Andrew Offutt: The Sign of the Moonbow

A few feet away, Wulfhere rolled grunting and cursing on the floor. Wide-eyed guardsmen saw with fearful horror that he seemed to be wrestling with the same man who approached their queen.

With a proud queen’s sense of drama and her dignity-and an awareness of Cormac’s height-Riora Feachtnachis halted at the bottom step but one. Thus her eyes were slightly above the level of Cormac’s. He extended the leathern bag, puffed bulgy with the skull it contained. He rested it on the step at her feet.

“Lady Queen,” he said, “our bargain.”

The man with whom Wulfhere wrestled shrieked in anguish and horrid knowledge; the final death of the Undead wizard was imminent.

“Lady Queen,” Dithorba said, and he handed her a hammer all of iron.

Her light eyes met Cormac’s directly.

“Strike!” he urged, almost shouting.

“Not so fast, Cormac, Champion,” Riora said. “There is another matter we must discuss, first.”

Cormac stared at her. He spoke quietly, his teeth tightly together: “We have a bargain, Riora. My part was to return yourself to the throne. That I have done. Your part is merely to strike this bag with that hammer, to smash the skull of Thulsa Doom.”

“Oh, Cormac,” she murmured, but he gazed implacably. Riora’s face firmed. She lifted her chin haughtily, and Riora spoke for all to hear. “The Queen of the Moyturans will grant the boon you ask, Champion of Moytura, Savior of Moytura… in return for that which Moytura has not-a consort and husband for its queen, and one worthy of her and her people. Yourself, Cormac mac Art!”

Chapter Fifteen:

The Throne of Moytura

“ Lady Queen,” Dithorba said, with reproach and accusation in his voice. “You gave your word; both Torna and I were present! It is as Cormac has stated!”

Her face stiffened still more; her jawline was as if chiseled from stone. Her mouth, insofar as her sensuous lips were capable, assumed a straight line.

Her head lowered slowly, until her eyes met Cormac’s. As a reminder, she tapped the head of the hammer into her palm. “Stay with me, Cormac mac Art, Trenfher na Moytura!”

From behind the grimly staring mac Art, Balan’s voice roared out and echoed from wall to wall of Danu’s temple: “NO man of the GAELS may rule the Tuatha de Danann! There may be no such consort of our queen!”

Riora’s light eyes went cold and hard as diamonds as she stared over Cormac’s head. She lifted an arm; she pointed. “Cormac my darling, my champion-slay that traitor!”

Cormac backed from the steps and moved to one side. The pouch of leather lay at Riora’s feet; still Wulfhere strove to hold the headless Thulsa Doom and still the latter struggled to break free of the huge man. Cormac turned to gaze into Balan’s eyes, and the Danan commander stared no less levelly. Cormac looked again at Riora, who stood with chin high and eyes cold. He waited until she looked again at him.

“I will not ,” he told her.

After a long moment, Riora cried in a voice almost pitiful, “Who rules in Moytura?”

“The queen,” Balan called, “and no other-and never one who is not of the de Danann!”

Cormac’s voice was a mere mutter, which only Riora and Dithorba heard. “A girl, who knows not how to behave herself as a woman, much less a queen… and who does dishonour on herself and her people by breaking her word… and insisting on the impossible.”

Riora swung her eyes and then her head this way and that, as if seeking approval or aid; any sort of reinforcement for her unreasonable and egocentric willfulness. She saw none. All stared, and on the faces of some were worried frowns-nervousness and worry both for herself and her people.

“But… it is my will! It is what I want! Can never a queen have what she wants? Must she belong to her people and the old men who advise her?”

There was no reply.

“Wulfhere,” Cormac said, “release Thulsa Doom.”

Wulfhere still struggled, for though two Danan guardsmen had stabbed his opponent, they sought not to pin Thulsa Doom and so he was unaffected, woundless and strong as ever once their iron blades left his robed body.

“Wha-”

“Release him, Wulfhere!”

Wulfhere objected, and did not understand, and did as his friend demanded.

The headless body rose. It seemed to look this way and that, though without eyes or even a skull to set them in. It rose-and advanced on Riora. The queen cowered against Dithorba, then reached out piteously to Cormac. He put a symbolic additional pace between them and stared coldly at her.

Thulsa Doom approached.

Dithorba could not bear it; again a wall of weak blue fire rose before the stalking horror.

This time Thulsa Doom only paused. Then he, it, walked through the fire. His robe caught at the hem and the yellow flame licked up. The undying wizard reached the foot of the steps-and reached for Riora Feachtnachis.

With a little cry, the fearful queen squatted and brought the iron hammer smashing down onto the leathern pouch Cormac had left at her feet. The hammer struck the bulge of the skull within; all heard it crack and saw the bulge flatten.

Instantly the headless body twitched into gruesome shuffling movement. The unspeakable ancient abomination that was Thulsa Doom lurched into uncontrolled and uncontrollable movement; spastic jerks and twitches took possession of the robe that was his sole manifestation. The queen struck again. The long dark robe convulsed and staggered, shuddered and lurched even as the yellow flames rose up its shifting folds.

Then the flames roared up unnaturally, formed a plume of fierce yellow-white. Straight up that jerking figure they rose in a plume, and-vanished. That which had been Thulsa Doom had turned to ash, like dust that settled to the temple floor as after a windstorm during a drought.

Men murmured; their queen crouched, staring, shivering.

Only then did Cormac return to her.

From beneath her hammer he drew his belt pouch. The bag was limp. He opened its drawstrings, widened the mouth, and upended it. The small quantity of fine, almost transparent dust that sifted down may have been all that remained of that fearsome skull… or it may merely have been dust, in the bag aforetime. Nothing more emerged save those few grains of dust. Cormac held only an unornarnented leathern sack; the pouch that had contained the dread skull of Thulsa Doom was empty.

After eighteen thousand years, a hundred and eighty centuries, Thulsa Doom was dead; permanently dead. Evil incarnate had left the world.

Cormac stared at the woman who crouched on the steps in a manner far less than regal. She looked like an awed, fear-filled girl whose eyes begged for understanding and comfort.

“It is done, Riora. The throne is yours. Tarmur Roag is dead. Your cousin is wounded and your prisoner-and from what I’ve seen of ye, better for him he’d lost his head to Balan’s sword rather than a mere few fingers.”

She stared. Her lips moved. No sound emerged.

“It is done,” he repeated. “Wulfhere and I must return to our own. All the world owes ye a debt, though I’ll not be thanking ye for doing that to which ye were forced.”

She found her voice. The hammer clanked on the steps as her hand moved out to clutch his arm. “Cormac… stay. Be King of Moytura-King of the Danann.”

“I will not. I cannot.”

Her voice lowered and her fingertips stroked the skin of his forearm. “Stay anyhow, then. No crown need be on you. Tarry with me.”

Cormac looked around. Poets, chroniclers, priests-ah!

“Balan! Yon man in the yellow tunic-he wants arresting and questioning. And… all the priests save him.” He pointed.