raised his weapon,
but the Spook cast his silver chain as he ran. With a mighty crack, it soared aloft to form a perfect spiral. It was a good, accurate throw and it dropped over the head and shoulders of the mage, pinning his arms to his sides so that his sword fell to the cobbles with a clatter. So excellent a shot was it that part of the chain tightened about his eyes and mouth so that he could neither see nor speak. Binding the mouth was very important when dealing with a witch capable of uttering dark magical spells. Mages used spells too, so my master had taken no chances.
The other mage whirled round to meet Shey, and there was a metallic rasp as their two blades came together hard. Then the mage cried out, dropped his scimitar and fell hard onto his face; he lay there twitching as the blood started to pool beneath him. The four workmen dropped to their knees with their hands raised above their heads, begging for their lives. Shey’s men were encircling us now, and it was but the work of minutes to bind the carpenters with ropes and lead them and the two horses away.
So while our men prepared to travel southeast towards Killarney, the Spook, Shey, Alice and I took our prisoner in the direction of Ballycarbery Castle near the small town of Cahersiveen.
Once on the road and clear of Killorglin, I glanced back and saw dark smoke and a red glow over the rooftops. Shey’s men were burning the wooden platform; the efforts of the workmen had been in vain. It had gone well, but I couldn’t help but worry that the fire would act like a beacon, drawing our enemies towards the town in force.
BALLYCARBERY APPEARED TO be a strong fortress, with thick stone walls and only one gate which faced west. However, the castle didn’t have a moat with a drawbridge and, from my own experience of such fortifications, it seemed to me that this was a major weakness. It meant that an enemy could approach right up to the ramparts. As a fortress, it had seen better days. Its walls were also overgrown with ivy. Determined attackers could use that to scale the walls.
Still bound with the Spook’s silver chain, the mage was taken down to the dungeons to await interrogation in the morning. We were given comfortable beds in the castle, and wasted no time in settling down to catch up on our sleep. Checking the blood jar before I dozed off, I couldn’t help reflecting that in the past our situation had often been very different. In such fortifications as this we had languished in dark, damp dungeons awaiting death while our enemies had been in a position of power.
I dreamed again – the same nightmare in which I was being pursued by the Morrigan in the shape of a crow. But it seemed to me that this dream was slightly less scary than the previous one. The goddess was still gradually drawing nearer, but I was running faster, getting closer and closer to the unseen refuge.
I suddenly awoke in a cold sweat, my heart hammering, but I felt somewhat encouraged. Was I learning; getting slightly stronger each time I experienced the nightmare?
At that moment something happened that was more frightening than any night terror.
I heard the dull thud, thud, thud of footsteps approaching my bed, accompanied by the sizzle of burning wood. I tried to open my eyes but my eyelids were too heavy; my breath came in ragged gasps, my heart beating painfully in my chest. I sensed something huge close to the bed; something reaching towards me. Then I felt hot breath on my face, smelled the fetid stink. And a voice I knew only too well spoke right beside my left ear. It was the Fiend:
‘You’re almost mine now, Tom. I can nearly reach you. Just a little while longer and the jar will fail! Then you’ll be mine!’
I opened my eyes, expecting to see his huge head with its curved horns and mouthful of sharp teeth. But to my relief there was nothing. I scrambled out of bed, and soon realized that it had been more than a dream: here too a set of hoof prints had been burned into the floorboards. They were scorched deeper than on the last occasion in my room at the inn. Time was running out. The power of the blood jar was almost at an end.
* * *
I didn’t tell either Alice or the Spook what had happened. Why add to their fears? It was something that we could do nothing about. I just had to hope that Grimalkin would arrive soon.
After breakfast we walked down to the dungeons with Shey and three armed guards to begin questioning the prisoner.
‘He’s had neither food nor water,’ Shey remarked as we approached the cell door. ‘That should loosen his tongue a little.’
Two of the guards joined us inside the cold damp cell while the other locked us in with the mage and stood guard outside. No chances were being taken, and the powers of our enemy were certainly not being underestimated.
The cell was spacious and clearly designed for the interrogation of prisoners. Although there was no place to sleep, other than a pallet of straw in a corner, it contained a table and three chairs, one with leather straps to confine a captive. Deftly the Spook uncoiled his silver chain from the mage, who was quickly gagged and then had his arms tied behind his back. Finally he was strapped into the chair, and the Spook and Shey seated themselves, facing him across the table.
