The Sword of Feimhin (16 page)

Alan was staring landwards at the encircling calderas where a sphere, illuminated from within, was floating gently down the slopes. It bobbed and twirled, so light it caught every whim of the wind, as if constructed from something as fine as gossamer silk. Yet, all the while it was descending, it kept coming towards him. He probed it with his oraculum and encountered only emptiness within, but he wasn't fooled by it.

‘What the blazes are you?'

The voice that emerged from the sphere was deep and full-bodied, as if from inside a barrel. ‘It is I, Magtokk, come down from my mountain cave to observe the ceremony, if not in the flesh, at least in spirit.'

Mo had told him about this magician called Magtokk. Now Alan stared at the sphere, which was about eighteen inches in diameter, which floated right up to him and hung, suspended by some innate buoyancy, in the warm
noon air. But no natural force could have caused it to take up a position so close by them, giving it the ability to listen into the conversation.

‘You – Mage Lord Duval – are distressed by the fact that that you cannot enter my mind?'

‘You appear to have entered mine.'

‘That worries you.'

‘Should I be worried?'

There was a wobble within the sphere that Alan interpreted as a chuckle. ‘You are right to be curious. Please be assured that there is no cause for concern.'

‘I'd like an explanation.'

‘Explanations are so boring. Like your friend, the dwarf mage, I am very likely the last of my race. But we were never plentiful. The thinkers of long ago put it down to the fact we were too competitive to suffer one another's existence.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘Yours is too focused a mind to be diverted by humour. I am confessing to a hereditary fault.'

‘I'm still not sure that that assures me.'

Another wobble. ‘Oh, dear!'

‘I don't trust a being I cannot see.'

‘Cannot see? Or should you say cannot
control
through that oraculum in your brow?'

Alan was about to speak his mind more directly when the sphere disappeared to be replaced by a large male orang-utan. The transformation was startling. The creature before him was a remarkably accurate representation of
the animal, right down to the big floppy jowls and an incredible entanglement of hair that flowed over its feet.

‘Well, well,' said Qwenqwo, who had been observing the conversation with undisguised fascination.

‘Enchanted in turn.' Magtokk bowed low before the dwarf mage. ‘From the representative of one dying race to another, it is a delight to make your acquaintance. I have heard admirable tales of the brave Fir Bolg, but nothing would have prepared me for the youthful figure I now behold.'

Qwenqwo cackled, his face creasing with delight at the thought that there was one among them who might be even older than himself.

‘Come down to spy on us,' the Kyra interrupted, from surprisingly close. Ainé could move both quickly and stealthily, as one might expect of a warrior with the soul spirit of a snow tigress.

‘I doubt,' said the orang-utan, scratching at its hindquarters with a broad, fat finger, ‘that any such transgression would escape those wonderfully attuned feline senses. And while I'm confessing to weaknesses, let me add that I would trade pleasantries aplenty for a snort of that flagon the dwarf mage is cradling to his breast – and for a pipe-full of that fine-smelling baccy.'

Qwenqwo Cuatzel laughed with delight. Alan supposed that anybody capable of fencing words with the Kyra was bound to intrigue his dwarf mage friend, who made no pretence to admiration of the Shee. ‘Sounds like the best offer I've had in two millennia.'

Alan stared as he watched the orang-utan take a swig from Qwenqwo's flask. It looked like mischief in the making, but he wasn't yet sure which of the two red-bearded characters was the more capable. The dwarf mage stuffed two pipes brim-full of tobacco before passing one to the outstretched hand of the orang-utan, who joined him in puffing out clouds of smoke.

For all the jocularity, Alan still had no idea how trustworthy Magtokk the Mischievous was. He would have trusted Ainé, Qwenqwo, Bétaald, the entire Shee army – perhaps even the Garg, Iyezzz – with his life. But as to the magician – well, he would keep a wary eye on him and his tricks.

Bétaald was concerned with other matters.

‘Would that you both understood the gravity of this venture. We are threatening the most powerful being in this world, other than the gods and goddesses. Do not fool yourselves into thinking that the Tyrant fears us. He regards himself as invulnerable. And with good reason.'

‘Perhaps he should fear us?' said Alan.

