Tithe to Tartarus Page 21

  The elfin cavalcade was even now trotting quite silently down the line of dolmens leading here. One square gateway of stone the thirteen steeds passed by and then another. They approached the final dolmen.

  Beneath that final dolmen, but standing on the dark glass, not the bright sand, was a thirteenth hooded figure. Even from a distance, Yumiko recognized her. One of the feet beneath the robe was a leg of bronze. The other was the hoof of a donkey. Issuing from the hood were the heads of the serpents woven about her head as a crown. It was Empousa of Tartarus.

  Yumiko raced across the silver sands. She could not feel her paws, nor did she breathe any breath, so great was her speed. No dust was kicked into the air behind her.

  Then she was between the last two dolmens. The last dolmen was black stones, and the dolmen before it, a few yards away, was dark red. Only a few grains of silver were scattered on the dark, glassy, cracked surface underfoot. Her tongue lolled; she panted.

  The elfin lords on their beautiful steeds were riding toward her. On the other side, behind her, the veiled and hooded face of Empousa was lifting up, and dark eyes that flashed with regal pride gazed silently down on the little white she-fox.

  The elfin lords were passing beneath the red dolmen. Each wore a bright cloak of green, woven with patterns of leaves from different trees and plants. The cloaks were voluminous and fell across the flanks and withers of the steeds. These were much like horses but with the hooves of deer and tails of lions.

  The steeds were caparisoned in bright lozenges or diamonds of silver against black, green against gold, or green against silver. Four of the riders held standards emblazoned with heraldry. The steeds wore no barding, except, oddly, on their skulls. The chanfron covering each mount’s head was engraved and etched to look like a fanciful human face: ragged beggar or crowned king, jester in coxcomb or veiled priestess, soldier in helm or poet in laurels. Each hooded rider likewise wore a mask engraved to be a fanciful equine face, as a horse, unicorn, or hippogriff.

  The first rider in the line, seeing the white vixen before him, reined and halted. His cloak was birch leaf, and his mask was a destrier. “By wood and welkin, what sly diversion have we here? Phadrig Og, what say you?” The voice was musical lilt, a man’s brogue.

  The second rider bore aloft a standard of a gold harp on a sable field. His cloak was rowan leaf, and his mask was a hippocamp, with gills at the equine cheeks and fins for ears. He reined his steed and bent his masked head toward the first rider. “Noble Majesty, no doubt some ill-wisher seeks to hinder the payment of the tithe. Let us blast the intruder with nine deadly songs and ride on.”

  Yumiko looked back and forth along the line of riders. Which one was Tom? When she found him, how could she free him?

  The third rider came forward, and the first two were forced to fall back and make way. He wore the mask of Sleipnir, or some mythic horse with four ears, and his cloak was the leaf of the ash tree. There was no eyehole on the right of his mask. Within the left-hand eyehole, his eye glinted a greenish gold. “King Brian, tell your vassal to stay his voice! We ride not now on Elfin ground, and the mouth of Hell is but a pace away. In this place, no weapon of silver nor weapon of song may be raised. Puck! What is this creature?”

  A fourth rider carried a banner of a she-lion of gold on a green field. His cloak was alder leaf, and his mask was the face of a jenny. A male voice, his tones sly and wicked, came trippingly forth. “The gleam of starlight dances in the vixen’s fur and the scent of Sarras fallen. But see how the passing seconds and minutes pass through the creature’s eyes. No highborn elf is this, but a filthy half-breed. The blood of Eve the Accursed muddies her veins. Some Moth or Cobweb, this.”

  Yumiko opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again. She lowered her head warily and looked back and forth, whiskered nose twitching. She thought it better not to speak, not in this place, not if no one here knew who or what she was.

  Now came a fifth rider, masked as a unicorn, whose robe was willow leaf. A regal feminine voice seeped from her mask. “Trample her. That is neither drawing a weapon nor singing a rune.”

  The sixth rider was also a woman. She was masked as a hippogriff with a beak of gold, and her cloak was hawthorn. Her banner displayed a white tree of seven branches on a green field. “Queen Ethne, the eyes of Empousa glint strangely at us. It may be unsightly to shed blood so near the Hellmouth. It would be like spilling wine into the sand a pace away from a man parched with thirst.”

