Bansi O'Hara and the Bloodline Prophecy Page 8

  ‘There was a change of plan,’ Pogo answered, his tone equally harsh. ‘The Dark Sidhe have the girl’s parents.’

  There was a shocked pause as the news sank in.

  ‘No!’ whispered a delicate sylph, her voice sighing like a sorrowful breeze. ‘Could the prophecy be fulfilled in such a way? Then all is lost!’

  ‘So why did you not bring the girl?’ asked a small grey imp with sunken eyes. ‘Let me guess. She refused to come, even with her parents in peril of their lives. What did I tell you? Mortals! Good for nothing!’ There were nods and a murmuring of agreement from some of the others.

  ‘No!’ Pogo spoke sharply. ‘Mortals are like us. Some are good, some are bad, and some’ – here he glared at the imp who had spoken – ‘are stupid. This girl is good, and brave, and of royal blood, too – the Blood of the Morning Stars.’

  ‘Where is she, then?’ a beautiful, blue-skinned elf-woman challenged. ‘If she’s so noble, why has she not come to fulfil the prophecy and so try to save her parents?’

  Pogo glowered up at her. ‘She was with us,’ he said, ‘and willing to help. But a warrior of the Dark Sidhe separated us as we reached the gate, and we lost her.’ He stared defiantly around the circle as a despairing groan went up.

  ‘I told you!’ snarled one, who looked like a tall, red-headed man. ‘I said we couldn’t rely on a púca! We should never have let that brownie think that . . .’

  He fell silent as an elegant dryad stepped forward. Her skin was a deep brown, textured like bark, and her hair fell in green fronds around her face.

  ‘We all agreed,’ she said firmly, her voice like the rustling of leaves. ‘We agreed to send two to protect the child until she was of age, and then to bring her to Tir na n’Óg only if she was willing. You also agreed, Aed Firetongue,’ she added, as the redheaded man opened his mouth to speak again. ‘And we sent Pogo and Tam as the two best suited to the task. Can you assure me beyond doubt that you would have succeeded where they failed?’

  The red-headed man hesitated. ‘No, Caithne of the Sacred Grove, but—’

  Caithne interrupted him. Although her voice was not loud, it commanded utter respect. ‘Then to argue is vain as well as useless. Our task now is clear: we must try to find this girl before it’s too late – if it is not too late already.’

  ‘It won’t be,’ Tam assured them. Alone of the whole company, he showed no signs of solemnity. ‘We touched the earth within the circle before she did, didn’t we, Pogo?’

  The brownie nodded. ‘Only by moments, but we did. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘So she won’t be through the gate yet – and maybe not for hours, if fortune’s with us. When she does arrive in Tir na n’Óg, we’ve as good a chance of finding her as the Dark Lord does.’ The púca looked round at the company, clearly enjoying the attention and not in the least put out by the many hostile stares. ‘It’s still early, isn’t it?’

  Caithne nodded. ‘The sun is barely risen.’

  Tam grinned. ‘Couldn’t be better. The Blood of the Morning Stars must be returned to the sacred earth as the light dies. They won’t attempt any sacrifice till dusk. We’ve got the whole day to find them.’

  ‘Aye, and to rescue the child and her parents from the hordes of the Dark Sidhe. How likely is that?’ the small grey imp objected.

  Pogo rounded on him. ‘Likely or not, Bindweed, we’re going to do it. Or die trying. If the Dark Sidhe fulfil the prophecy and obtain the blessing, we’re all slaves or dead anyway. And it won’t ever be said of me that I left a mortal child to bleed to death at the knife of my enemy without I did all I could to save her. Now if you want to crawl off home, do it! Off you go! But if you’re with us, then shut your mouth and do something useful for once!’

  The imp fell silent and looked away sullenly.

  ‘Anyway,’ Tam added, ‘we don’t have to rescue them all. If we can find the girl and get her to one of the sacred places before sundown, it’ll make no difference if they sacrifice her parents after that. Or, if we find the parents and we can fulfil the prophecy with them after all, then no matter if they kill the girl.’

  Pogo cast him a look full of contempt and disgust. ‘No matter?No matter?’ he spat furiously.

  The dryad spoke again; quietly, but with such presence that the whole room stilled. ‘Pogo, Tam is right. We are nothing but a collection of solitary faeries and little people, less powerful than the smallest tribe in the whole of Tir na n’Óg. If the Dark Sidhe have been so careless that even we know about their plans for the child of the Blood of the Morning Stars, who else knows? Who else is even now looking for the girl? The Gwyllion? The Unseelie Court? At the moment, this land exists in an uneasy peace – but should any of these increase their power, the balance will tip in their favour. We will be plunged into war, which can only end with a tyrant standing triumphant over the realm of Faery. One mortal life is nothing against such a future.’

