And it took only moments for Kearn’s body to stop twitching.
Conn stood, his mouth smeared with blood, and scooped up his wolfskin cloak, fastening it round his neck. He glanced at the riderless horse, glared fury at his companions, and cocked his head for a moment as if listening. Then he bent and picked up Kearn’s dagger. Holding it to his nose, he sniffed the drop of blood at its tip.
Bansi ran, keeping the broadest trees between her and the enemy. Her mind raced; she tried desperately to think of a way of rescuing Mrs Mullarkey, of finding help, of re-arming. She could think of nothing.
She twisted and weaved as she ran, trying to make her trail as hard as possible to follow, running as lightly as she could, constantly checking for signs of pursuit.
Conn stepped out in front of her.
She swerved, changed course, tried to dive for cover behind a tree, but he was much too fast. A moment later he had her. His grip was like a steel claw.
‘That,’ he said softly, ‘was stupid. I have the scent of your blood in my nostrils. I can track you down anywhere, wherever you go. I can run behind you, and you will not hear me. I can hunt you down, and you will not see me. I am swifter and more deadly than any mortal. You cannot escape me. If you try, I will kill the old woman. Very slowly. And I will make you watch.’ He grinned cruelly. His teeth were still red with Kearn’s blood.
Bansi shuddered, and did not resist as he led her back to the horses. She tried not to look at Kearn’s body as Conn mounted the fallen warrior’s horse and hauled her up to sit in front of him.
‘I’ll repeat this,’ the boy told the remaining three warriors, who looked at him with a new, fear-tinged respect. ‘The girl is not yet to be harmed in any way. We’ll bring her to Balor’s Hollow unmarked. If she causes us any more trouble,’ he added coldly, ‘kill the old woman immediately.’
As he dug his heels in to spur the horse on, a commotion in the nearest tree made him turn his head; but it was nothing. Nothing but a solitary raven taking flight, its wings beating the air noisily.
At the sound of further hoofbeats approaching, Granny turned to run – and stopped as she recognized the huge black horse that had carried Bansi from her home the night before. Its small brown rider was clearly visible between its shoulders. Furious, she stalked towards them, meeting them as they drew up.
‘You!’ she spat. ‘This is all your fault! If you hadn’t brought my wee Bansi to this terrible place—’
‘Where is she?’ Pogo interrupted.
‘Gone! Four riders on horses and that wolf creature came and took her, and Nora too! Come on, get me up on that horse with you and we’ll get after them!’
Pogo shook his head. ‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Not that simple? They went that way! Just follow the tracks . . .’ Her voice tailed off as she looked at the ground where she was pointing. There were no tracks. The hoof prints which should have been clearly visible simply weren’t there.
‘Faery steeds,’ Pogo said. ‘They leave no hoof prints, save when they choose to. Did they say where they were taking her?’
There was a sudden flurry of wings. ‘Balor’s Hollow!’ announced the raven excitedly, dropping down between them. ‘I heard them! They said they were going to Balor’s Hollow!’
Pogo eyed the bird suspiciously. ‘Are you sure? When did you hear them?’
‘Of course I’m flipping sure!’ the bird croaked indignantly. ‘You don’t forget that name in a hurry, do you? I heard them just now, a few miles that way. The little girl escaped, see, and that bloke who turns into a wolf caught her and said they were going to Balor’s Hollow! None of my business, I know, but I thought you’d—’
As the horse turned, Granny reached up and caught its mane; with a blur of magic she was on its back, behind Pogo.
Tam accelerated so suddenly that none of them even heard the raven squawking: ‘Good manners cost nothing, you know! I mean, that’s twice now!’
‘What did it mean, “you don’t forget that name in a hurry”? What’s so special about this place?’ Granny asked, raising her voice over the rushing of the wind and the pounding of hooves.
‘Balor’s Hollow,’ Pogo told her grimly, ‘is one of the three hundred and sixty-six sacred places of Tir na n’Óg. It’s also one of the darkest. It lies in permanent shadow, a hollow at the bottom of a crack in the mountains, sitting between cliffs so high and steep that the sun’s light can never reach in. Strange things are said to live there – if “live” is the right word.’ He shuddered.
