‘You are lying. It cannot be as you say. It cannot.’
‘I want you to try to remember the man you were when you rode here — the dreams that you had. Think back to all you held dear. Think of me as I once was. You have been corrupted, even as Samildanach and the others were corrupted — great men, noble men, who now spend their days gathering human souls for Paulus and the Vyre. Look at me, Manannan!’
Suddenly she rose, gripped him by the shoulders and bared her teeth.
As he watched, her incisors lengthened into fangs, pointed and hollow. He thrust her from him.
‘Can you not see?’ she screamed.
‘Get away from me! You are a demon — you are not Morrigan at all. Begone!’
‘It is too late for you, Manannan,’ she whispered as she moved past him to the door. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘Wait!’ he called, as she moved into the doorway. ‘Please, Morrigan.’ She turned. He was sweating now and beginning to feel nauseous. Taking a deep breath he walked back to the window, sitting down on the sill and breathing deeply of the scented air. She came back into the room, pushing the door closed behind her.
‘I cannot believe you,’ he said softly, ‘but I will listen. And I will accept your challenge to sit out the night.’
She nodded and sat facing him in the moonlight. Her face was pale, and there were silver streaks in her long golden hair, but her eyes were as he remembered — large, dark and almost slanted.
‘Samildanach brought me through the Black Gate. Everywhere there were monsters, demons, but he held them at bay with his silver sword and we rode for the city. I could not believe its beauty, and was astonished at the greeting we received. Paulus and several others opened up their homes to the Knights. They fed us Ambria, and we were happy. Never before, or since, have I tasted such happiness. And we changed, Manannan, even as you are changing. I tried to stop drinking the Ambria, but I could not. It fastens to the soul, corrupting… distorting. New realities appeared and we learnt that the Vyre were dying, their food sources disappearing. Soon there would be no Ambria.’
Manannan leaned forward. ‘How did this happen? Are there not people in this land?’
She smiled. ‘The half pitcher you had when I came here would have cost maybe fifty lives. This is a large city, Manannan. To feed it would take a nation of — shall we say — lesser beings? Hence the Nomads. Samildanach and the others returned to the realm, taking with them Ambria for the King. They had new armour then, the magical garb of the Elder Vyre, the warrior race who first conquered this land. They were greeted well and the King took them to his counsel. But the Ambria ran out and the King learned — as did Samildanach — how to draw life from living victims.’
‘That is what is so hard to believe,’ said Manannan. ‘He was always the most noble of men.’ He clutched his stomach and groaned. ‘Where did you put the Ambria? I just need a mouthful; I will be fine then.’
‘Wait! Be strong. You will see. Breathe deeply, Manannan.’
‘I cannot. The smell from the garden is too sickly.’
‘That is what I am saying. The Ambria shifts perceptions. Look around at the room.’ He did as she bade him. The white walls seemed greyer now, and he noticed mould above the window. The silken sheets on the bed were filthy and soiled and the room smelt of decay. He turned back to Morrigan to see that her pale ivory skin was dry, her eyes dull, her lips tinged with blue.
He swallowed hard. ‘But is this real? I don’t know any more.’
‘It is real,’ she whispered. ‘You are living in the City of the Undead. You are in Hell, Manannan. Samildanach almost saw it, but the Ambria took him.’
Manannan looked out into the garden, where the rockery steps were choked with weeds. He staggered to his feet. ‘Is there any water?’
‘Yes,’ she said, fetching him a pitcher from the outer room. ‘But be careful; it will not taste good to you for the Ambria is jealous.’
He drank deeply, and choked.
‘Have some more,’ she urged him. ‘It will do you good.’
His stomach rebelled, but he forced down the water. ‘We must get out,’ he said, ‘back to the Gate.’
‘I would not know how to open it,’ she told him, ‘but Paulus would.’
He groaned again. ‘What is happening to me? There is such pain.’
‘You were becoming one of us. Now your body — your life — is fighting back.’
His head dropped and he rubbed at his eyes. ‘Why are you doing this for me? How is it that you are not affected by the Ambria?’
She laughed and rose. ‘Not affected, Manannan? Oh, but I am. I drank your half pitcher. When I look around this room I see only beauty — and a man I desire. But I can remember how I felt when first I came here… when Samildanach was a god to me. I cling to that memory and I do not want to see you — my oldest and dearest friend — riding out to gather souls for the Vyre.’
‘Help me to dress.’ He looked around, searching the room. ‘Where is my armour?’
‘You will need no armour where you are going,’ said Paulus from the doorway. Beyond him were several warriors in black armour, helms down, swords in their hands. ‘We offered you immortality, Manannan. Now you will merely aid our own.’
The warriors surged forward to pin the arms of the i Once-Knight.
Paulus shook his head. ‘Such a pity. I thought you were strong like your brothers. But no — even a fallen woman can turn your head from the glories of what could have been for you. Your stupidity offends me. Take him away!’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Nuada was surprised when the Dagda summoned him, following the poet’s evening performance in the hall. The old man had been allocated quarters close to the hut Nuada shared with the girl, Kartia, and a sentry had come to them just before midnight.
‘I don’t think you should go,’ Kartia told Nuada, taking him by the arm. ‘He is a demonic man, and the Lord Groundsel says he never gives good news.’
Nuada shrugged. ‘I have met very few genuine seers; I cannot pass this by. But I will ask him no questions of death. Do not fear for me, Kartia.’ He smiled at her and kissed her cheek. ‘I will return soon.’
He walked out into the cold night air and glanced up at the shining stars. Shivering in the chill, he drew his cloak about him. The sentry pointed to an open doorway, through which he could see the amber glow of a brazier. He stepped inside to see the Dagda sitting cross-legged on a goatskin rug, his eyes closed and his hands spread. Nuada cleared his throat and tapped on the door frame.
‘Enter, poet. Be at ease,’ said the Dagda, opening his eyes and Nuada pushed the door closed. There were no chairs, nor furniture of any kind, so he sat on the rug next to the old man. ‘Is there anything you would ask me?’ queried the Dagda.
Nuada grinned. ‘Nothing, sir. I have no wish to learn the day of my death.’
‘Then why did you obey my summons?’ the Dagda asked, his dark eyes fixing Nuada with a piercing gaze. ‘To learn of you, sir. I would guess there is a song in your travels and I would be delighted to sing it.’
‘Some matters are not suited to song, my boy, and some lives are better left to mystery and magic. But you intrigue me. Are you aware of the Colours?’
‘Of course,’ Nuada replied, ‘though I have no special skill with them. Why do you ask?’
The old man stroked his forked white beard, then rose and added wood to the fire in the brazier. Nuada watched him closely. He seemed older than time, yet his movements were smooth, almost liquid. His hands were slender, yet strong, and there were no liver spots upon their backs.
‘The Colours,’ said the Dagda, returning to sit before the poet, ‘are created of Harmony. We all add, or subtract, to and from the Colours. Even as we talk, the Red is growing stronger over the realm of the Gabala. Everywhere the more vile of emotions predominate. Lust, greed, selfishness rule in Furbolg. Of care and compassion there is little to be seen. How strange then that, in this forest peopled by evil men, the Red should hold little sway. What answer can you offer for this?’