The castle was ancient, raised by sorcery from the depths of the earth in
some long-forgotten age, and Sarah felt the vast weight of its history
bearing down on her as they climbed upward. Jareth's movements were far
too elegant to be accurately described as "sneaking" per se, but he was
definitely being very careful about how he placed his feet. Sarah slid her
fingers across the cold stones as they progressed, shivering as she
imagined the guttural echo of nameless voices that had once filled the
keep, now vanished even from legend. The passageway was steeped in a
strange sadness, and she wondered what this place might have been like in a
happier time - or if there had ever been happier times. It could never
have had a cheerful atmosphere, given its looming bulk and its persistent
chill, but maybe honor and valor had found a home here once. Sarah felt a
poignant pang of regret that its archaic nobility had been tarnished with
something much fouler - namely that repugnant little creep Duath.
They climbed the round stair until Sarah thought her head would twist itself off, and she realized that either the oubliette had been buried a long ways underground or they had climbed up some of the tower proper. They finally arrived at a wooden door, locked and bound in black iron. Jareth set his ear against the wood and listened for a long moment, then whispered, "I hear nothing. We may be walking directly into a trap."
"But any sane person would be spending his time getting as far away from Duath as possible," Sarah argued, more to convince herself than him. "The last thing he's going to expect is a direct attack on the home fort. This premise works for lots of the heroes in my favorite books."
The left corner of Jareth's mouth twitched. "These were biographical accounts?" he asked.
"Fiction is an expression of the greater truths in life," Sarah snapped.
"How true," Jareth murmured, and set his finger against the lock. There was a spark, the smell of singed wood, and Jareth smothered a yelp as he snatched his hand back. Concerned, Sarah started to reach for the injured member, but he conjured a crystal and broke it over his finger before she got to it and the angry redness quickly disappeared. Sarah filed that away under the growing list of things for which magic was truly handy.
Spells clearly weren't universal solutions, however. Jareth kicked the door and growled, "Orieth, probably made by some long-dead wizard to foil surreptitious invaders. The door is practically covered in the stuff, and I wouldn't be surprised if it ran through the walls as well."
Sarah squeezed up next to him in the narrow hall and peered at the lock. It looked old and solid and it gave her an idea. "Can you make me a thin metal rod, about four inches long, with a half-inch bend at the end of it?" Jareth gave her that all-too-familiar look which implied that he wasn't openly questioning her sanity because he was too much the gentleman, but complied with a flick of his wrist. It turned out that Underground inches were quite a bit longer than the ones Sarah was used to, but after a few tries they got something that looked right. She stuck the rod into the lock and felt gently for pins, then smiled triumphantly. She had been right - the lock was old and simple. "Fantastic," she grinned. "Now I need a nail file."
That concept took a little longer, but eventually she got a flat iron stick and stuck it into the lock next to the pick. A little torque, a little wiggling, a little scrubbing back and forth and the lock turned. "Presto!" Sarah said. "Who knew that breaking into dorm rooms would be such a useful skill?" She was flushed with satisfaction at being able to show off in front of Jareth, and recklessly pushed the door open with a grand flourish.
He responded by throwing himself on top of her and bearing them both to the floor. Sarah blinked up into darkness and whispered, "Ah. Not so smart, was that?"
Jareth put a hand over her mouth and listened hard for at least a minute, turning his head slowly from one side to the other. Sarah had just decided that her need for air superceded caution and was about to poke him in the ribs when he abruptly lifted himself off her and hauled her to her feet. Putting his lips next to her ear, he snarled, "You are the most brilliant and most idiotic person I have ever met. I fear I am doomed to a life of constantly fearing for your bodily safety."
Sarah's stomach fluttered. Did he say "life?" As in spending his life worrying about her? As in having her with him, so that he should be in a position to worry about her? Firmly ordering herself to get a grip, she determinedly squelched the internal butterflies. She was probably making a mountain out of a molehill anyway; people used that sort of phrase every day without thinking about it.
Now that her eyes had had time to adjust, Sarah saw that the blackness was by no means complete. Dim, gloaming light filtered through wooden shutters drawn across windows high up in the wall. Shapes began to distinguish themselves, and Sarah realized that the low tables and massive hearths could only belong in a kitchen. Of course - where else would the stairs from the storeroom come out? There was also a faint metallic ringing that she heard at irregular intervals, but couldn't place.
Jareth moved to the broad door set in the far wall and whispered three words: "Fighting. Be cautious."
He pushed the door open a crack, listened, then slipped through the narrow opening, motioning to Sarah to follow him. As soon as she was through the door, the metallic ringing became much louder. It sounded like a host of badly tuned bells, and Sarah felt sick as she realized that people were probably dying somewhere in the keep at that very moment.