‘Cheerful wee fellow, aren’t you?’ Granny observed, trying to ignore the swell of foreboding that rose inside her. She shifted position in an attempt to make herself more comfortable. In doing so, she became aware of something hard and heavy lying across her lap, and a cramp in the fingers of her left hand as if they were gripping something tightly.
It was only as she looked down that she realized she was still holding the jack handle, clutching it like a cold steely lifeline.
Chapter Twenty
It seemed to Bansi that the hooves had been pounding for hours. The same pulse, the same rhythm, the same relentless movement: a mesmerizing tattoo beating its way persistently into her mind. Time seemed to lose all meaning. And still the sun continued its inexorable progress across the sky – moving without compromise towards dusk, the dying of the light, and a nightfall she might not live to see.
As late afternoon turned to early evening, she began to feel as though she was at once sleeping and waking, as if the sound of galloping had somehow entered her bones and become part of her. She began to imagine she could hear drums playing underneath the insistent beating, filling it out, making the whole world echo and throb.
And then it occurred to her that she could hear drumming – a cold, deep sound that synchronized seamlessly with the rhythm of the hoofbeats. She shook her head, tried to clear it, reached automatically for her belt before she remembered that she no longer had the poker. The drumming was getting louder now, reverberating through the long narrow valley down which they were galloping; and a sickly feeling of enchantment was growing around her, like the dull dreaminess of the Hag’s magic turned sour and nauseating. She clenched her teeth, fought against it. With an effort, she pressed it away, held it off her. She glanced to her left; she could see the strain on Mrs Mullarkey’s face as she, too, fought against the poisonous spell.
Ahead of them, the valley narrowed into a pass barely wide enough for a single horse and rider. They pressed onward, increasing their speed. The unseen drummers matched their pace.
They pushed through the pass into Balor’s Hollow.
It was a cold, dark, desolate place, enclosed by a jagged cliff face which curved lazily and almost completely around them and was broken only by the narrow pass through which they had entered. High above, it leaned inwards, jutting crags and rocky ledges creating a permanent twilight under which nothing grew save a few twisted, misshapen, stunted specimens of pale and weak plant life. It was as though they were entering an enormous mountain which had been split in two and whose very heart had been torn out, leaving in its place a vast and empty circular arena, its walls dotted with sinister caves and tunnels. The floor of the great basin had once been a single smooth granite slab, but the centuries had cracked and crazed it into an uneven patchwork of jagged rock held together with wide ragged seams of earth. There was something horribly otherworldly about it, like some corrupt and unnatural lunar landscape. At the Hollow’s shadowy centre a ring of tall smooth standing stones formed a forbidding circle, like inhuman soldiers standing guard – waiting, Bansi somehow felt apprehensively, for her.
As the horses galloped towards the stone circle, a wild cheering broke out. It echoed around Balor’s Hollow above even the sound of the relentless drumming. Bansi cast about, still fighting the dizzy haze of enchantment, but the Hollow seemed empty of anyone else. As they reached the circle Conn urged the horse on, the pounding of the drums accelerating with them as they raced ro
und the perimeter, and as they did Bansi looked up and saw the source of the noises.
In front of a high tunnel near to the pass a large rocky ledge jutted out, forming a natural gallery above the arena. This gallery was crowded with figures, lean and angular and graceful like the warriors, but dressed in clothing altogether richer. They were leaping and dancing around two enormous drums, and somehow Bansi knew they were creating the intense, mind-numbing enchantment that hung in the air like the long moment before the storm breaks. Several of them were beating out the remorseless rhythm as they danced, and all of them were cheering and whooping triumphantly. And as they danced and drummed and cheered, every eye was fixed on her. Absurdly, she found herself thinking of the time she’d been targeted by a gang of bullies at school, drawing strength even now from the memory of how she’d refused to let them crush her. Forcing herself to sit up tall, she glared defiantly up at them.
