The altar rose at the far end, in the center of the string of the moonbow. From Cormac’s vantage, the statue of the goddess appeared to be of excellently detailed workmanship, and all of silver. Plated to iron surely, he supposed, or to stone. The temple floor was of smooth and refulgently green marble or a similar stone of that unusual hue. On it stood men, and they stared up at him.
Five were priests. Just under a score wore the helms and armour of the Queen’s Guards. The central figure was a plump man whose grey beard was plaited, like Dithorba’s. On the chest of his shimmering silver robe hung a Moonbow sigil; a Chain of Danu that was like the one Cormac wore. Beside him stood Cairluh. The traitorous cousin even so swiftly had doffed his snowy robe to reveal himself in a coat of fine scalemail, and sword-armed. Around the two plotters, for Cormac assumed him in the robe of silver to be Tarmur Roag, were ranked others he took to be filays and seanachies; poets and chroniclers or historians. Thus in Eirrin was history of centuries passed down, without written words.
A movement at his side drew Cormac’s attention.
Both Riora and Dithorba had come up beside him. There too were the three weapon-men, with nervousness and some anguish visible in their faces. Along half the length of the temple and up the steps, the queen’s usurping cousin and he who had effected his schemes-or laid them-stared at their queen and the dark, tall man beside her.
With a fine sense of royalty and drama, Queen Riora lifted an arm and extended an accusing finger at the silver-robed sorcerer.
“You have failed, foul wizard! And you, Cairluh, murderous cousin! This man has slain Elatha, and brought me forth from the prison where I was tortured, with my girls and Torna and Balan and others. Lughan has been murdered, by Elatha the Whip! Now this same man, Cormac mac Art, slew the monster who wore my face and body-and the people saw that transformation; they know of your treachery and of the foul thing that bore my face! They saw it melt and ooze away to naught, that thing you put upon my throne-the throne of Moytura!”
Cormac was watching carefully. He saw horror on the faces of four priests; saw the fifth smile thinly. The poets and historians stared too in shock, and backed from Tarmur Roag and Cairluh-all but one, him in the blue tunic and beige leggings. As for the weapon-men… it was hard to be certain, but Cormac thought that two looked shocked, horrified. Two of seventeen!
If he was right about those two, then they were the only, fighting men loyal to their queen, with himself and these three beside her. Six of us… against sixteen with Cairluh… and Tarmur Roag with his dark powers!
It was not possible. Had one of those with him been Wulfhere… had these men beside their queen been of his own people, or Danes… but they were not.
It was not possible. Two could put defeat on six, when the two were Wulfhere Skull-splitter and Cormac the Wolf; six could not defeat sixteen, when as allies mac Art had only the small men of Moytura. And besides, there was Tarmur Roag, and Dithorba had more than merely admitted that the man in the silver robe possessed powers transcending his own.
And then, horribly, there were four, not six. Suddenly men below drew shining blades of dark iron, and sheathed them anew in the two Cormac had rightly taken to be without knowledge of the treachery and deception. They fell, almost in silence.
Tarmur Roag smiled.
“That foreigner from among those who drove our ancestors from Eiru will aid ye no more, Riora! Let him and those three beside you come down among us, that we may see who rules Moytura!”
While the queen stood stricken silent, Cormac drew steel and brandished the blade in a shining arc above his head.
“It’s the Sign of the Moonbow I wear, given me by the People of Danu driven from Moytura by your ancestors, Tarmur Roag… for favouring rule by a Male! Six guards ye set to hold Dithorba; they lie dead and here he stands. Elatha the Whip daily raped the Queen of all Moytura-and Elatha lies dead. Who of those little sniveling cowards and traitors about ye will ye send to take me, Tarmur Roag-who will come to his doom?”
Cormac mac Art was striving as much to persuade and fire himself as he was engaging in the standard challenging rhetoric and braggadocio of weapon-men throughout the world. And he felt his own spirits surge, the blood seeming to warm in his veins, even while he sought to cut the confidence from beneath those traitorous guardsmen below as the scythe went through the grain-field.
Cormac descended two steps and stood in a posture of arrogance and confidence.
Below, sixteen men stood with naked iron in their hands.
Tarmur Roag’s arm rose and the silvery sleeve slid away from a white wrist as he pointed at the Gael.
“TAKE him! To him who cuts down that foreigner goes command of the guardsmen… the King’s Guard!”
The guardsmen hesitated, exchanged glances. Suddenly one started forward, grinning. Command! Then another followed-and then all of them, none wishing to be left behind and all hoping to put death on the foreigner or to be there when it was done and thus hold favour with the next commander.
While he stood on the steps and glared down at them like a snarling wolf at bay, sixteen armed men began converging on Cormac mac Art.
It was then that the thunderous booming sound exploded from the other end of the temple and filled the large chamber with rolling echoes. On the temple floor, many men turned to stare at the tall brazen doors on either side of the altar.
“Balan!” Dithorba muttered, and Cormac knew there was more hope than certainty with the old man. Again someone hammered on that faraway door.
The voice of Cormac mac Art roared out, with all the volume he could put into it. “Ye unarmed poets and chroniclers of Moytura-draw aside that none may put wound or death on Moytura’s finest!” Then he swung halfway around. “Dithorba-use your power, man! Open that door!”
Frozen in indecision, Dithorba jerked, blinked. He smiled-and vanished.
Cormac saw him reappear at the other end of the temple, saw the mage forge swiftly forward to grasp the bars on the great door. No eyes were on him-until Tarmur Roag looked back over his shoulder.
“Kill that man!” he bawled, pointing.
“Kill Tarmur Roag!” Cormac shouted, and without looking to see whether the three loyal Danans were with him, he charged down the steps,
Now men were shouting, and Dithorba’s cry came but thinly: “Take away your weight from the door!”
The three rearmost of the traitorous guardsmen had wheeled and made for him. One, seeing that so many were hardly necessary to cut down a single old man, swung back to join his fellows against the big dark maniac coming like a charging bear down the steps. At that a second of those making for Dithorba paused, biting his lip; surely two of them were unnecessary for this piddling task, and if it might be his sword that slew the foreigner who opposed his masters… He too turned back. He joined the mass of men who waited, crouching, swords up, for the charge of Cormac mac Art.
One man continued toward Dithorba, who was pitting all his strength against the massive bar across the door. Again it shook and boomed with assault from the other side. Now two others rushed after Dithorba’s nemisis; unarmed both: poets or chroniclers. At the sound of the slap-slap of their sandals behind him, the weapon-man looked back. He was forced to pause, to turn with upraised buckler and ready sword.
“Would you do death on Reyan, foremost among poets of Moytura?” one of his pursuers demanded.