There was a candle on the table and a torch in a wall bracket beside the door, providing ample light for what we needed. There was also a large jug of water and two small cups. Alice and I stood behind the Spook and Shey, while the two guards positioned themselves close to the prisoner’s chair.
‘We are going to ask you a few questions,’ Shey said, his breath steaming in the candlelight. ‘You would be wise to answer truthfully. Failure to do so will lead to dire consequences. Do you understand?’
The mage nodded. At a sign from Shey, a guard pulled the gag from his mouth. Immediately the prisoner began to choke and cough; he seemed to be struggling for words.
‘Water – give me water, please!’ he begged at last, his voice hoarse.
‘You’ll get water in a while,’ Shey told him. ‘But first you must answer our questions!’ Then he turned to the Spook and nodded.
‘Why does the goat ceremony sometimes fail?’ my master asked without delay.
‘I will tell you nothing!’ the mage replied with a scowl. ‘Nothing at all!’
‘We’ll get it out of you one way or the other,’ said Shey. ‘There’s a hard way or an easy way. You choose …’
‘Whether I live or die here is of no concern to me.’
‘Then you’re either a brave man or a fool!’ snapped Shey. ‘No doubt the latter,’ he added, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small metal implement, which he placed on the table before the mage. It looked like a pair of tongs. ‘There will be pain before you die. Terrible pain! Is that what you want?’
The Spook scowled and his eyes flashed. ‘Just what do you mean by that?’ he demanded of Shey, pointing down at the implement.
Farrell Shey picked up the tool, which I now saw was more like blacksmith’s pliers. ‘This is a versatile instrument,’ he said quietly, ‘which can be used in various ways to persuade a reluctant prisoner to talk. It can crush fingers or extract teeth.’
‘I don’t hold with torture!’ The Spook’s voice was angry. ‘And only a fool uses it. Subject someone to pain and they will say anything just to bring it to an end. Many who are falsely accused of witchcraft confess under torture. The temporary relief from the pain is soon followed by the greater pain of execution and death. So put away that implement or I’ll continue with this no longer!’
I felt proud to be a spook. We were honourable in the way we went about our work.
Shey scowled and pursed his lips in anger, but nevertheless he returned the instrument of torture to his pocket. No doubt the long years of strife between the mages and the landowners had caused great bitterness, with atrocities committed by both sides. The dark was growing in power and it corrupted even those who opposed it. I had compromised myself, using the dark in order to survive, so I was in no position to judge anyone.
My master then repeated his question: ‘The goat ceremony – why does it sometimes fail?’
The mage hesitated, but then fixed his eyes on the Spook and muttered, ‘It is because what we do is n
ot pleasing to our god.’
‘But don’t you know what pleases him?’ asked the Spook. ‘You’ve been carrying out your dark rituals for centuries. Surely you must know by now?’
‘It depends on many things. These are variables which cannot be predicted.’
‘What variables?’
‘I thirst. My throat is dry. Give me a little water and I will tell you …’
On impulse, and not waiting for Shey’s response, I stepped forward, picked up the jug and poured a little water into the nearer of the two cups, then held it to the mage’s lips and tilted it slightly. The man’s Adam’s apple wobbled as he gulped the water eagerly. Once he’d finished I spoke for the first time since entering the room.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Cormac,’ the mage replied.
Shey scowled at me, but the Spook smiled and nodded as if he approved of my initiative.
‘Now, Cormac,’ he said. ‘What are the variables?’
‘The choice of goat is important. It becomes the sacred host which our god, Pan, must enter. He will not assume the body of one that is not pleasing to him. Seven goats are selected initially. Together we must choose the best. The process is not easy. Our seers debate our choice for days.’
My master nodded. ‘What are the other variables?’ he demanded.
‘We must make human sacrifices – three in all. These also have to be perfect. One must be female, and she must choose to die, giving her life gladly. The other two must be mages who also freely offer their lives to the god. I am to be one of the sacrifices. The other died at your hands beside the wooden tower!’ he said, glaring angrily at Shey.
The Spook nodded thoughtfully. ‘So the two mages who volunteer to die are responsible for overseeing the construction of the platform?’
‘Yes, it’s an ancient custom.’
‘So what will happen now that one of the volunteers is already dead?’
The Spook's Destiny Page 6