Conn brought his horse expertly to a standstill just outside the circle. As one, the dancers slowed, the rhythm of the drumming changing to a quiet but insistent double pulse, like the beating of a gigantic heart. Slipping from the horse’s back, the wolf-boy held out his hand and motioned to Bansi to follow him down. She dismounted, shrugging him away, and stepped alone with dignity into the circle. Vaguely, she was aware of Mrs Mullarkey being shoved into the circle behind her. She wondered where her parents were, and whether they would be brought here to watch or – she shuddered at the thought – whether they had already been deemed expendable.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Mullarkey grimly, ‘this is a fine to-do, isn’t it? We may not get out of this alive. Still,’ she went on, brightening, ‘at least I got to prove your grandma wrong, eh? All our lives she’s been telling me I’m full of old nonsense about the faery folk.’ She lowered her voice and went on in a whisper. ‘Here – see that tunnel over there? Looks like daylight at the back of it. If I created a diversion, you could run.’
Bansi shook her head. ‘They’d kill you.’
‘They’ll kill me anyway.’
Before Bansi could respond, the tunnel mouth Mrs Mullarkey had indicated flared with light. There was a wailing, uneasily musical sound – some kind of eerie fanfare – and the drums on the stone balcony fell silent. A tall figure strode out, his cloak billowing majestically behind him. Six armed torchbearers – three men, three women, all warriors like Conn’s companions – flanked him. The dancers gave a great shout of triumphant welcome, and he paused on the edge of the ring of standing stones to acknowledge them with an arrogant smile. The torchbearers thrust the long shafts of their blazing brands into the cracked floor, where their yellow light blazed with an unnatural intensity; then they withdrew to join Conn and the three other warriors at a respectful distance beneath the rocky gallery.
The cloaked man stepped alone into the stone circle. He turned to stare at Bansi, and she found herself looking for the first time into the face of the Lord of the Dark Sidhe. Despite his extraordinary thinness he was almost impossibly handsome, but his unlined, ageless face hinted at a capacity for great cruelty and he looked at her as if she was a mere thing. His eyes, which should have been beautiful, shone yellow and hungry like a snake’s. With a lithe, predatory movement he came towards her, like a tiger advancing on its prey. She backed away as he approached, keeping her eyes on his, searching for any sign that he was about to pounce. Instead, as he reached the centre of the circle he closed his eyes, raised his face skywards, and howled – a dark, intense, unnatural noise, like the untamed wind of a midnight storm.
And the wind answered. Through the tunnels and the caves of Balor’s Hollow came a wild rushing and shrieking that blasted and buffeted all in its way. Bansi fought to stay upright as she and Mrs Mullarkey clung onto one another; but the Lord of the Dark Sidhe, his black hair and cloak streaming out behind him, his expression one of violent ecstasy, spread his arms wide to welcome the tempest.
There was a crack as of thunder; a wave of uncertain light rolled out from the core of the Dark Lord’s being; brightness flared between the standing stones. For a moment the circle was bounded by a wall of magical energy, almost solid in its intensity.
Then there was nothing. No sound. The wind was still; the storm was gone.
As Bansi gasped for breath, the new silence was broken by a harsh slapping sound. Mrs Mullarkey was clapping, slowly and sarcastically. ‘That was very dramatic, I must say,’ she observed. ‘What do you do for an encore? Oh, yes – I remember now. Murder people.’
The Dark Lord glanced at her disdainfully. ‘In my kingdom, old hag, there is no law forbidding murder. Or, at least, no law forbidding me to murder, which is the important thing. Not that it counts as murder to further shorten the brief life of a mortal, in any case.’ His cold gaze fell on Bansi, stabbing through her like an icicle. ‘So this is what the bloodlines of the Morning Stars have come to,’ he murmured. ‘Hardly a worthy vessel. Still, no matter.’ He raised his voice and addressed the watchers on the high ledge. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have brought you here to witness my moment of triumph either because you are my most loyal and faithful followers, or because I want you where I can keep an eye on you. I’m sure you can work out which applies in your own case. In a few moments, I will kill the mortal child and spill the Blood of the Morning Stars onto the sacred earth of Tir na n’Óg. The inheritance of Derga will be mine, and the realm of Faery will be united under my rule. So if any of you are planning some little act of treachery, now is your last chance.’ He looked at his followers. ‘No one? Very wise. I shall remember that. Now, child,’ he went on, turning again to Bansi. ‘The sun is setting. Time to die.’