  ‘All this I know, Caithne of the Sacred Grove,’ Pogo said quietly.

  ‘Yes, Pogo, you do,’ Caithne replied. ‘Of course you feel for the mortals – you would be no true brownie otherwise. I called you here, however, not to save the girl’s life, but to save our land. And once the prophecy is fulfilled, the land is either safe or doomed – regardless of the mortals’ fate.’ Her voice rose, including all of them. ‘Go, now. The destiny of Tir na n’Óg is in your hands. Find the girl or her parents. Lead them to one of the sacred places. Good fortune be with us all.’

  She raised her branch-like arms in blessing, and the faery creatures bowed respectfully. Then, in twos and threes, they vanished into the shadows and slipped away.

  ‘We’d best be off, Pogo,’ Tam said, turning to his partner. But the brownie had vanished, too.

  Tam sighed, and made his way outside into the early morning light. Pogo was standing on a tumbled wall among the boulders and stones of the ruined buildings, gazing angrily across the landscape.

  ‘We won’t find her by standing about here all day,’ Tam observed cheerily.

  Pogo spun round fiercely, to glare at Tam. ‘If you think I’m coming with you, after what you just said . . .’

  ‘Ah, come on, Pogo.’ Tam grinned as broadly as ever, unfazed by the brownie’s anger. ‘No one’s got a better chance of finding Bansi than we do, if we work together.’

  ‘And what do you care about finding her?’ Pogo growled. ‘ “No matter if they kill the girl”, he says! Typical púca! Selfish to the core!’

  ‘For goodness sake, wee man! I was just trying to encourage the others, that’s all! Me, though? Of course I care about finding her. For one thing, there’s the prophecy to think about. But besides that, she’s a brave girl and I’m not going to let her down. Nor her parents, either, before you ask.’

  Pogo made no answer. He glowered furiously.

  ‘Come on, Pogo,’ Tam tried again. ‘You’ve got the instinct; I’ve got the magic. There’s no better team!’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Pogo hissed. ‘I’d sooner work with anyone else!’

  ‘Anyone?’ asked a cheery little voice. ‘Grand! Let’sh get going, Pogo me boy!’

  Tam grinned.

  Pogo closed his eyes despairingly. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘Flooter, don’t tell me that’s you . . .’

  ‘All right, it’sh me Uncle Bob!’ the voice declared proudly. ‘And a very fine uncle he is, too.’ A little red cap peeped up over the stony edge of a low fragment of wall, and then suddenly disappeared again. ‘Whoopsh!’ the voice muttered. ‘It’s more shlippery than I th . . . thought. Try again, Flooter . . . here we go . . .’

  The cap reappeared, followed by a merry little grey face with a very red nose and cheeks. ‘Nearly there . . . hang on, now . . .’ the little man continued, hauling himself up to the top of the ruined wall. ‘There we go!’ he said, as he reached the summit. ‘Whoopsh!’ he repeated cheerfully as he fell off backwards. There was a dull thump from the soil below. ‘Ah – hang on, now,’ Flooter continued, undaunted. ‘I know �
� I’ll go round the front.’

  ‘Take that grin off your face, Tam,’ Pogo snapped, leaping from his perch as Flooter wavered into view and tottered towards them.

  ‘Ah, sorry, Pogo,’ Tam said. ‘I’ll just leave you and Flooter to it, shall I?’

  ‘No!’

  Tam was enjoying this. ‘But you said—’

  ‘I don’t care what I said! I am not working with a cluricaun! Look at him! It’s barely sunrise and he’s drunk already!’

  Flooter, offended, drew himself up to his full height. Since he only reached to Pogo’s chin, this wasn’t very impressive. ‘Any drink shtill in me is left over from the night before!’ he said, waving a little bottle in Pogo’s face, and at much of the air on either side of it, too. ‘I haven’t touched a drop in hoursh!’ He took an absentminded swig, and then stared at the bottle, bemused. ‘Now where did that come from?’ he asked himself. He tasted it again, and his eyes lit up.

  ‘Well, Pogo,’ Tam pointed out, ‘it’s him or me. Take your choice!’

  Pogo turned on him. ‘Not a word more from you. Not a word! And I swear, when we find Bansi you’d better protect her with your life.’

  Flooter raised his bottle cheerily. ‘Bansi, is that her name, then?’ he slurred. ‘Shame you losht her in the first place, Pogo. Shtill, I bet you left her house nice and clean, eh?’

