In a momentary silence between thunderous detonations, Alan heard Kate sob. His eyes swept upward to see the cause of her distress.
A woman hung crucified before them: a tall Shee, with white hair spread about her face like a halo, her limbs splayed to either side and nailed to the decorated panels of the gates, her blood running over the whorled and spiraling patterns of ancient silver laid on black oak. She had a long, expressive face, tapering to an almost pointed chin under a wide, intelligent brow. Her eyes were ash gray, strangely calm amid the agony and the violence. In the center of her brow was an oraculum of power, circular and silvery as a full moon. Everywhere they saw evidence of torture on her body, with its tattered remnants of a formal white dress, gilt-seamed, and streams of blood that ran from multiple wounds to flood the cobbled entrance. Bolts of black metal transfixed her arms in their outstretched posture, and similar bolts bisected the bones above her ankles. But her weight would have ripped the iron bolts through the flesh had it not been for the shackles of spiked strapwork that pinioned her thighs and her trunk between the chest and abdomen, fettering her body to the gates.
They knew immediately who she was: Ussha De Danaan, the last High Architect of Ossierel. And they knew now that it had been her voice, across time and worlds, that had called them here. In profane mockery, her crown of power had been impaled on her brow, a
golden corona with a tall vertical crescent, the symbol of a quarter-moon.
In the courtyard behind the gates columns of women wearing gowns of lime-green were compelled to kneel with their heads bent. They heard a blare of trumpets, strident and alien, and in a moment the women were beheaded, their blood soiling the sacred ground.
A thunderous detonation shook the wall in which the gates were embedded. Lightning tumbled in its wake, so charged it could not be extinguished through striking the ground, but, crackling and spreading over the ruined gardens, it ignited the trees in its path. Wave upon wave of ebbing power emanated from the crucified woman. Then, as if through an extraordinary effort, the oraculum on the De Danaan’s brow came alive. As if only now aware of their presence, the gray eyes of the giantess moved from face to face among the four friends. In the focus of her gaze, an intimate communication flickered through their minds. They heard her address them in turn as “Chosen,” as if each one of them was special to her, in representing some individual window of hope.
“We have precious little time. Yet I know that you have questions you wish to ask me.”
Through his own mounting terror, Alan found his voice. “Ma’am!” The truth was, he didn’t rightly know how to address her. “We don’t know how, or why, you called us here.”
“Like you, the Tyrant came from beyond our world, albeit a world of darkness. To my predecessors, his purpose appeared merely that of conquest and despoliation. But then, as I watched his powers grow, a new understanding dawned. He seeks absolute mastery of the Fáil. We who were born under its influence cannot defeat him.”
“What is this Fáil? I ask people about it, but nobody will answer my questions.”
“The Fáil is a malengin of magic. It was constructed long ago by a race of magicians known as the Arinn. Its purpose was arrogant beyond measure, a quest for immortality among those who made it. Great danger arose from such aspirations.”
“But why choose us? What can we do?”
“Fate, not I, did the choosing.”
“Fate?” Alan couldn’t keep the disappointment from his voice.
A wave of weakness shuddered through her. Her eyes closed. But then, as if she had summoned the last vestiges of her faltering will, they flickered opened again.
“In time, if you live, you will come to understand how fate and the Fáil are interwoven.”
Alan stared up into her ravaged face, bewildered. “What are you saying—that everything that has happened, our coming here—it was all decided by the Fáil?”
“That . . . that is for you to discover.”
“But how?”
“Its makers constructed three portals, through which its mystery may be confronted. One of the portals
was destroyed long ago, in the battle that ended the Age of Dragons. Two portals survive, one that was formerly here in this very sanctuary but has now been transported for safety to Carfon—the other, alas, is already in the possession of the Tyrant. Already he has begun to corrupt its original purpose.”
With her dying breath, her face fell into a mask of grief, as if she pitied them the burden she had placed on their youthful shoulders.
“He cannot be allowed to subvert it to malice. If—if you should fail—if all should be lost—well, better this tormented world should end rather than succumb to the hegemony of evil.”
The implications of her words stunned the four.
