The Fathomless Caves (28 page)

Mist wreathed through the dark trees, writhing along the forest floor and curling around the tree trunks. It smelt dank and evil, like an open grave. Isabeau’s throat muscles tightened. She got to her feet and came silently up behind the dog, which turned its sleek head and growled at her.

Peace
, she said in its own language. Its hackles sank a little, and the narrow head swung round and stared out into the forest again.

‘There is something out there,’ Cailean said, very softly.

‘Mesmerdean,’ Gwilym the Ugly said. He was sitting near the coals of the fire, well wrapped up against the cold, his staff across his knees.

‘No! Here?’

The sorcerer nodded.

‘But I thought we had left them behind in Arran,’ Isabeau said in great distress. ‘How do they come to find us here, so far away from the swamp?’

‘Do no’ be a fool, Beau,’ Meghan said quietly. She
was lying still in her blankets but as she spoke she raised herself up on one elbow. ‘They ken the time o’ the rising o’ the comet as well as we do. Did ye think we could outrun them?’

‘No!’ Isabeau cried. She caught up a branch from the fire and waved it violently, so that its smouldering end burst again into flame. ‘Go away! Go away!’ She ran out into the forest, waving her torch. The mist flowed all over her like ghostly fingers and she fought it, sobbing. Behind her the camp was roused by the sound of her cries.

‘Hush, dearling,’ Meghan said, her feet crunching on the snow as she came up behind Isabeau. ‘Why do ye waken the whole camp? There is naught that ye or they can do. The Mesmerdean have never been far away from me, no’ for all these past months. They just grow eager now and press closer to me.’

‘No!’ Isabeau sobbed.

‘Come back to the fire, my silly bairn. Look at ye! Ye’re shivering. And your feet bare in all this snow. Ye’ll be losing some toes to frostbite if ye are no’ careful. Come back to your bed.’

The torch trailing from her hand, Isabeau allowed Meghan to lead her back to the campfire. ‘Is all well?’ a few people cried. ‘What has happened?’

‘Naught, naught,’ Meghan replied soothingly. ‘Go back to sleep.’

She pushed Isabeau down into her pile of blankets and Isabeau huddled them over her numb feet. She felt numb too. The dank miasma of the Mesmerdean hung all around, making her nauseous. Johanna had woken
and with her usual practicality had made some hot herbal tea, which Isabeau drank obediently. She did not sleep again, though, lying in her blankets and trying to drive the Mesmerdean away with the strength of her will and desire.

In the morning the mist was gone. The sky was clear and pale, the sun turning all the icicles into sparkling diamonds. ‘What has happened to all those storms?’ Nellwyn asked as she clambered up into the cart. ‘Does that priestess-witch no longer wish to torment us?’

‘Happen she is saving her strength,’ Gwilym replied glumly.

They forged on into the forest, a long procession of men, women and children, all hoping that Finn’s much celebrated sense of direction would not lead them astray. Sometimes the road was so overgrown with saplings that it was impossible to see which way it went. Finn always pointed with great confidence and as she was always right, people soon came to trust her implicitly.

Their progress was slow, nonetheless, and as the days trickled by Isabeau’s sense of foreboding only grew worse. She slept little, dreaming of mountains spouting fire, a comet of ice with a fiery tail, a great wave that swept over the land and drowned every living thing. One night she woke with a start, her heart hammering. She had dreamt of a battle, and a Fairge with a cruel face and heavy tusks stabbing Lachlan through the breast. Lachlan had sunk down, down, into dark, fathomless water, sinking out of sight, all the vivid life in his glowing golden eyes snuffed out forever. She lay awake
the rest of the night, staring out into the mist, misery weighing down every limb.

At last, just when all were sick with anxiety, the ground began to rise under their feet. Hills shouldered out of the forest, and they drew close to the river again. It ran quickly down through white mounds of snow, ice clogging its edges. Tall evergreen trees thrust into the heavy clouds, their branches weighed down with snow. Here and there the darkness of the forest was broken by the delicate filigree of bare branches.