  Pogo, climbing onto Tam’s shoulder, blushed a furious russet and did not look back. ‘At least I didn’t spend the night in her wine cellar, like some others might have done,’ he muttered, as Tam feathered and took to the skies.

  Flooter wobbled to his feet and stared after them.

  ‘She has a wine cellar?’ he asked.

  * * *

  Miles away and some time later, in a coldly magnificent galleried hall, a tall, sprawling figure lounged with elegant laziness across a grand and ornately carved double chair. Dimly flickering torches lit his cadaverously handsome face and cast strange black dancing shapes on the panelled walls around him. He yawned, stretched languorously and picked his teeth with a viciously bladed bone-white knife.

  This done, he unpeeled himself from the chair with catlike fluidity. Suddenly, purposefully, he was striding the length of the great hall, his dark cloak billowing around him dramatically as his footsteps snapped hard on the floor tiles.

  Before he reached the door a shadow appeared behind him, blooming and blossoming into the shape of a great grey wolf running at full speed as if landing after a mighty leap. The man stepped neatly and without apparent concern to one side; the wolf skidded, missing him by inches, its claws scrabbling for a hold on the smooth tiles.

  Instantly the warriors who stood guard at the entrances to the room sprang forward, ready to attack; but the figure stopped them with a regal wave of his hand.

  The wolf whimpered and abased itself before its master, who tutted impatiently.

  ‘Oh, do stop whining, Conn. I’m not going to kill you for appearing in the wrong place.’ As the wolf gratefully nuzzled his black-gloved hand, he suddenly seized its muzzle and forced it painfully upwards, adding, ‘I might kill you for neglecting to bring the girl, though.’ The point of the bone-white knife stroked the wolf’s neck menacingly. ‘So why don’t you take that hearthrug off and tell me where she is?’ With a twist of the wrist, he released the creature and affected an air of chilling patience.

  The wolf carefully shrugged its pelt off, like a snake sloughing its skin, and Conn stood, head bowed.

  ‘I tracked the púca and the brownie, Lord,’ he said quietly, ‘and as you predicted, they led me to the girl.’

  ‘Quite,’ the Dark Lord agreed, examining his fingernails. With the knife point, he carefully flicked a speck of dirt out from underneath one of them. ‘Obviously you had no way of finding the mortal child yourself, and since I have no pet brownie of my own, I arranged the next best thing.’ He allowed himself a small, cold smile. ‘Deceiving that arrogant tree-woman was not the easiest task I have ever set myself, Conn. I trust all my hard work hasn’t been wasted. It would make me very . . . bad-tempered.’

  The wolf-boy, fixed in his lord’s bright, predatorial gaze, shuddered involuntarily. ‘I followed the child to a mortal dwelling. The púca kept watch outside—’

  ‘Now, Conn,’ the Dark Lord interrupted silkily, ‘I hope you’re not going to tell me you were afraid to fight the púca?’

  ‘No, Lord!’ Conn protested. ‘I was preparing to take him by surprise when for some reason the child’s grandmother welcomed all of Faery to her home. Straightaway he left his post and entered the house himself, through an unlit window. I took my chance and struck. I seized the girl, but was overpowered by the use of iron. Still, I overheard the name of the old woman who bested me, and was able to bewitch her; but when I returned to claim the child, the púca became a horse and carried her off. I followed once more and snatched her from his back as he entered the stone circle, but she slipped from my grasp.’

  The Lord of the Dark Sidhe grasped Conn’s face, hard, with one hand, and again forced his gaze upwards.

  ‘Really?’ he asked. His voice carried a sharp, sceptical edge.

  Unable to move his face, Conn glanced down with his eyes. ‘Yes, Lord,’ he said. ‘I tore her garment with my teeth as I brought her down.’

  ‘Indeed?’ The tall man released his grip and looked down at the wolfskin. There was a scrap of turquoise fabric hanging from its lifeless mouth. Conn knelt and picked it up, offering it to his master.

  ‘Mortal-made,’ the Lord mused, rubbing the fleece material between his fingers. ‘Clearly mortal-made. It will make her easier to hunt.’ He paused for a moment, as if coming to a decision. ‘You’re sure she was separated from our enemies before entering the gate?’

  Conn nodded.

  ‘Very well, my young wolf; you have one last chance to redeem yourself. Take a guard of four warriors with you. Hunt the girl down and bring her to me, at Balor’s Hollow, by sunset. Go!’