From the folds of his robe he drew the white knife. Close to, it was clearly carved from bone; its smooth blade was covered in intricate and unpleasant symbols. His eyes locked with Bansi’s; their yellow irises flared. It was like looking into the eyes of a deadly serpent. The weapon rose, ready to strike.
‘Run, Bansi!’ Mrs Mullarkey cried out suddenly. ‘Run!’ She hurled herself desperately and furiously against the Dark Lord, grabbing for the knife. ‘Run!’ she cried again.
Bansi ran.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bansi sprinted for the edge of the circle, aiming for the tunnel beyond. She hurled herself at the gap between two stones, trying to ignore the enchantment that almost crackled between them, drugging the air.
It smothered her like damp darkness, like heavy wet velvet.
Despite herself, despite her best efforts, she slowed. Still she pressed forward, struggling with all her might against the invisible softness that hung like a curtain between the stones and gently but firmly blocked her way. She struggled with all her might, but the more she fought, the stronger the feeling of enchantment around her grew. Something was stopping her from leaving the circle.
It was useless. Trapped, she turned to find the Lord of the Dark Sidhe towering over her.
‘Escape?’ he purred, seizing a hank of her hair and twisting it painfully tightly in his powerful hand. ‘I think not. The mystical barrier that now surrounds us cannot be penetrated. From either side – or from overhead.’ With a force that made her scalp burn he threw her to the ground and, framed triumphantly between two grim standing stones, looked down at her. ‘Consider this,’ he gloated. ‘Here, in this place, after the ceremonies that have been performed today, my power is at its strongest. But the enchantment that has trapped you here has taken hours to prepare. The charm with which I have just ensnared your wrinkled friend would be, under normal circumstances, the strongest such charm I could weave.’ Bansi flicked an anxious glance at Mrs Mullarkey; the old woman was struggling to move, as if trapped in an upright glass coffin. ‘Once I have spilled your blood here on the sacred earth and claimed the inheritance of Derga, performing such enchantments will be no harder than slitting your throat. With your death, child, the power of Faery will be restored – and I shall be the greatest of all.’
Bansi stood defiantly, though her legs were trembling. ‘You w
on’t win,’ she said shakily. ‘People like you never win – not in the end.’
The Dark Lord’s scornful laugh filled Balor’s Hollow, its echo rebounding from the stony cliffs. ‘In stories, perhaps,’ he said; and he seemed to grow larger, looming above her, filling the space between the two standing stones. ‘But this is reality. This is truth. And I have won.’
With a sudden snake-like speed his hand shot out, grabbing Bansi painfully by the throat and dragging her close. He smiled again – a chilling, victorious smile – and lifted the knife. The white blade gleamed evilly.
As he raised it, she saw his head suddenly outlined with light – a coruscating halo of brightness and undulating colour. The air seemed to sparkle and crackle with dark magical scents of incense and bitter cinnamon. The halo flared brighter; a bolt of blue energy leaped with a sharp crack! across the gap behind the Dark Lord.
Then there was a dull thud, his grip slackened, his eyes crossed, and he fell over.
Behind him stood Granny O’Hara, framed between the standing stones like a little old avenging angel, the Morris Minor’s jack handle her flaming sword. Bansi’s heart leaped to see her. On her shoulder Pogo perched, his face wild with fury and triumph.
‘Steel!’ she yelled, brandishing the jack handle jubilantly; bright sparks of magic flashed around it again as it cut through the unseen barrier. ‘Steel! Not iron! See that, Nora I-know-all-about-fairies Mullarkey? My wee Bansi was right! And you were wrong!’
Of the shocked onlookers on the other side of the circle, Conn was the first to react. With a growl of rage he erupted from his place.
Too late. Already Granny was pushing herself through the invisible barrier, waves of light surging around her, magical energy sparking across the gap from stone to stone. By the time he reached the spot, she was through. He threw himself at the barrier; but in vain.
Bansi O'Hara and the Bloodline Prophecy Page 12