  Yumiko now grinned. Six riders had spoken. Six had not. It was likely Tom was among those six. She held perfectly still, eyes darting, hoping the others would speak. Whoever did not speak was Tom.

  Empousa now raised and lowered her brass leg. The glassy ground boomed like a hollow drum.

  The seventh rider was masked as Pegasus, and his cloak was oak leaf. Streaks of crooked shadows shaped like the tines of antlers passed through the hood of his cloak without touching it and spread over his broad shoulders. In cold and ringing tones he spoke. “Silence, Fand! Silence, all of you, on peril of your lives! The beauty of elfin voice reminds the dark angels of old sorrows. Let us not try their patience lest the tribute increase. Lucien! Attend me!”

  The foremost wolf of the pack now came forward, crouching and whining. He was large as a pony and silver like an Arctic wolf.

  The horned and masked rider said, “Your voice is not fair enough to offend the dukes and counts of Hell. Speak. Who is this? Why is she here?”

  The wolf said, “Imperial Majesty, this is the Foxmaiden, the sidekick of the vigilante who pesters the Anarchists, your enemies, who of late have caused commotion in your realm. She is here to hinder the tithing.”

  The horned rider now leaned from the saddle and breathed. A plume of cold air issued from the mouth of his Pegasus mask and smote Yumiko.

  At once the cold penetrated her flesh and touched her heart. Her spirit form slipped away, and now she was a girl sprawled on her knees and forearms on the black ice. A trifle of fox fur clung to her breasts and hips, no larger than a bathing suit. Her black hair, unbraided, spilled down to the left across her neck and shoulder and arm onto the icy surface like a shining river delta. Her warm fur was gone, and she was shivering with cold and fear, but her dark eyes blazed brightly.

  2. The Finding

  The horned rider glared down at her. His eyes were like distant stars. “Speaks he the truth, little Foxmaiden? Are you here to hinder the tithe?”

  She stood up. “Lucien Cobweb does not speak the whole truth. Under the name Thursday, he is a member of the Supreme Anarchist’s Council. He conspires with Malen the Red and Empousa of Hell to undermine and overthrow your rule.”

  A gasp came from one of the riders behind. It was a woman’s voice. Her cloak was patterned with vine leaves. Her mask was of a hayagriva, a blue-furred and gold-crowned yaksha, known to roam the jungles and mountains of India. Something in the tone of voice, or the set of the shoulders, told Yumiko this was Malen Ruddgochren herself.

  Yumiko spread her arms wide. “I am here for my one, true love, Tomorrow Rocket Moth. I returned from the dead for him. He will go back to the lands of the living with me.”

  The horned rider in the Pegasus mask said, “There is no man here who will answer to that name. That name is quenched in the wine of oblivion and lost in the woven songs of Elfland. His face, his form, his fame, are now as elfs decree. He is not yours, but ours.”

  The elfin lords and ladies now removed their masks. The faces beneath the hoods were none she knew. Yumiko blinked, and all the faces changed. No one she looked at directly changed, but when she turned her head, whatever face she was not looking at, male and female swapped appearance with one another; old and young; dark and pale; man and elf. Some faces turned into skulls or masses of warts. Some turned to the visages of hawks or hounds. One hood held nothing but the stars of Ursa Majoris.

  The silvery, heartless laughter of the elfs now chimed in the air. Whispering voices seeming to come from overhea
d or underfoot or from behind her head or inside her stomach, taunting her. “Riddle me this!” “Love thou me, or another?” “Which is he?” “Pick me!” “Come to my arms!” “My kiss will slay you!” “Foxmaiden, I am your love!” “Know you me not?” “Poor Tom’s a-cold!”

  The mockery fell silent when Empousa again raised her brass leg and stomped it against the ringing ground. This time, vast voices from underground moaned in pain.

  The elfin lords and ladies donned their masks again, and the horned rider raised his hand and gave the signal to ride on. The slender steeds in their bright caparisons began to pass by Yumiko to the left and right.

  Yumiko, half-naked and cold, stood with her fists clenched. She had no weapons, no magic ring, and no idea what to do. If eyes and ears could be trusted, there were five yet who had not spoken. But could they be trusted?