They began moving toward the sound of fighting, proceeding slowly at first, but gradually with less and less caution. A feeling of urgency blossomed in Sarah's breast and her footsteps quickened unconsciously. The metallic ringing of battle became a driving beat, the chime of a hundred voices crying, "Hurry! Hurry!" When they finally found the source of the noise, they were practically running. In fact, Sarah nearly flew out right into the middle of the hall and was only restrained by Jareth's iron grip. He dragged her back from the entrance into the shadow of an adjacent alcove, pressing a finger against his lips, and they looked out onto the aftermath of war.
The hall was long and low with thick wooden beams arching overhead and a raised platform at the far end. In the middle of the hall, the architect had used bracing of black, flint-flecked stone instead of wood, and the dark material circled the hall in a great arch. Even the marble underneath that arch was black, except for where it was smeared with scarlet. A dark throne was placed on the dais, and in the throne slumped the motionless form of a white-haired man. Sarah couldn't tell if he was alive or dead, but the floor of the hall was strewn with at least a dozen bodies of men whose deaths were not at all ambiguous. She stared in horror at the blood splashed across the walls and pooled on the floor, unaware that her face had turned as white as a sheet and that her nails were leaving bruising marks on Jareth's hands. In the center of the hall, the two remaining combatants hacked wildly at each other with broad, bright swords that shone red. From the gold bird of prey embroidered on his surcoat, Sarah identified one of the last two fighters as Duath.
She hoped with all her heart that his assailant would chop Duath's head off, but the other man seemed to be having a rough time of it. He was already grievously wounded, scarlet rivulets running down his right side from beneath his arm, and even Sarah could tell that he wouldn't last long. As they watched, Duath raised his arm and moved in for a mighty stroke. The other man blocked desperately, and above the ringing blow shouted, "My lord! You must reconsider!"
Duath just snarled and came at him again. The poor fellow retreated, stumbling over the bodies of his companions as he yelled, "We came here with swords sheathed to reason with you, my lord! We swore oath and remained faithful to the end. Can you not see that what you do is madness, utter madness?" He came to the wall at the far side of the hall and stopped. There was nowhere else for him to go.
It happened too fast for Sarah to follow. Duath closed in amidst a flurry of blows, and suddenly the other man fell lifeless to the floor, Duath's sword buried in his neck. The warlord of Tir-na-nOg pulled off his helmet, his hair falling in a black river down his back, and causally spat on the body. Turning toward the dais, he strolled arrogantly through the carnage, calling, "You see, Father? There is no one to help you."
The white-haired figure on the dark throne raised its head to reveal a pale, lined face. Although the rest of the man's body slouched down in the throne, the very picture of defeat, there was something defiant in the cast of his head. When he spoke, the voice was not the reedy piping of an old man, but the rich baritone of a general. "Do not call me 'Father,' Malocoli, for I have disowned you from my House."
"I'm wounded, Father," Duath said, placing a mailed fist on his breast. "I shall be the instrument of restoring our House to greatness! Not so long ago you still had faith in me. Will you not ride with me, as you once did?"
The old man said sadly, "I never rode with you but to restrain you, boy. Once, the weight of my fist was enough to keep you in check - but now it falls more lightly, and you have passed beyond my reach. I helped you when I believed your purpose to be simply the reopening of the Winter Gate, but now you tread a condemned road. Mind well your current purpose: would leave such a world to your children?"
Duath threw back his head and laughed, a harsh and ugly sound that ricocheted from the stones and fell like knives on Sarah's ears. "My children!" he shouted. "You live to see the last of our House, Draeda, for I shall have no children. The last of our House, yes, but not the end, for I will live forever and rule all the world!"
"Then Yavvah, once your dearest friend, spoke true. You are utterly mad," Draeda Duath said.
"I care not for your ramblings," Duath sneered dismissively. "The signs are right, the worlds aligned: it is time. Goodbye, Father." Raising his voice, he cried a few words in a very weird, very ugly, very wrong-sounding language. A handful of the nasty creatures that now populated Duath's army bounded into the room, chittering gleefully. They swarmed around the throne, pawing and groping at the old man, and Sarah realized that he was tied up. Duath directed the creatures to cut the bonds that held his father to the throne, then had them drag the old man down the hall toward the alcove where Jareth and Sarah crouched in horror.
Just before the bracing of black stone in the center of the hall, Draeda cried, "The Mages of each realm will know of your plan. The very earth shudders in repugnance at your doings, and even this Labyrinth of yours works to stop you!"
Duath motioned to his soldiers to keep hauling. "A touching final appeal," he scoffed.
