CúChulainn of Eirú Book II

10. Into Cruachán It was with great haste and no small measure of irritation that Medb mounted the long stone stairs to the battlements of Cruachán. She sneered at the sheets of rain that greeted her, pulling her cloak tightly about her tall frame, then stalked over to the balcony that had been built directly above the main gates and allowed her to loom imperiously over her followers and gaze far and wide across her desolate domain. The cold morning at Cruachán carried over the fierce rains from the night before, a night in which she had been wearied by Aifé’s questioning of her strategies in dealing with the male rulers of Eirú, and how amusing it was to her that Medb seemed to be sharing her power, and her bed, with a mere mortal. For his part, Ailill had been grumbling over the unexpected arrival of her sister, and his growing impression that Medb was keeping her designs secret from him. Furthermore, she was less than impressed that Nett, who had served her unquestioningly since his arrival, and whom she considered a fine asset to her forces, seemed more fundamentally loyal to his former mistress than to Medb herself. The balance of power was delicate at the moment - she would have to carefully consider her next few moves in the game. There was a dangerous tang to the air at Cruachán; but come what may, Medb was determined to be the most vicious player. And there was still Cáit. That elder one had disappeared for a spell after their moonlit reunion with Crommlai only to summon Medb from the depths of her dreams, screeching into her mind that she wished to meet upon the battlements on this wretched dawn. This did not surprise the queen, for it had happened many times before, all of which confirmed her suspicions as to the hag’s true nature. Though Cáit never uttered the word outright, Medb felt sure she knew who she was. And it excited her. She was particularly interested in hearing what the old crone had to say in the light of Aifé’s arrival; the Morrigan’s designs were obscure and, of course, she was acting ultimately in her own sinister interests, but she had yet to lead Medb false and she was keen to see how a being of such supreme power and dark wisdom regarded recent developments. But for all that, her excitement was tempered somewhat by annoyance at having been convoked like some servile lackey. She did not have to wait long for, through the torrents of rain, there soon descended a familiar dark outline that became larger and more defined as it approached: the great crow had come. The Morrigan swooped in over the battlement, her shape blurred once again as she did so, folding her wings around her so that they became a tenebrous cowl, and coming to alight upon the wet flagstones of the balcony in the shape of the old crone Cáit. The ancient one had said that her appearance thus to Medb was a courtesy, for her true form was too terrible for even a Danann to behold for long spells. ‘What is it?’ Medb snapped, not permitting herself to be impressed by the power of the elder being. ‘I need to spend time with Ailill, there is much charm to be put upon him. I can’t be out in the rain all morning while…’ ‘Ssssssssssssssssss!’ screeched Cáit coming forward and menacing the Queen of Connacht with one outstretched claw of a hand. Medb could not prevent her lip from curling in irritation that someone, even a creature as awesome as the Morrigan surely was, would dare cut her off mid-sentence. But she also knew that it would be unwise to enter into her bad graces. For if ever Medb should fall on the battlefield, she feared that the evil old harpy might dispense with her earlier promises and decide to claim her Danann spirit, thus subjecting her to the eternal torments reserved for those who fell under the shadow of the Horror-Wing. During their midnight conspirations Cáit had described at length – and with great delight - the sweet suffering of her ‘lambs’, as she had hideously called them, those damned souls upon whom she had feasted over the centuries. ‘I know you have good reason, of course,’ she added quickly, yet in rather measured tones. She did not, for all that, want to display any weakness. ‘As always, I am listening.’ Though Cáit seemed placated somewhat, Medb could not fail to notice that her wizened adviser looked ill at ease with something. The crooked smile was missing from her dirty, shrivelled face. ‘He is too powerful for you,’ she replied flatly in her dry, hoary voice. ‘CúChulainn?’ said Medb in mild surprise. ‘Don’t fret. His fate is sealed one way or the other… Ah? No… you speak of Crommlai, I see. Well, that I knew. But strength is not everything. We’ve confounded him already, it will not come to a fight between us. Not one that he could win at any rate. The creature is not He who claimed to be my father; he is something else, an abomination, the fruit of an insane scheme devised by a half-mad demon that none worship, or even remember.’ Cáit smiled a little at those words and, through one jaundiced eye, carefully considered Medb whilst lightly nodding her ancient head. There was something vaguely patronizing about that regard, Medb thought unhappily to herself. ‘He will come for you, my child,’ she whispered, and by some trick her words were audible over the clatter of the pouring rain upon the stones of the balcony. ‘Do not think otherwise. No army can stop him as he is. I have returned just now from Eamhain Mhacha where I spied upon events. Crommlai is not as insane as we thought. He has felt and now understands the power of the Red Branch. He will not attempt to absorb it. No, he will not make such a foolish error and thus will not be weakened.’ Medb planted her hands upon her hips. She was displeased by this news; her strange counsellor had never before admitted putting poor strategy into place. What game was she playing? ‘And once he takes CúChulainn he will be even stronger!’ she said, accusingly. ‘By every curse of man! Aifé should have left him at birth to wither of hunger and thirst, or better, crushed his head with a rock while he lay slick and defenceless! No, she raises the spawn of the Worm and brings him to my door just when I had believed myself free of his influence at last. Free and strong…’ Medb took the few steps to the parapet of the battlements and, placing her balled hands tightly upon the stones, continued to seethe while she gazed out across her hard-won lands. ‘There is a way to stop him,’ came the cracked voice from behind. ‘He is not the sole ancient one still astir in this realm.’ Medb looked over her shoulder, her face dark and terrible. ‘Can you do it, Cáit? Even you seem frightened by his power.’ ‘He is strong,’ replied the crone, and Medb could see that it pained the heartless creature to admit it. ‘I would need to be stronger. For that a great sacrifice must be made.’ is She indicated with one withered outstretched arm the land beyond. ‘Two men come to Cruachán. Great players in the shifting sands of destiny. CúChulainn and Ferdia. ‘Furious flames. The first must be held away, but the second has a fire we need, a fire that will make me strong.’ ‘I begin to see,’ said Medb, slowly turning to face her cryptic advisor. ‘Once you take Ferdia, you will be powerful enough to deal with Crommlai.’ ‘You are right, child,’ Cait answered, in a tone that hinted at some concealed mockery. ‘You only begin to see.’ begin So saying, the old hag flung up her arms and the filthy rags she wore rippled up into the air and grew, twisting and weaving under the lashing rain, into myriad fearsome, nightmarish forms, each one worse than the last. The screaming faces of the thousands of those battlefield fallen suddenly became visible upon the mass of rippling obsidian feathers. Even Medb flinched at the sight. Then the dread goddess folded up into her crow shape once more and took off, screeching hoarsely into the thick morning fog. ‘Be prepared, Danann, I will summon you again at dusk!’ Medb cursed under her breath. But her keen instinct told her that, whatever the ultimate truth behind the ancient one’s dark designs, Cáit was still in league with her. For now. ***** The Morrigan had indeed come and gone by the time the dawn had arrived the following day; the visitation going unnoticed, one crow in the sky being like unto another. Not even Ferdia MacDamann, with his crystal-clear vision and shadow senses, had remarked the arrival and departure of the goddess of death from where he monitored the battlements and gate of Cruachán. He had spent the previous day hidden among the dense leaves and thick branches of one of the scarce, blackened trees straggling along the edge of the land which sloped down from the castle, keeping a close eye on the habitual movements about the keep. He carefully studied and memorised the paths taken by the guards, the brief moments when the single gate went unwatched, the times when the huge drawbridge opened and closed, the appearances of the tips of spearheads upon the battlements. When he had felt satisfied with his reconnaissance, he moved closer, by cover of darkness and profiting fully from the techniques of pulling shadow across him that he had learned under Scátach, took up a position crouched in the lee of a great boulder that stood starkly upon the inhospitable ground some ways from the main gate. From time to time his hand wandered to the hilt of the sword Deshkil that he now wore at his hip. The blade seemed to whisper to him, to draw his fingers to its handle. This close to Cruachán and its sworn enemy, it could not contain its lust for vengeance, and Ferdia felt it just as much. To Ferdia the castle seemed rather reminiscent of Coscrach upon the Isle of Shadows, Aifé’s foul bastion. Clearly the same sorcery had gone into its construction. He had to admit that even RathDuille had shared certain elements of style which caused him to wonder if the Dananns had some tendency towards a certain form of fortress that their kind must have built in the murky past of Eirú. In any case, the design was effective, for those other places had been all but unassailable. However, Ferdia believed he had spotted a possibility of infraction through brief glances he had gleaned of the interior walls alongside the great gate. He hadn’t waited long before his sharp ears informed him of the sound of muted yelling, and the heavy gate came rattling down on its chains, bridging the wide, spike-filled dry moat that ringed the fortress. A deathly wail that Ferdia recognised all too well, that of the hated Sluagh – the soldiers of Aifé and Crom Cruach - shattered the still dawn air as a band of those gaudily dressed fighters charged out of the castle on horseback. To his grim dissatisfaction, Ferdia noticed that the man leading them, resplendent in armour of a burnished green metal covered in esoteric runes and symbols, was none other than Nett, the