It grew more and more difficult to clear a path for the carts. Arkening Dreamwalker was gripped with fever, unable even to recognise the faces that hung over her, Enit could not take a step unaided, and the children were not strong enough to walk very far. They had to keep the carts.

Every night the red throbbing of the comet grew more palpable, until not even the most short-sighted needed to have it pointed out to them. It was most visible at dawn and dusk, and that was when Isabeau found her spirits most depressed, when it pulsed in the sky like a clot of blood. The closer the comet came, the closer drew the Mesmerdean, until the forest around their camp was every night thick with mist. It was a shroud that hung over everything, filled with the smell of death, and in its damp, clinging opacity hung the uncanny ghostly figures, watching, waiting.

On the fifth night, Arkening Dreamwalker died in her sleep. The witches were all devastated with grief, for the old sorceress had been a gentle, kind-hearted woman and had suffered much during the cruel reign
of Maya the Ensorcellor. Stormy Briant and his young brother Cailean were the most grieved, for they had rescued her from the fire in Siantan eight years earlier and travelled with her all the way to the Tower of Two Moons.

They buried her under stones as best as they could, the ground frozen too hard for digging, and a red-eyed Meghan spoke the death rites over her grave. As soon as the ritual was done, though, everyone hurried on. There was no time for grieving. They had only three days before the comet reached the zenith of its power. Three days to Isabeau and Iseult’s twenty-fourth birthday.

On the seventh day they came to a deep pool shadowed by a high, tree-hung cliff. A long waterfall plunged down into its murky waters, icicles hanging from the rock ledges and tree branches. There they stopped in despair, unable to see any way for the horses and carts to go on.

‘We had some trouble here,’ Carrick One-Eye said. ‘Our rafts almost went over the edge, taking us with it. Her Highness used her magic to freeze the whole river and the waterfall, and we were stuck in the ice like a fly in cake frosting. We chopped the rafts free and then we carried them down the side of the cliff with us. It was very difficult. Once we were down, she unfroze the river and we rafted safely the rest o’ the way.’

‘What a Talent,’ Meghan said admiringly. ‘Och, I wish we could make a sorceress out o’ Iseult too! What a shame she married the Rìgh and became a banrìgh.’

‘It’s no’ a shame!’ Donncan cried indignantly.

Meghan smiled at him indulgently. ‘Och, I was
jesting, my lad. Believe me, no-one was happier than I when your mother and father were married.’

‘We shall have to abandon the carts now,’ Isabeau said. ‘There’s no help for it. Some of the sturdier ponies will be able to climb this hill. We will mount Enit and Meghan, a twin before them both, and load the others with supplies. Everyone else must climb.’

She and Riordan Bowlegs between them coaxed as many of the horses as they could up the steep hill. It was a difficult ascent, in some places seemingly almost vertical, but somehow most of the ponies made it.

Above were open hills and meadows, rising to the steep line of the mountains. Isabeau’s heart lifted at the sight of the Spine of the World, towering so high and so white it seemed impossible that they were mountains and not clouds. Higher and higher they climbed, till the shadows were stretching long beside them and the ponies began to stumble. A cliff was above them, a long ridge sloping away behind them. They could climb no more.

The comet was hanging red and ominous in the violet sky. Below the ridge fell the long slopes of the highlands, with an ocean of dark trees beyond. Isabeau could see the shining length of the river winding through, leading the eye inexorably to the sea, almost lost in shadows. ‘I only hope we have climbed high enough,’ she said to Johanna. ‘I wish we could no’ see the blaygird sea.’

‘Och, the sea shall no’ rise,’ Johanna replied comfortably. ‘His Highness shall stop them from working their evil sorceries.’

‘How can ye be so sure?’ Isabeau burst out.