As the De Danaan died, an immense shockwave struck the ground, sweeping outward through the despoiled landscape, extinguishing the runestone of the dwarf mage of the Fir Bolg, and with it the dream journey of all who sat around the fireside in the great hall of Ossierel. In that same moment, Kate faltered and slumped to the ground. Even as a wave of darkness engulfed Alan, he fell down onto his knees beside Kate, holding her close to him, calling her name.
The Legun Incarnate
Alan was a prisoner again in the snow-bound wilderness, his limbs stretched on the rack of the springy poles. Agony tore apart his bones and joints. The pain was unbearable. Yet a part of him whispered that this was not real pain, this was the past. He had survived that—had been saved by the arrival of the Shee. He was surviving still. With his lips drawn back and his teeth bared, he roared his defiance with the last breath of his tormented lungs:
Nooooo!
Then, as if from a great distance, he heard a voice whispering in his ear. A voice he recognized. His confused mind seized on that voice. He heard other sounds from far away in the distance, sounds carrying from where there should be no sounds—desperate shouts,
moans . . . screams. Who else could be screaming? Who was enduring this same hell?
“Alan!
Alan
!”
Was Kate calling him?
No—impossible!
His eyes were blinded by madness still. His arms were curled against his chest, his fists clenched so hard that his nails were cutting into his palms. He was shaking his head furiously, shouting his defiance into another world. A world racked by moans and screams. Was Kate hurt . . . unconscious? A memory cut deep into his brain by terror . . . terror so great . . .
“Alan! Wake up!”
With an effort of will he forced the terror out of his mind, the nightmare visions out of his eyes. With his head weak on his wobbly neck, he peered around from where he found himself, on the paved floor beside the now spent fire in the great hall on the temple plateau. He really was here—Ossierel—where he had shared his dream journey with his friends!
“Alan!”
He saw her now, her face full of concern for him, her hand touching his face, brushing the sweat from his eyes.
“Mo!” He sighed with relief.
Her face was anxious and drawn, thinner, seemingly more waif-like, than when he had last seen her. She was kneeling beside him, her dark eyes peering out of a face that appeared to be a mask of soot. She screwed her eyes shut as a thunderous explosion swept through
the hall, peppering them with fragments of stone. They both coughed in the wake of dust.
“What’s going on?”
“The Death Legion is attacking. It started while you were still trapped.”
“Trapped?”
“In the dream.”
They had to shout to each other just to be heard above the fury of battle.
He blinked, trying to come to terms with what Mo was telling him.
Trapped in the dream . . .
“How long?”
She crouched down again, cowering from another explosion. “All night,” she said, “and all through this morning.”
Alan’s head fell back in confusion. It must be early afternoon, although it seemed like twilight because of the smoke. “Kate?”
Mo shook her head.
He struggled onto his feet, tottering against the wall for support. His head reeled with dizziness. “What’s happened to her?”
“The Aides took her to safety.”
“She’s not dead? Tell me the truth, Mo.”
“She isn’t dead.”
“What happened to her?”
“She was hurt by the dream. She remained unconscious, as if she couldn’t come out of it. Kemtuk says that her soul spirit was wounded . . . by what happened. As if she was especially sensitive to . . . to the death of the High Architect.”
Alan stumbled out of the hall, followed by Mo. Above them a tempestuous sky tossed and howled over the shadowy outlines of the ancient capital city. The acrid smell of fire and smoke choked his nostrils.
The whole plateau was in tumult.
A continuous rain of livid green missiles deluged the ruins from the surrounding slopes. Every few seconds the shadows were lit up by explosive flares as heavier missiles struck. Even the sky flashed and glowed as if illuminated by flickering searchlights. It took several moments of reorientation before he realized that the light was coming from the burning forests. Currents of hot wind lashed his skin, accompanied by the harsh detonations of exploding missiles and the cracking and splitting of masonry; and everywhere his nostrils registered the dank musky odor of slaughter.
“Ainé? Siam? Milish?”
Mo’s eyes fell as he took hold of her arm. “They’re out there—fighting!”
“I have to help them!” With a groan of pain, he exercised his right shoulder. “My weapon, Mo—the Spear of Lug?”
“Alan, you’re not fit to fight.”
“The spear, Mo—I need it.”
As she ran back into the chamber, Alan searched for a better position to look around and see what was happening. He had to wipe dust and splinters of stone from his face and hair.