twin brother of his hated nemesis Midac who had almost killed him at Dún Sobairce. He put that out of his mind, however, for the moment had come when he must become completely immune to distraction. Utter focus, fleetness of foot, swiftness of sword-arm, and unwavering determination would all be crucial for what was to come next. He tensed his muscles and waited as the gate was drawn back up once more upon its heavy chains, then sprang into action just as about twice his body-width remained between the top of the mighty portal and the stones of the wall above. Running at full pelt he unslung from his shoulder the spear upon which he had attached a thin, tightly woven rope of his own fabrication, and launched it with precision at the gate. The spear embedded itself deeply into the blackened wood high upon the rising portal, for the tip was covered with charms of penetration in whose fashioning Scátach had initiated her warriors. The gate was close to closing completely as Ferdia, using the attached rope, shimmied up and over the top, barely avoiding being crushed between the portico and the heavy wood. For the last manoeuvre it had been necessary to flip himself over and take a small loop of the rope with him at the same time, leaving the other end dangling still outside so that there was nothing to draw the attention of watchers within. Now he found himself in the interior of the castle holding fast to the cord and pressing himself up, with tremendous exertion of his thigh, calf and shoulder muscles, into the shadows afforded by the eve of the inner arch. There he waited, his eyes roving ceaselessly across the courtyard, the windows, and every point of access or exit in each structure, all the while keeping himself hoisted up out of sight. Eventually an opportunity presented itself. For the space of a half-instant every guard and soldier in the courtyard were in some manner or another distracted or looking away from where Ferdia would be forced to land. He allowed himself to drop the considerable distance to the ground, absorbing the shock of the fall, then re-channeling its energy into a powerful rolling leap, ending up behind a row of barrels that had been unloaded from a cart and whose handler was now deep in discussion with the guard at the gate. Neither heard nor saw the slightest sign of Ferdia’s swift passage. There were several wood and stone structures, seemingly built one on top of the other in a novel sloping fashion, between the outer wall and the inner keep of the fortress. A series of alleyways and arched passages ran through the disorderly agglomeration of buildings. Ferdia waited for another opportunity, then darted out from his hiding place, flitting from shadow to shadow, advancing with stealth through the stronghold. Finally, behind a building that seemed to serve as an enclosure for labour oxen, he came across his desired quarry – a watchman of seemingly high rank, judging from his splendid silver brooch and arrogant bearing and, more importantly, off duty, for he sat just inside the door of the cattle house, his sword sheathed and at rest beside him on a long wooden bench. He was unwrapping the wax covering from a succulent-looking round of cheese. Ferdia looked about him one last time to ensure that no prying eyes would observe his felony, then slipped into the building whilst the guard leaned down to pick up a mug that had been set between his ankles as he unwrapped his meal, thus turning his head away from the door. With rapid stunning blows to the back of the neck and to the jaw, which sent chunks of cheese out of the unfortunate’s mouth, Ferdia blasted the unwitting guard into unconsciousness, then bundled him further into the cattle house. He flung the man into a mound of hay then dashed back, just as silently as he had come, and bolted the door. Ferdia was on his prey again just as the man was beginning to recover the first glimmerings of his senses. He emitted a confused whimper at first, then would have screamed had not his mouth been firmly covered by Ferdia’s hand - for the unseen intruder had sunk his invisible blade into the man’s body at various points, carefully, meticulously, creating slow-killing wounds. Ferdia turned the man around, moving his inert weight so effortlessly that his victim was able to register surprise even above his agony. That surprise turned quickly to fear as the man took in the sight of his attacker. For his eyes were daubed with long black streaks of ash and clay, an effort Ferdia had made to conceal the endless tear curse that had fallen upon him at his village, echoing somewhat his old ShadowKin face-paint. The effect was suitably terrifying; yet what he saw in Ferdia’s blackened eyes spoke of madness and murder. ‘Ease, Connachtman,’ Ferdia said, almost gently, though there was still the grit of danger in his voice. His hand remained fastly clamped over the other’s mouth. ‘It’s nothing now but the end of your tale. I’ve slashed you fiercely; you’ll be long dying, and it wouldn’t be hard for me to make it worse.’ The man closed his eyes and wept, the certainty of his imminent demise clear to him. He knew that his only choice was between pain and oblivion. ‘So now, tell me where Medb has brought the witch Aifé, and I’ll give you Danú’s peace.’ The guard’s eyes went even wider with terror and pain. A final wave of defiance rose up in him. He began to squirm and tried to cry out, but it was futile against the Ferdia’s iron grip and his shouts were but smothered rasps. Ferdia waited: his wounds were precise, they would do their work. Moments later, the man ceased struggling. He closed his eyes then nodded, his tears seeping as freely from his creased lids as they were from his ambusher’s own daubed eyes. Ferdia slowly released his fingers. ‘N… North-west chamber, past the left stair passage… please, I…!’ The man would never even finish the thought let alone the sentence, for Ferdia had already rammed his sword through his neck severing the spine, ending him quickly. The grim deed done and his promise kept, he shoved the body under a feeding trough and departed soundlessly. ***** At last, CúChulainn and Amergin came into sight of the bastion of the enemy that had harried the forces of Uladh for so many years. ‘Cruachán’ said the druid, bringing his horse to a stop and raising an almost accusing finger at the fortress that stood upon the desolate, riven earth that had, according to Amergin’s lore, been pulled into its alien aspect by the passage of ancient ice. ‘I should hope so! I’m saddle-sore for its searching!’ jested the young warrior, not allowing himself to be impressed by the forbidding edifice. He half turned upon his mount and shouted behind him. ‘And we didn’t make good time, what with being tracked and all! His hearty bout of laughter trailed off when he caught sight of Amergin’s disparaging regard. ‘A bit of restraint, CúChulainn? From time to time?’ said the sage crossly. ‘Ah would you stop? Anyway, let’s get our tale straight before we go in here. Ailill won’t want us to see much of his army, but…’ He had cause to trail off as he observed the druid’s inattention; the old man’s eyes were narrowed, clearly tracking something up there near the castle. ‘What is it?’ But then he saw for himself. A group of horses came charging out of the wood that separated them from the rocky-sloped plain upon which Cruachán stood. ‘There’s nothing good about the cut of these riders,’ said Amergin. ‘I see who it is,’ CúChulainn added, his voice becoming grim. ‘I doubt I’d be wrong in saying that this is Nett, Medb’s man. His armour and mask are much like his brother Midac’s, whom I slew at Dún Sobairce.’ ‘Tis he indeed. Once Aifé’s man. An unlikable sort,’ said Amergin. CúChulainn adjusted the bag slung across his horse, within which the mighty sword Freagartach lay concealed. Freagartach ‘He’d do well not to give us poor welcome,’ he said darkly. The riders soon closed the distance between them, making straight for the pair, as though they had been expected. As they approached Nett stood up on his stirrups and threw down a spear that stabbed into the earth between the Uladh men’s horses. ‘Follow us to the masters of Cruachán,’ commanded Nett, in his hollow, lifeless voice. Then he and his men turned and trotted off back into the trees. CúChulainn glanced over at the druid and snorted in derision. ‘About as welcoming as an axe to the guts,’ The sage did not respond straight away. He was deep in thought. CúChulainn guessed that the sudden arrival of Nett and his men troubled the old man as much as it did himself. Somehow they had been alerted to their arrival, and so their earlier plans of subterfuge were already compromised. ‘We can but follow them and see how it plays out,’ he said, anxiously stroking his thin white beard. ‘Be ready for sudden treachery, there is violence in the air,’ he warned. ‘Not to worry, Amergin,’ CúChulainn replied. ‘I have the measure of them already.’ Whether or not that satisfied Amergin, they knew they had no choice, and so they took off after the Sluagh. ***** Aifé lay sleeping on a luxuriant bed of finely-embroidered cloth surrounded by dozens of candles that issued thick smoke of various hues. Her beauty in repose was staggering, even more so given that there was not even the slightest crease of the anger that could pinch into existence between her eyes. Ferdia took these moments to gaze upon his enemy, his own face a study of repressed rage, the dark paint around his eyes lending an even more sinister appearance to him as he stood shrouded in shadow. Despite his hatred for her, Ferdia could not prevent himself from appreciating Aifé’s form as her breast gently rose and fell in slumber. However, there wasn’t the slightest doubt in his heart that he would, in the next few moments, drive the revenging sword of Deshkil through that very breast, then swipe that sublime head from its elegant but – and he could barely believe it - vulnerable neck. Yet for the moment he continued to stare at the sleeping Danann woman from behind one of the tapestries that hung about the chamber, reflecting upon all that she represented to him. How many comrades in the ShadowKin he had lost to her Sluagh, and to her master, Crom Cruach. How she had orchestrated the death of his Mistress, Scátach. And above all what she had done to his people at Deshkil. He would have dearly wished to prolong her execution, to make her suffer as the Weeping Ones had. To force her to feel the pain and misery of the curse that had been transferred unto him. Yet he knew that she was far too dangerous for that. If he tried to take her alive, if she awoke and found him here, it would be over for Ferdia. He was as formidable a warrior as had ever lived but he was mortal, and she was of the Tuatha Dé Danann. He was no victim to his pride: there could only be one outcome of any combat