Johanna paused. ‘I am no’ sure,’ she answered softly. ‘But long ago I wished, on the Samhain fire, never to be afraid again. I was always afraid before then, afraid o’ being hungry, being alone, being hurt. Finn and Dillon used to call me scaredy-cat, and tease me. So I wished to be free o’ fear. What I found was that fear is always with us, there is no escaping it. If we are alive, we must be afraid. Ye have to face up to your fear, though, and get on with things. So that is what I try to do.’

Isabeau was ashamed. She took one of Johanna’s work-roughened hands, squeezed it, and got to her feet. ‘Well, I suppose I had best get on with things then,’ she said.

That evening the mist swirled so close about them it seeped into all their clothes and made the fire almost impossible to keep burning. Everyone shivered in the dampness and huddled close together. The only consolation was that the fog concealed the comet from their view.

During the night it snowed, softly at first, and then with increasing ferocity. The trees were no shelter at all, and the tarpaulins they had rigged up from trunk to branch were ripped away by a rising wind. They huddled together, the Scarred Warriors digging ice caves for the witches and children to shelter in. Isabeau and the healers walked through the encampment, warning people to keep moving their fingers and toes. All the fires had quickly died under the weight of the snow and many people had no more shelter than their coats and a few blankets.

Anger sparked in Isabeau. She remembered how the MacSeinn clan had had to flee through the snowstorm after they had been driven out by the Fairgean. In the morning, the MacSeinn had told, they had found hundreds lying dead, stiff and cold. She could not allow that to happen. Reaching deep inside herself she drew upon all her reserves of power and flung her hand towards an enormous tree trunk that had fallen in a storm many years before. Although it was mounded high with snow, the log burst into flame from its tangle of roots to its shaggy, twiggy head. The flames roared high, the snow all melting with a hiss like a thousand snakes. The refugees gathered close, holding out their benumbed hands, crying aloud with amazement. The healers were able to melt snow in their cauldrons and make nourishing herbal teas for all to drink, and heat stones to put in the beds of the oldest and weakest. Isabeau worked with them through the storm, at last falling asleep with her head on her arms, a long spoon still in her hand from where she had been stirring a cauldron.

She was woken only a few hours later by the sound of her father calling the dragon-queen’s name. Like the clamour of a thousand bells it echoed through her skull and all the hidden chambers of her body, resonating and resonating till her teeth shuddered together and her head rang.

Caillec Aillen Airi Telloch Cas! I call thee, Caillec Aillen Airi Telloch Cas
.
It is time! Come to me, Caillec Aillen Airi Telloch Cas!

All was quiet. Immaculate white snow stretched as far as the eye could see, shrouding bush and tree and
stone. Above the sky was clear, delicately tinted with the colours of dawn. Beside Isabeau the fire still leapt and crackled, though most of the log had fallen into cinders. People were crowded around the warmth, sleeping back to back, wherever they could find room. The frosty air hung white before their mouths.

Isabeau saw Meghan’s straggly white head rise up from her blankets, Gitâ protesting sleepily beside her. All she could see was the white oval of the old sorceress’s face as she turned towards the north.

‘Meghan!’ she whispered. ‘Do ye hear it?’

Meghan nodded. ‘Khan’gharad has called the dragon’s name. It has begun.’

Khan’gharad stood alone on the forecastle, staring to the south. Snowflakes fell softly on his horned head, with its long ponytail of coarse white hair.

‘What is he doing?’ Dide said softly to Lachlan. ‘I thought he was to call the dragon.’

‘I imagine he is,’ Lachlan replied drily. ‘The dragons speak mind to mind, did ye no’ ken?’

‘Och, I be naught but a poor jongleur,’ Dide said with an exaggeratedly rustic accent. ‘What would I be kenning o’ dragons?’

Khan’gharad turned and leapt lightly down to the deck, scorning the stairs. ‘It is done,’ he said briefly.

‘Thank ye,’ Lachlan replied.

The Scarred Warrior inclined his head and walked swiftly away to join his comrades, who stood together staring out at the rough waves. Although they fought hard to conceal their emotion, it was clear all the Scarred Warriors were still amazed and disturbed by the sight of so much water.