Then, through a gap in the smoke and flames, he glimpsed Death Legion troops moving through the
streets.
They’ve broken through—they’re among us!
But there was something else he detected nearby: a menace he could not see, although its presence assaulted his senses. In his brow the oraculum flared, sending a thrill of alarm throughout every nerve of his body. He knew what he was sensing, and this time not in a dream but in reality: the awesome malevolence of a Legun incarnate.
The attack was so violent that the streets and buildings were glowing with that foul green lividity as Alan turned slowly around to probe the confusion of battle with the oraculum.
He could detect no clear sign of the Legun nearby but he could sense its influence. It mocked him from the forested slopes on the western bank opposite the island. This was where most of the missiles were coming from.
What must have been the heavy cost of such a breach in the defenses? Yet still every sacrifice would be for nothing if the assault succeeded. He had to force his own recovery—to help.
Mo returned with the spear, so heavy for her small frame that she had to carry it with both hands.
He accepted the spear and rotated his right shoulder again. “How long, Mo, since they broke through?”
“At first light this morning.”
Their voices were torn away by the hot wind of another cannonade, then the clamor of a fresh attack, the defiant battle hymn of the Shee rising above the crackling of the flames. Ainé, if she survived, must be
there, at the very heart of it, shoring up what she could of the breach in the face of overwhelming odds. Suddenly there was a lull, in which he could hear the broken stonework cracking. Mo’s voice fell to a whisper. “It’s the Legun that is making you sick.”
Alan looked at her. Was Mo capable of sensing the Legun? He felt a stab of concern for that small, grimy face now puckered in concentration, lips trembling. He whirled around, spear at the ready, aware of a shadow approaching, then felt relieved when the shadow revealed itself to be a smoke-begrimed Milish. There was no time for discussion. She clasped his shoulder, wordlessly lifting the flask of healwell to his lips.
With gratitude, Alan accepted the elixir. Within seconds he felt the reviving of his strength and spirits.
“Milish—where’s Kate? Mo said the Aides have taken her.”
“She has been moved with the children to a place of safety.”
The memory of what happened to Kate, her face pale as a ghost’s, made him panic. “Where have they taken her?”
Milish looked at him.
“Take me to her.”
“I understand how much you want to see her. But I cannot take you to her. I am very sorry, Alan, but neither you nor I can spare the time. You must trust the shaman and your friend, Mark, who has been instructed to guard her.”
Alan shook his head, disbelievingly. Mark helping Kemtuk to guard Kate? He couldn’t credit what Milish was telling him.
Milish’s voice cut through his thinking. “Oh, Mage Lord—can’t you see what’s happening? We face a dreadful disadvantage in forces. We are besieged by thousands of legionaries, as well as new malengins of war. An army of Gargs!” She groaned aloud. “The forest about the southern slopes is in conflagration. Soon the entire Vale of Tazan will be consumed.” Milish shuddered. “Perhaps it is too late even now. We should find some means of helping you to escape.”
Conflict raged in him. He couldn’t bear even to think that he wasn’t going to see Kate. He so desperately needed to be with her, to see her, to hold her. His teeth clenched.
“I won’t . . . I can’t!”
“If you are determined to risk your life, then help the Kyra. If she falls, the Shee will have lost their leader.”
Milish’s words made sense, though it was a sense he didn’t welcome. Then, glancing at Mo, he hesitated in the act of leaving them, and returned to hug Mo, brushing his hand over her brow. He called to Milish as he passed out through the doorway:
“Take Mo to Kate! Take care of them both!”
Readying the Spear of Lug, he headed to where the sulphurous explosions were hailing down on the closest section of the defensive wall. If Ainé was to be found anywhere, it would be here.
Arriving at the breach he saw that fighting extended for at least fifty yards through the broken wall over a wrack of bloodied bodies, fallen masonry and guttering flames. Here and there Alan recognized men of the Olhyiu, stabbing furiously with their whaling lances. Shee fought alongside the Olhyiu in human form while others prowled the streets and buildings as great cats. He could hear the growls and roars that signified new attacks everywhere, accompanied by screams. As he looked around him, his nostrils sickened by the stench of the green slime, a detonation struck close enough to singe his eyebrows and burn the skin of his cheeks. It was followed by a screeching sound, as if the air was being tormented by the passage of the incandescent mass that tore an arc thirty yards over his head. The missile exploded with a thunderous impact against the side wall of the great hall.