The twisted creatures dragged Draeda to a spot on the floor less than twenty-five feet from where Sarah and Jareth hid. Duath then made his servants clear away the bodies from a circular area on the floor. Sarah felt like the demon cronies were practically on top of them, and at any moment one of them was bound to look up or drag his gruesome burden into their little alcove. Although none of them approached, a few did cast glances her way. When that happened, a film of darkness seemed to collect in front of her eyes, and when it passed the creatures had moved on and were continuing about their business. Sarah didn't know if it was Jareth, the Labyrinth, or even she herself doing it unconsciously, but she issued a silent prayer of thanks to whoever it was.
As the floor was cleared, a thin pattern of green inlay in the marble was uncovered. It must have been thousands of years old because it was worn down almost to nothing by the tread of countless feet, and in some spots was missing altogether. It seemed to be a depiction of water or trees or some waving green thing. When Draeda saw it, he raised his eyes to his son and laughed. It was a dead, hopeless sound. "You fool," he said dully. "This pattern lost its power ages ago. The darkest Gate is conjured from madness and blood, not a drawing on a floor, and the price of its opening is terrible."
Beside her, Jareth froze. "By all the powers on earth," he whispered. "Surely not. . . "
For a moment Jareth hesitated, caught in his own disbelief. That brief delay came at an unfortunate and critical time. Before Jareth started moving to blast Duath from existence (and probably himself as well, but Jareth thought that price well worth it), Duath began chanting and the power of the ritual flooded into the hall like polluted water. Jareth, Sarah, Draeda, and even the malformed soldiers were caught in its stifling grip, unable to move or speak. The only person unaffected by the grim stasis was Duath himself at the center of the spell. He moved his arms and hands in emphasis of the words as he intoned the incantation and Sarah was seized with a deep, instinctive fear. Something terrible was about to happen, something worse than she had ever imagined and which the earth itself abhorred. She felt the power within her rising like a struggling animal, but the pressure of Duath's dark words bottled it up. She grew acutely aware of her own heartbeat and of the struggle to draw in one breath after another.
Duath reached the end of his spell. He clapped his hands together and drew a gleaming knife from his belt. Sarah's stomach lurched and she squeezed her eyes shut, knowing what would come next.
"I shed the blood of my friend," Duath chanted, "I shed the blood of my servant, I shed the blood of my father." Sarah bit her lip to keep from screaming and tasted the tang of her own blood against her teeth. There was a cry, a soft slapping sound, and suddenly the hall was filled with a tremendous roaring and the pressure lifted as wind whipped through her hair.
Sarah cracked her eyes open and saw the poor crumpled figure of Draeda, a red river running from beneath him. He didn't appear to be dead - in fact, it looked as if Duath had stabbed him in the side, and now Draeda was curled around the wound like a child protecting itself from further harm, but Sarah knew he couldn't lose that much blood and last for long. Duath himself was standing with arms raised, hands stained red, and in front of him was a vortex of pure nightmare.
It was like the rift that had brought Sarah to Tir-na-nOg, but darker and fiercer. It pulsed with purpose, and somehow seemed to expand while at the same time delving down into itself. It grew and grew until it practically touched the ceiling of the hall, and the demon soldiers surrounding Duath began to chant, "Fomhoire, Fomhoire."
"What is it?" Sarah whimpered.
"Very ancient," Jareth said hoarsely. "They are the source of our blackest myths. They came from the deep places of the oceans, seeking to conquer the world when it was young. They were defeated and sealed away in a dark prison long ago."
The chanting of Duath's creatures changed. "Balor, Balor," they repeated, undulating their bodies in time with the syllables.
Through the swirling vortex, a clawed hand emerged. It was at least as long as Duath was tall. The soldiers at the base of the storm went wild, howling and gyrating and cavorting about, screaming incoherently. The thing behind the hand seemed to be having some trouble getting out of the vortex, as if it was having to climb up a very steep hill. "Please let it fall back in," Sarah begged silently. "Let it fall away and leave forever."
But Duath had worked his spell too well. Slowly but surely, inch by loathsome inch, the King of the Fomhoire pushed himself into Tir-na-nOg. He was a bulky, muscled monstrosity, a scaled and scarred giant standing at least twenty feet high. He bowed beneath the roof of the hall and his long green hair dripped with seawater. The demon soldiers piled around his feet like flies, and his cold serpentine eyes spared them enough attention to hurl them from him with a flick of his huge claw. Turning his ponderous muzzle to Duath, he hissed in an ancient and cracked voice, "Art thou he who hath opened this dark Gate?"
"Yes, O Balor, King of the Sea!" Duath cried, bowing. "An army of your servants stands ready to invade both the Underground and the Upper Country. We await only the breaking of the seal on the Black Gate."