Bétaald shook her head. ‘Have you forgotten how powerful he is? You think he will feel threatened by our war on him? He will merely relish the challenge we represent. Perhaps he might resent our arrogance, being the paradigm of arrogance himself, but that will only add to his rage at our attacking his stronghold. And yet we foolishly arraign all of our forces within what is most definitely his sphere of influence. If, in the unlikely event that we should win, our world will be liberated. If, in the likely event that he
should win, darkness will triumph throughout all of Tír.' She narrowed her eyes, gazing from one of them to another. ‘Forever.'

Alan nodded, feeling her warning in his gut. He spoke softly. ‘Is the Kyra ready?'

‘All is ready,' Bétaald said, then turning to Magtokk, she added, ‘But I will not allow any alien witness, whose mischievous presence speaks of nothing more than curiosity, to spy on the making of our plans.'

‘I'm sorry, Magtokk,' said Alan.

‘Please forgive me if my levity offended. I shall offer respect and empathy from a distance – in the good company of the dwarf mage here.'

‘So be it,' said Bétaald. ‘For my part, I have no wish to offend a legendary magician whose counsel may prove useful in the difficult march to come. We'll need sleight of hand and every art known to us before we arrive at the gates of Ghork Mega.'

‘My feelings exactly,' said Qwenqwo. ‘Our enemy will not sit and await our arrival. He will plot and plan – and my instincts suggest he will do so in ways we can not anticipate.'

The ceremony was looming and Alan had no time to examine the magician further. But he did manage to prise Qwenqwo aside, if only for a moment or two. ‘Keep your eyes on Magtokk. Whatever you do, make sure he doesn't get anywhere near to the ceremony. It will be delicate enough without antagonising the spiritual adviser.'

Alan turned to go, consoling himself with the thought
that Qwenqwo was no fool. The dwarf might enjoy the camaraderie of Magtokk, but he was far too experienced to be taken in by any wiles or subterfuge. But he felt less than reassured when his departure was marked with roars of laughter and, glancing back, he witnessed the two red-bearded faces cloven by gleaming horseshoes of teeth.

*

Earlier that morning Alan had woken early from sleep, emerging from his tent to gaze out onto a misty ball of sun rising out of its own reflection on the sea. He had never seen the bay look so ethereal. It had deeply worried him, since he had witnessed days when that bank of mist had spread to cover the entire sky. But Iyezzz had reassured him that this was not going to be such a day; the mists would clear in plenty of time for the ceremonies that had been planned by both the Gargs and the Shee.

Iyezzz had proved to be right and now Alan stood perfectly still, gazing at the archipelago in the azure ocean, the air clear as crystal. He glanced up, through slitted eyelids, at the position of the sun, not far from vertically overhead. He could hear the tens of thousands of Shee humming.

Iyezzz had instructed Bétaald to clear the beach, and she had spread her instructions among the aides. Glancing to either side, Alan saw that everyone – the Olhyiu cooks and transport labourers, the supporting sailors and workmen who had arrived with the giant cargo ships of Prince Ebrit – had left the stretch of sand, to leave only the Shee warriors and Gargs.

He was also aware of sweeping movements taking place among the army of giant warriors: the aides were marshalling a gigantic spiral of attendant warriors around the Kyra in the centre. Alan watched and waited, alongside Bétaald and Ainé.

Over the distant headland, the tall, lean figures of Zelnesakkk, Iyezzz and his mother, Shah-nur-Kian, stood rigidly to attention, their wings folded tight to their backs. Mahteman also stood off to one side, his wings widely expanded, holding aloft an ivory sceptre. Beyond them stood perhaps twenty or so senior ministers of the Eyrie people. It was exceedingly formal. Behind the Garg hierarchy, tens of thousands of winged figures were rising into the clear blue sky.

The movements in sky and on land of vast numbers of Garg and Shee were curiously harmonious, a seamless and elegant choreography, mirroring one another just as Bétaald had intended.

At a command from their spiritual adviser, the Shee warriors raised their bronze shields to reflect the light of the dying sun as the eclipse began, fashioning a gigantic burnished spiral that twinkled and whirled as the warriors began to wheel, the pageant blazing with reflected light over several square miles of ground. In the sky overhead, an identical spiral of cruciform shapes wheeled on the breezes rising from the heated land, while balls of crystal, clasped in their clawed feet, magnified the sun's rays and
caused them to fall in dazzling rainbows, which were reflected back up again by the shields of the Shee. Between the two very different races it was an awe-inspiring vision of reverence and union.