between them and it would certainly be his own destruction – but not after several long months, perhaps years, of the most fiendish torture imaginable. And that would do nothing to avenge his people. He had to put an end to her, and to the Crommlai creature when he found it, then perhaps the curse would be lifted from him. Those endless tears would flow no more, and the phantoms of Deshkil would cease to wail their thirst for vengeance in his mind. He moved soundlessly forward, carefully avoiding the candles that burned all about the floor giving off their caustic multi-coloured ribbons of smoke, and raised in both hands, slowly, oh so slowly, the sword Deshkil above his head, its blade tip directed down at the oblivious creature of physical perfection before him. Yet… he could not strike her down as she slept. Something within him yearned to hear her cry out in fear then pain as he inflicted the final blow upon her. He desired ardently that she know who it was that took away her life; that she realise that all her efforts to escape Scátach’s wrath had been vain. ‘Awake, witch!’ he said sharply. ‘Your suffering begins!’ He took the risk of hesitating for the barest of instants before he struck, hoping to glimpse her eyes flutter open and read in them the terror and confusion that she so richly deserved to experience. But they did not. Neither did Aifé stir from her slumber... yet he heard an answering voice. A voice that sounded falsely bemused. ‘Awake? Awake?’ Awake Ferdia froze, the sword still hovering over his head. Had he really been so absorbed by the face of his enemy, rendered so drunk at the thought of imminent vengeance as to allow someone to creep up on him? Impossible! His battle senses raced to locate the provenance of the voice - if the speaker stood behind him he would spin and cut them down in the next moment. This he executed, but even before he had crouched and swung his sword he realised that there was no intruder and that the voice had spoken in his head. ‘Who is awake and who dreams, Ferdia?’ It was the melodious voice he had heard upon the battlefields of Alba, when the Danann witch had taken to her white chariot and personally rode out of Coscrach to direct her wicked Sluagh forces against the army of RathDuille. It was the voice of Aifé herself. Before he whirled around again to face his enemy, Ferdia realised that she could not have been sleeping for he hadn’t seen the scar that Scátach had told him she had struck upon her cheek. Her illusionary magick was thus in effect, for her vanity would not permit him to see her thus blemished, and that meant that Ferdia could not be sure of the reality of anything in this chamber. Anything. He didn’t even have the time to leap to safety or unleash a blind defensive strike before the candles suddenly flared with an incandescence that took away his sight. When they flared once again the smoke became thicker and stronger, filling the chamber and all his senses. His vision utterly obscured, he nonetheless brandished Deshkil all about him hoping to both fend off unseen blows and perhaps land a lucky strike on his foe… But the frustrated blade of vengeance found nothing. When the smoke cleared a moment later he found he was no longer in the chamber but standing seemingly… nowhere! He was in a realm of complete emptiness. He could not even call it dark; he was in fact surrounded by... a lack of darkness, a lack of any colour, shape, sound or scent. All he could see, looking down at himself, was his own body, his sword before him. The experience was so bizarre that he was too dumbfounded to think clearly. He simply stood, or… was there, wherever that was, trying to listen to the least sound, trying to peer before him to see the least discernible object or light. But there was nothing. Nothing at all. was there Until finally, after long moments during which Ferdia wrestled against mounting panic, thin red vapours began to drift lazily into his field of vision and he was relieved to perceive something at last. The trails of smoke enmeshed with one another and took the form of what looked like a set of steps before him. The substance of the smoke suddenly seemed to turn to liquid and began dripping, the bloody red stairs hanging impossibly in the void, leading up and spiralling around countless times into the distant upper reaches of nowhere. ‘All your life you have struggled for nothing,’ came the dulcet voice of Aifé in his mind once again, and compared to the horror of the total lack of sound in the unearthly realm of non-sensation, it was a joy to hear. ‘There is no reason in the absoluteness of nature for Ferdia. There is only the cold void where there is no pain. Here is the hateful truth: pain is life. Without it, without me, there is nothing. Pain is no more than the highest expression of feeling – the supreme level of knowing life. To inhabit flesh is not enough, you must feel the flesh while you can. All that it can offer, the exquisite symphony of sensation. Search for it, do not flee it.’ mefeel Angered and confused, Ferdia tried to mount the dripping stairs. But as he had no impression of progress in the dimensionless realm in which he now found himself, the sensation made his head spin and nausea took him. As he put his feet upon the bloody step he immediately lost purchase and slipped. Then he began tumbling down the stairs - or was he tumbling up them? He could not tell, and so he screamed.