‘What now?’ Dide asked.

‘We keep on waiting,’ Lachlan replied. ‘All we can do is hope the Fairgean think we have fled north into the deep ocean like all the other ships. Under the cover o’ darkness, we shall slip out and down the coast to the Isle o’ Divine Dread, and attack as planned. We must take them by surprise, else all is lost.’

Dide nodded. ‘And then we can all go home,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Och, I tell ye, I canna wait to lie on my back in the warm grass and see blue sky through leaves, and hear birds singing.’

‘I thought ye’d be wanting a cheery inn with fine whisky and voluptuous barmaids,’ Lachlan said teasingly.

‘Well, I wouldna said “nay” to that either,’ the jongleur replied, laughing. ‘What do ye long for the most?’

Lachlan sobered, looking across at Iseult who stood in silence with the other Scarred Warriors, only the occasional grunt or flicker of fingers to show there was any discourse between them. ‘Och, I just want to go home,’ he answered.

The day passed very slowly. Lachlan played chess with the Duke of Killiegarrie, while Dide lounged nearby, strumming his guitar. The others tossed dice or
played cards or trictrac, huddled about the table in the smoky galley, occasionally warming their hands at the glowing brazier. Iseult and the Scarred Warriors polished their weapons and practised
ahdayeh.
Maya sat up in the forecastle, just above the stag figurehead with its spreading antlers. Her arms were about her knees, her long black hair whipping about her face. One wrist was manacled to the railing. Nearby a soldier stood, smoking his pipe morosely and wishing the Fairge had chosen a warmer place to sit out the day. He was the seventh guard assigned to the former Banrìgh and his ears were stuffed with wax, in the hope that would make him impervious to her charms. It had not prevented the previous six from trying to set her free.

The royal fleet had spent the past week harrying the Fairgean, making it seem as if they were flinging themselves in one last desperate attempt to crush the sea-faeries. Then they had turned and fled north, chased by fifty sea-serpent riders and their warriors. Iain and Lachlan had together conjured a thick sea mist and the
Royal Stag
had slipped away under its cover. Later, Stormwing, the Rìgh’s keen-sighted gyrfalcon, had reported the royal fleet was safe in deep waters, having lost only one more ship to a sea-serpent. The
Royal Stag
had spent the night anchored behind a steep, bare rock, everyone on board trying hard not to show their trepidation.

The sun was sinking low in the sky when a warning was called. ‘Dragons!’ the lookout cried, unable to conceal the terror in his voice. ‘The dragons come.’

Lachlan leapt to his feet, the chessboard flying. His
eyes were brilliant with excitement. ‘They’ve heeded the call!’ he cried. ‘We canna fail now!’

Everyone clambered up the stairs and onto the deck. It had been a fair, cold day, with the seas the calmest in months. Icicles in the shrouds clinked like little chimes. Icebergs floated about, some towering into huge blue peaks, others flat and broken. High in the sky were seven dragons, flying in a wedge formation, the sun glinting off their bronze backs.

‘The seven sons o’ the queen-dragon,’ Khan’gharad said. ‘The fighting arm.’

Straight and swift as an arrow, the wedge of dragons glided down to the ship. As their immense shadows fell upon the men, many dropped to their knees, cowering in instinctive terror.

Three times the dragons circled the ship, then six of them soared away into the sky again. The leader of the wedge, the largest of them all, landed lightly upon the tip of the crag, coiling his long body round and round the rock. His silken scales were dark, metallic bronze on his back and limbs, but pale cream on his throat and belly. His head and neck were crowned with a sharp, serrated crest. The dragon rested his huge angular head upon his claws, the tip of his tail lashing the sea into a white commotion. The
Royal Stag
rocked wildly, the prostrate men sent sliding from one side to another. The ice in the shrouds fell like little translucent daggers, smashing apart once they hit the wood. A few men cried aloud as slivers of ice sliced into their flesh.

So, Khan’gharad, he who calls himself dragon-laird, ye dare to call our name?