  Of the remaining five, one held a banner where a black wolf reared on a white field, and, behind him, two riders were slender and sat sidesaddle. Yumiko doubted that the proud elfs would disguise Tom as one of their standard-bearers or one of their ladies.

  The second to last rider wore a kelpie mask and was cloaked in hazel leaf. The last rider in line wore the mask of a backahast wreathed with seaweed and was cloaked in the leaf of an elder tree. He seemed stouter than the others, less graceful in his posture. Surely the last position would be the position of least honor in the cavalcade?

  Yumiko grabbed the stirrup of the last rider as he rode by, and clung. “Tom! Tom! Is that you?”

  “Sorry! Get away from me! Haven’t you done enough?” The man in the backahast mask kicked her.

  An elf would not apologize. He was calling her by the name he knew because he could not pronounce Sayuri. The voice was altered in timber and accent, perhaps by magic, but his words were his.

  The one in the backahast mask was Wilcolac.

  Spurned by the kick, the girl rolled rather than fell, bounced to her feet, and leaped nimbly onto the back of the steed before him in line, the one in the kelpie mask. She pulled aside the mask and pulled down the hood. Here were the round and cruel features of Wilcolac the magician. Every nuance of expression, the look in his eyes, the shape of each hair on his head told her eyes that this was Wilcolac. But she was not looking at his face. She remembered what she had overheard: The fragment of the celestial cerulean dangles about his neck. Lucien had been afraid to remove it.

  Yumiko dug her fingers into the collar of the stranger’s cloak.

  Her fingers found a slender chain, such as a woman might wear. She yanked. The pendant was a bit of blue-white crystal shaped like a teardrop, glowing with a clear and piercing inner light that brought tears of wonder to her eyes.

  It was he. It was Tom. She had found him.

  3. The Last Gate

  A clamor rang in her ears. The cavalcade was crossing under the final dolmen, the final gateway of black stone. The first eight passed beneath, led by the man masked as a destrier, with the hippocamp bringing up the rear.

  The surface underfoot was broken black glass. Yumiko could see the reverse image of herself, her black hair almost like a hooded cloak falling to her hips, with both pale arms about the mantled figure atop his handsome steed. She had her arms around a man who looked like Wilcolac. In the mirror reflection, he looked like Tom.

  The star at his throat was much brighter in the reflection. Thunderstruck, Yumiko recognized it.

  Keep to yourself this memento of your mother’s love, for the Grail light is in it. Keep it with you, lest the fumes of Earth confuse and confound you. Keep it in memory of me.

  It was the same pendant her mother in the last hour on her last day had bestowed on her. The light from the pendant seemed to pierce like a lance straight into Yumiko to her core. A great smoggy darkness of confusion and forgetfulness began to stir and quake and break.

  All riders save the last two had passed the final dolmen. But here stood Empousa, who raised her hand. The steed beneath Yumiko faltered, fell, and died. Yumiko wrestled the man she held out of the saddle and fell to the ground with him. She had acted in time: no part of him was trapped under the dead horse.

  Empousa spoke. Her voice was inside Yumiko’s head as well as outside. As the outward shout of the hag’s hellish voice hurt her ear, so too did the force of the silent words burn inside her skull. “Who dares bring this pure and sinless virgin to the very lip of Hell?”

  The shout of Empousa was painful to the others there as well, for all the elf lords shrieked or flinched, and many clutched their brows.

  The real Wilcolac in a false voice now spoke from behind the backahast mask. “Surely she has committed some sin! No one serves in my nightclub who has not. I see to that!”

  Yumiko said, “I have been baptized this very day.”

  Wilcolac said, “Perhaps the form was incorrect!”

  Yumiko raised her voice, “I was baptized in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost! Get away from me, you things of Hell!”

  At the sound of these names, even though her high-pitched, girlish voice seemed very small and frail in the wide and starless landscape of cracked black glass and dunes of silver ash, the thirteen gigantic figures fell groveling as if deafened by thunderbolts. The dukes of Hell were shrieking and howling, cursing and uttering blasphemies.

  Empousa recovered first, rose up, and spoke. “Do you mock us, loathsome Lords of Elfland? Wish you to have the kingdoms of the world be dashed from your pretty hands? We have prepared kingdoms of pain here in our realm to receive you instead!”