The building was already pitted with gaping holes. Where were the elderly and wounded? Where were the children?
Alan shook his head, not wanting to imagine the injuries and terror confined within those ancient walls.
“Ainé—Qwenqwo!” He shouted their names aloud.
An unseen Shee, bloodied from several wounds, sprang to intercept a shadow that appeared suddenly out of the smoke. Alan started back from a grotesque shape that fluttered through the air, suspended on vast leathery wings. He was so horrified by his first clear sight of a Garg close-up, he stumbled and nearly
fell over a dead body. The Garg had gigantic blue-gray wings stretched in sinewy membranes across attenuated fingers. Its skeleton was drawn out to grotesque proportions, with a powerful scaly tail, so it could not only glide but fly, with great flapping movements, through the tormented air. Alan glimpsed a face equipped with fangs, and hugely elongated toes, from which needle-sharp talons extended, livid with poison. The Garg would have clawed his eyes out if the Shee had not taken it by one leathery wing and smashed its skull against the stones of the breach.
Alan barely had time to recover from his shock before the same Shee, bleeding from mouth and nostrils, was fighting hand to hand with a massive legionary.
The soldier’s helmet had been partially cloven in some earlier confrontation, yet still he engaged with the Shee, his teeth clenched and a fanatical hatred in his eyes. Taking advantage of her distraction with the Garg, the legionary had taken a fierce grip of the Shee from behind, his left arm encircling her throat and his sword burying itself deep in her flesh, rooting for arteries and windpipe.
Alan plunged the Spear of Lug into the legionary’s side, but only managed to wound him. With a howl of pain, he continued his attack on the Shee. Alan forced the blade deeper, even as, with a deft twist and sidestep, the Shee swung her own sword backward and upward, piercing the legionary’s throat. Without waiting for the corpse to fall, she stepped forward to place her body before Alan’s
as another shrieking Garg plummeted down through the air, its taloned feet directed at his heart.
The strike was lightning quick, with no time for the Shee to protect herself. She took the venomous thrust, impaling the creature with her sword even as she herself was killed.
Stumbling sideways so he wouldn’t make such an easy target, Alan was confronted by another unequal struggle. A lone Shee fought two legionaries, striking sparks from their swords with her glowing blade.
With a roar, Alan struck the spear against the helmet of one of the legionaries, but his strike rebounded with barely a dent in the dense metal. At the same time as the Shee gutted the legionary in front of her, the second brought his short sword upward in a two-handed lunge, piercing the woman in the small of the back and then tearing, rending, bisecting bone, flesh and spinal cord, yet still continuing the upward lunge, tormenting the Shee in the very moments of her death with its hacking, ever-deepening wound.
Alan gritted his teeth. He was so confused by the events taking place around him that he was behaving stupidly. The oraculum pulsated in his brow. He closed his eyes for a moment, directing its pulsating force to his right hand. He felt the union of power with weapon. Anger rose in him.
With a throaty moan, the legionary was dead at his feet, the Spear of Lug transecting helmet and the head within.
Suddenly two Aides were by his side. They tried to fit him with armor, capping his head with a helmet of steel and attempting to sheathe his body, from shoulders to knees, with armor. But he tore off the helmet and thrust the Aides away. The armor would only have weighed down his spear hand. Alan heard his own voice roaring in his ears as he stumbled forward, forcing his way deeper into the conflict, gaining strength with every step as the oraculum blazed to white power, the swell of his anger ramifying and spreading into his muscles. Dead bodies of Shee lay scattered about him now, intermingled with lesser numbers of the Olhyiu, their flesh overrun by the green slime, which flickered and danced over their wounds as it devoured their tissues.
The oraculum registered Ainé somewhere to his left. He spun in that direction, through rubble and carnage and the oppressive closeness of evil.
Before he had taken twenty paces he heard the screech of tormented air as another sulphurous missile cast its fetid arc to crash into the ancient walls somewhere behind him. He cast a wave of power to avert the concussion of thunder and flames from his face.