Khan’gharad knelt, giving the formal Khan’cohban gesture of deep homage and respect.
Greetings, Great One. I thank thee for answering so swiftly and with such force.

My mother the queen remembers thee with great affection,
the dragon replied.
Now that our little sister has laid her own egg and the perpetuation of the dragons seems assured, she is glad indeed and so feels no anger at your temerity in calling her name.

I am glad of that
, Khan’gharad replied, bowing his head.

Last time our name was called, we took great pleasure in flaming and feasting without restraint. This so-called Pact of Peace that binds the dragons to hunting only in the high mountains and only four-footed creatures irks us greatly. Our diet is bland and without spice or variety. Last time we snacked gladly on human flesh. Is it the flesh of the sea-dwellers that thou now wishest us to taste?

The dragons see both ways along the thread of time,
Khan’gharad answered.
It is clear to me that thou knowest what we wish of thee.

Your thoughts and desires are clear to us indeed,
the dragon replied.
Are they clear to yourself?

I think so.

Ask us then. We shall do whatever thou askest, but thou should take care in the asking.

Khan’gharad nodded. He turned to Lachlan and said, ‘The dragon says they will help us in whatever way we please but warns us that we had best take care in what we ask for.’

Lachlan was staring up at the dragon with mingled
awe and trepidation, never having seen one of the great winged creatures before. At Khan’gharad’s words he frowned, his wings rustling. ‘Tell the dragon that we wish to destroy the island o’ the Priestesses o’ Jor and all that live within,’ he said carefully. ‘We wish to free Carraig from the rule o’ the Fairgean and win peace in the land. Can the dragons help us in this?’

Khan’gharad turned back to the dragon, who was licking the inside of one wrist with a slender, supple tongue the vivid blue of a summer sky. He raised his immense head and opened wide his topaz-coloured eyes. All the men on board stared into them helplessly, hypnotised.

I hear the words of thy winged king,
the dragon said and this time everyone on board heard his voice, deep in their minds.
Certainly we can flame the smoking island of those that called themselves Priestesses of Jor. We shall do so with pleasure. The second request is more difficult. We see many possibilities branching forward from this one night. The calling of our name has hewed many branches from this tree of possibilities but new ones sprout forth. All thy destinies and the destiny of the whole land lie in the hands of many. What one does or does not do affects all. Even we the dragons cannot foretell what shall be the consequence. Each moment that passes spins those many strands into one thread and soon the moment when thy destiny can be altered will come and pass …

The dragon slowly shut his eyes and the men stirred and murmured among themselves, the trance broken. They had all moved together to the point nearest the dragon, drawn irresistibly by the charm of his gaze. Now they stepped back, and looked everywhere but at
each other or the dragon, shaken by the visions they had seen in the dragon’s eyes. Worlds turning, stars spinning, an immense dark emptiness …

The shadow of the crag had fallen over the ship. The sun had sunk low in the sky. The waves were bright with the colour of the sunset, the icebergs radiant and blue. Lachlan rubbed his eyes, shook out his wings. He found it hard to focus his mind, the echo of the dragon’s voice still reverberating through his body, the visions he had seen still dazzling his mind. He thought he had seen his own death, had watched the Lodestar tumble from his hand and sink below the waves, its light quenched. He thought he had seen a blaze of light, a searing pain, as he was reborn.

‘The sun is almost gone,’ Khan’gharad said, affected the least by the dragon’s voice. ‘We must set sail soon.’

Lachlan pushed away the troubling mind-images. Looking about him, he saw all the men looked bewildered, as if they had come out of a dark tunnel into glaring light. He seized the captain’s shoulder and shook him vigorously. ‘Let us prepare to sail!’

As the ship sailed out into the ocean, they saw a family of seals basking in the last rays of sun on the side of a huge, flat iceberg. The pups were frisking about and playing, and momentarily Lachlan wished the twins were here to see them. Then he remembered where they sailed and was glad his family were many miles away.