  Now it was the turn of the elf lords to wince and cry, for the shout of Empousa was pain. Yumiko clung more fiercely to her man and clenched her teeth.

  The horned rider wearing the Pegasus mask spoke in solemn tones. “Dread and divine Empousa, the Sons of Air and Daughters of Night approach in solemn fear to render the tithe and tribute due the august and infernal realm and your great sultan.”

  Empousa inclined her head with regal nod, and the snakes woven in her crown hissed and shook their rattles.

  The horned rider turned and said, “The tithed one must step over the final threshold of his own will. That is the bargain. See to it.”

  The rider in the hayagriva mask addressed the rider in the backahast mask and said bitterly, “You should have let me kill her, as I asked, you stupid little magician. You know who goes in the mouth if your puppet does not.” She did not disguise her voice. It was Malen.

  The rider masked as a backahast dismounted. Mask or no, his bouncing, energetic walk was the walk of Wilcolac. He went to where Yumiko clung fiercely to the motionless man. Wilcolac said, “Thrall! Stand up! Cast that girl from your arms! Walk through the last gate!”

  The empty-eyed young man obeyed and rose. His movements were slow and clumsy. With a potent twist of his arms, he shoved the half-naked girl roughly to the broken glass of the ground. She whirled in midair and landed in her feet in a crouch. With ponderous steps, he strode forward. She pounced. Yumiko found it easy enough to throw the blank-eyed youth over her hip to the ground, and drop, and grasp him in a tight hold.

  The chain at his neck glittered and flashed. She saw into the depth of the stone. A wisp of clinging fog lost its grip and rolled away, revealing a lost memory.

  4. Darkness and Light

  The recollection took no time to unfold into her memory.

  He told her words to say something important, some phrase she was supposed to utter if the elf threatened to kill her. But his voice, his words, were still mingled in forgetfulness. It was on the tip of her tongue, almost clear.

  She and Tom were standing in a corridor of transparent glass. The maze reached several levels above and below them, and, far above, clearly visible through the intervening yet transparent floors, was the circle of stone forming the foundations of the tower above. The tower itself was invisible. Only the spiral of unsleeping watching things, the hideous masks of the guards, and the dark, winged shapes at the crown betrayed the outline of t
he tower.

  At the same moment he was done telling her the words, the Anarchists found the turn leading into the dead-end corridor where Tom and Yumiko stood. With a roar, they rushed forward.

  Tom took the ring, knelt, and put it on her finger. “Marry me. Be my bride. I promise you, we will live through this! And when you see me again and you see this pendant, you will remember.”

  He twisted the ring sharply on her finger as he spoke, turning it once, twice, thrice. “Now envision a safe place! Your thought will carry you there. Distance means nothing. Concentrate! You will see ghosts. Stop for nothing. Do not speak to them. Do not listen to their promises. Go!”

  The ring darkened from silver to pewter to iron to obsidian. With the fourth twist, she could not longer see him. She was in another world, a cosmos of darkness.

  Had he heard her answer? Had she said it in time?

  How her eyes could see, she did not know. The darkness was visible. How she moved, she did not know. The wind was palpable and bore her weight aloft. The black shapes of ghosts she expected, and she knew her longbow would protect her.

  But a darker shape, as massive as a sunken continent returning to the surface of the sea, she had not expected to be here, in this ghost world. Yumiko fled the vast fallen angel on the dark winds of the unlit cosmos like an autumn leaf before a hurricane.

  Then, a hideous voice from below her called out in mocking tones. She looked. The fallen angel held up the shrieking soul in its palm, a torn and tormented figure that danced and trembled. She ceased fleeing, but stood in midair and peered.

  For she knew him. In life, it had been Guynglaff Cobweb, Lord Tuesday of the Supreme Council of Anarchists, Master of the Abominable Snowmen. His apelike face had been one of the many Winged Vengeance demanded she memorize. Who had killed him?

  For here he was, dead, a small speck of darkness screaming in the vast and scarred palm of a spirit older and darker that loomed in the black world. But her arrows could abolish ghosts and curse them never to return to Earth. Dead was Lord Tuesday, but she could harm him yet.