  The boy bowed to his master. Then, quickly sweeping the wolfskin cloak over his shoulders, he fastened it at the throat and drew it around him as before. Within moments, he was the grey wolf once more. He pressed his nose to the scrap of fleece and sniffed, the smell of the garment and of its wearer filling his nostrils. He inhaled again, taking in the very essence of the material.

  Then, with an animal grace, he turned swiftly and raced from the hall. As he did so, a figure slunk from the shadows and sidled up to the Lord of the Dark Sidhe.

  ‘My Lord,’ she said smoothly, ‘once again, I must counsel against leaving such an important task in the hands – or, indeed the paws – of one so young.’

  ‘And I suppose,’ the Lord of the Dark Sidhe murmured, ‘you think I would be so foolish as to entrust the task to you instead, and give you the opportunity to perform the sacrifice in my place? Conn may be young; he may be foolish; but he will bring the mortal child to me. The inheritance of Derga will be mine. No one else’s. Once I have it, nobody – not even the Master of the Unseelie Court – will be able to stand against me. I, and I alone, will reign over Tir na n’Óg. You would do well to remember that, if you wish to see another sunrise.’

  He turned, fixing her with coldly penetrating yellow eyes, and smiled without mirth. The woman suppressed a shiver as she bowed and withdrew.

  It may have been just then, or it may not, that the dark green Morris Minor Traveller was tearing up the narrow road towards the summit of Slieve Donnan, Mrs Mullarkey riding the accelerator hard with every twist and turn.

  ‘Here we are!’ she crowed as they screeched up towards the entrance to the car park, the rising sun at their backs. ‘The viewpoint! We’ll make it, I tell you!’

  ‘No, Nora, we’re too late! The sun’s coming up! See?’

  ‘The circle’s on the other side of the hilltop,’ Nora Mullarkey insisted. ‘That side’ll still be in the twilight shadows.’

  ‘Not by the time we’ve parked the car, you silly old trout!’

  Nora Mullarkey
pressed her foot to the floor. ‘Who said anything about parking?’ she yelled, as the car accelerated into the car park and across the tarmac towards the railings on the far side. There was a loud crack; wood splintered all around them. Then the car was bumping and crashing down the grassy slope, juddering and jolting like some lunatic fairground ride from hell, bouncing and barrelling towards the stone circle.

  ‘Nora! You’ll kill us both!’

  ‘Hold tight, Eileen! Here’s where it gets bumpy!’

  ‘Where it gets—?Look out for those big rocks!’

  Nora Mullarkey steered towards a gap between two stones. Her foot rode the brake pedal. The car skidded. Suddenly, dangerously, it was out of control. Mrs Mullarkey wrestled wildly with the steering wheel.

  ‘Nora! I don’t think this counts as twilight any more!’

  They slewed sideways; the car’s rear wheel hit something; the vehicle spun madly into the air. The oak tree reeled across Eileen O’Hara’s vision. Something black beat wild ragged wings against glass; she heard a harsh cawing; a window shattered. A thick overhanging branch forced its way in behind them, showering the women with splinters of glass and timber. Sky and earth and tree rolled insanely around them, whirling them towards oblivion. Eileen O’Hara screamed.

  There was a sickening, crumpling crunch as they slammed into solid oak and struck the earth.

  Chapter Twelve

  Warmth. The sound of birdsong. The ferny smell of the forest floor.

  Bansi slowly drifted up from the depths of unconsciousness, the blackness yielding to the soft orange of sunlight through closed eyelids. There was something hard and uncomfortable under her back, she realized.

  And something alive wriggling inside her fleece.

  She opened her eyes in sudden panic and looked around, forcing herself to keep as still as she could, taking stock of her situation. She was in a wide forest clearing . . . which meant that she wasn’t in the stone circle . . . which meant that she must be in the Other Realm. The sun was high in the sky; either she’d been unconscious for hours, or time was different here. She was alone: no wolf ready to tear her throat out, but no Pogo or Tam to help her either. And there was some kind of animal – possibly dangerous, perhaps even deadly – squirming in her clothing. She held her breath and bit her lip, fighting off the temptation to jump up, scream, strike it with her hands. In her head, she pictured a scorpion ready to sting; but perhaps the animals here were much more vicious, much more lethal than anything she’d ever heard of. Her eyes flicked left, right, looking for something – anything – to use as a weapon. There was nothing. Then she remembered the poker. Her hand crept cautiously to her belt; grasped the ornate handle; pulled gently. It refused to move. The belt was twisted somehow, or perhaps the tip of the poker was stuck in the ground. In any case, she couldn’t free it without a sharp movement. And that risked the creature – whatever it was – taking fright and striking.