With his hands cupping the Lodestar, he brought mist rising up out of the sea, wreathing the ship’s masts and sails and hiding it from view. Maya was crouched against the rail, her face very white, and Lachlan wondered what
vision she had seen in the dragon’s eye.

Stormwing flew ahead of them, scanning the sea with his far-reaching gaze. As they approached the little island, he flew back to land on Lachlan’s wrist. All was quiet, he reported. The seas were empty.

It was growing late when they at last slipped silently up to the Isle of Divine Dread. They dared not drop anchor, for Maya had told them sound travelled much faster and further under water and they knew how acute were the Fairgean’s hearing. Instead they furled the mainsails and let the boat drift, keeping her steady with tiller and spritsail alone.

Maya’s chains were unfastened and she stood up, her proud face as pale and expressionless as if it had been carved from marble. Lachlan gripped her wrist. ‘Betray us and your daughter dies,’ he said harshly.

She raised an eyebrow, her nostrils flaring wide. ‘Betray ye or no’, we shall both die tonight, MacCuinn.’

He let go her wrist, breathing heavily, his wings raised high and held stiffly. ‘No’ if ye do your part.’ His voice was uneasy.

Contemptuously she undid the fastening of her robe and let it fall to the ground, standing naked before them all. Even in the darkness and the mist, her beauty was enough to make every man there catch his breath. Then she turned and dived from the deck. Her body cleaved through the water with barely a splash. For a moment there was silence, and they all peered over the deck anxiously. Suddenly the dark water was broken by the flip of a frilled tail, then Maya rose from the
waves in a high leap that took her clear of the sea. For an instant they could see her in all the strangeness of her sea-shape, the graceful curving tail and the flowing fins. Then she had dived back into the water, resurfacing some distance away, her black hair plastered close to her face and shoulders.

Very gently they lowered two glass jars down into the sea, taking care not to bump them against the sides of the ship. Maya seized the ropes that bound them and dived again. For fifteen minutes they waited in silence, all apprehensive, then at last the Fairge’s head broke through. Two more jars were lowered, then twenty minutes later, two more. At last all eighteen of the jars had been safely pushed into place and Maya was dragged from the sea, shivering with cold and exhaustion, breathing with such difficulty that all were concerned. She was wrapped up in blankets, then given a steaming cup of herbal tea to drink.

She looked up at Lachlan, her teeth chattering against the cup. ‘I canna believe it,’ she said. ‘I’m still alive. The jars did no’ break. I’m still alive.’

He nodded. ‘Ye did well,’ he said begrudgingly. ‘I thank ye.’

‘Kani, hear us, hear us, Kani, Kani, hear us, hear us, Kani, Kani, hear us, hear us, Kani.’

On and on the priestesses chanted, their voices echoing all through the dark chamber. Fand stood before the Nightglobe of Naia, swaying slightly as she poured all her strength and her energy into the great sphere of
wavering green light before her. She could see the huge bulbous eyes of the two viperfish, their flickering bodies, as they swam back and forth in time to the chanting.

‘Hear us, Kani,’ she said. ‘Give us the power. Give us the power promised. Hear us, Kani. Give us the power. Give us the power promised. Hear us, Kani. Draw down the comet’s power. Draw down the comet’s fire. Hear us, Kani. Give us the power. Give us the power promised.’

‘Come to our call, Kani, goddess of fire, goddess of dust, rise to our bidding, Kani, goddess of volcanoes, goddess of earthquakes, come to our call, Kani, Kani, rise to our bidding, Kani, Kani, come to our call, Kani, Kani …’

The mist had drifted away, released from Lachlan’s will. He stood on the forecastle, staring at the island before him. Its cliffs rose steeply from the sea, culminating in a sharp peak. A little haze drifted about the peak, but otherwise all was bathed in the light of the two moons which hung fat and bright above the horizon. High overhead the comet soared. Lachlan gripped his hands together to stop them trembling and nodded at the captain, who shouted the order. ‘Fire!’