Union!

A high-pitched keening from above was the first intimation of the change. Alan looked at the Kyra and met her gaze eye to eye. The flat blue eyes of the tigress stared back at him, unblinking.

Now he had to speak. He hoped the tension didn't show in his voice as he, calmly and respectfully, addressed the entire group of assembled Shee, aides and Garg leaders in a voice magnified by the oraculum. ‘We are faced with a just and terrible war. To be victorious we need to be united in heart and spirit. For this purpose I must share a sacred memory with the Kyra. It's a memory that will be painful for me to recall and for her to witness. But it is also one that inspires new hope and courage in my own heart when I feel afraid – and I think it will be deeply meaningful to the Kyra herself.'

The shadow on the sun was now visible to all: a narrow crescent was biting into its sphere. A new harmonious chanting erupted from the throats of the Shee, who were as superstitious in their way as the Gargs.

Alan's gaze continued to hold that of the young Kyra in the darkening light. Once before, on the beach at Carfon, he had offered this meeting of minds. But on that occasion she had reacted furiously against it, pronouncing it blasphemy.
He spoke quietly to the spiritual adviser. ‘Bétaald – will you guide us both on what must be done?'

The dark-skinned spiritual adviser moved closer to the young Kyra. ‘It is a very strange and unusual request, but you are the Mage Lord whom we have all come to respect and trust. It is my counsel that the Kyra should place her trust in you.'

‘Thank you.' Alan bowed to the Kyra. ‘I offer the sharing of one harrowing and very poignant memory. I understand the natural suspicion I see in your eyes, but I believe that you will take comfort in knowing how your mother-sister died.'

With a flaring of her nostrils and a fierce glare in her eyes the young Kyra replied, ‘The Mage Lord is well aware of how I feel about this. Yet, based on my growing respect of his courage and honour, and given the counsel of my spiritual adviser, I would swallow pride and break with tradition. Yet if, even despite his assurances, I perceive the slightest threat of blasphemy, I shall halt the sharing of memory.'

‘Thank you.'

A powerful communication, transmitted through the Oraculum of Bree in the Kyra's brow, spread as a command throughout the Shee. Even in the waning light, as the eclipse progressed to half light, the watching Gargs would have witnessed a fluidly coordinated movement of the vast army of warriors, fashioning concentric overlapping circles with their shields. Alan heard the melodious chanting of hymnal cadences that reminded him of the burial of Valéra,
the noviciate Shee who had saved his life with the sacrifice of her own on the banks of the Snowmelt River. On that occasion, grief had been assuaged by the birth of Valéra's daughter-sister. Here, Alan hoped for a very different outcome.

He spoke softly. ‘I'm ready – if the Kyra is also ready?'

The Kyra was silent, but she appeared ready. Her face was expressionless. Her eyes never left his.

Gently, carefully, Alan turned the focus of his oraculum onto her brow, and the Oraculum of Bree. He was careful to minimise the power he now ignited in his own oraculum. He did not want the Kyra to think he was invading her mind.

‘I will not violate your sacred trust, Ainé. All I intend to do is to open up a channel of communication.'

There was a controlled explosion of power, linking oraculum to oraculum, in the falling dark.

Alan held out his hands, gazing into the huge blue eyes of the young Kyra. After a moment's hesitation, she reached out both her hands, claw-tipped and easily large enough to enclose his, so that they were physically united.

Alan spoke again. ‘I am going to recall when the former Kyra and I faced the Legun incarnate at the Battle of Ossierel. I ask you to witness what happened as I place the memory in your mind.'

The young Kyra was silent, but her hands gripped his own a little tighter.

He found the place in his memories when the battle was going badly and the entire plateau was in tumult. A continuous
rain of livid green missiles deluged the ruins of Ossierel from the legions on the surrounding slopes and every few seconds the shadows were lit up by explosive flares of foul livid fire as heavier missiles struck their defences. Even the sky around the perimeter of the island pulsated and glowed, as if illuminated by flickering searchlights.