The great grizzled mouth cracked open in a horrible smile. "Then all is in readiness. And thy price, little man? What wouldst thou claim as thy prize for betraying thy people?"
"Immortality, my King," Duath answered immediately. "To rule beneath you and serve you always."
"Ah." A huge green eye blinked lazily at the human standing so earnestly and incongruously in front of the ancient King of the Seapeople. "I would give thee all that thy heart desires and more," Balor said, voice dripping with false regret, "but I have many sons and daughters who wait to follow me and possess this lush earth, as we have dreamed for uncounted ages. Immortality I shall grant thee - we shall eternally raise our voices to thy memory on the anniversary of this day, as the author of our release." The King stepped forward with clear intent.
"My King!" Duath cried in alarm, backing away and gesturing down to where Draeda lay curled. "Fresh meat for you, still living!"
"Thou seekest to tempt me with a gift that is already mine," the King of the Fomhoire chuckled. "Such an insult shall not be forgiven!" With one swift lunge, Balor impaled Duath on his claw, threw back his huge head, and ripped him asunder, swallowing him in two great gulps.
Sarah's mind reeled in shock. Things were spiraling way out of their control. Balor had to be stopped, but she had no idea how they were going to do that. At least Duath had been human! She turned to Jareth, eyes beseeching. The look on his face - equal parts determination and hopelessness - made her blood run cold.
"Stay here," he commanded her, adding a surge of power behind the words. She suddenly felt like her legs were locked in iron.
"What are you doing?" she hissed. "Let me go!"
He didn't respond. Instead, he drew his silver sword and stepped out into the hall. "Balor!" Jareth roared. The ponderous head turned toward him in surprise.
"Another man," the Sea King remarked. "And what shall I give thee? A throne beside Duath, where thou shalt rule through all the ages?" The terrible sneer in Balor's voice made Sarah quake.
"Only one thing can you give me," Jareth said. "Your death!" As quick as lightening, Jareth whipped back his arm and threw his sword at the King's enormous chest. The weapon flew straight and true, striking deep into Balor's flesh. The Sea King roared in pain and reared back, clawing at his wound. With a wild yell, Jareth fell upon the King and struck him with his bare fist, the raw power of sorcery flowing down his arm and out through his hand, and the smell of burning hide filled the air. Jareth struck again and again, each time with the force of a thunderbolt, and the Sea King seemed to shrink into himself. Sarah clapped her hands in jubilation. Jareth was winning!
All at once, however, Balor flung his arms wide and seemed to grow even larger than he had first appeared. Sarah suddenly noticed in utter dismay that he bore no mark, not even at the place where she had seen him struck, and he held Jareth's sword in his hand, flaming red. Growling in anger, Balor swung for the Goblin King - and Sarah saw, as if in slow motion, the arc of the blow come under Jareth's guard. She saw the blade bite deep into his side, its inexorable and deadly path taking it just underneath his heart. Even now, she knew, his left lung would be filling with blood. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, a slow thudding. Balor released the hilt and Jareth fell to his knees. Her Goblin King never looked in her direction - even at the end, he sought to protect her - but kept his gaze trained on Balor's face as he toppled sideways to the slick marble.
Sarah wasn't even conscious of moving. She was only aware of reaching him, flinging herself to her knees beside him and pressing her face against his bloody cheek. His body had gone so still. She looked into his strange eyes and stroked his wild hair, pressing her finger gently against his mouth when he tried to move his lips. "Don't speak," she whispered. "There is nothing that needs to be said." Drawing his head gently into her lap, Sarah closed her eyes and a single tear tracked from under the lid down to her chin.
Balor. Balor had done this. If he remained free, he would continue on to destroy everything she had ever loved and everything that was good about life. A rage like nothing she had ever experienced exploded inside her and she raised her head to look at the Sea King standing over her, his great paw raised to draw her away from her beloved. Her power rose eagerly to her call, a liquid fire that poured through her veins, but she knew that it was not enough. The Fomhoire were of an older time and their King would not mind her small magic. Instead of reaching outward to her enemy, Sarah dove inward.
She felt the force of life running through her, the sweet energy that fed her mind and body, and instinct drove her deeper. She plunged into the secret depths of herself, searching for the wild, dark place that she somehow knew was there - the kernel at the heart of every living creature that bound her to the earth in the most fundamental way. And there, in the silence of her innermost being, she felt a stirring like the awakening of some massive beast.
Help me, she begged. The earth beneath her moved in response. The slow, steady might of Tir-na-nOg rose up around her and she felt the passionate, wild energy of the Underground mingle with the cool, calm force of the Upper Country, flowing to her aid. All around her, she sensed the pulse of life as the worlds swelled to her call and poured their power into her. Even Jareth's dim spark, flickering fainter every moment, rose to help her fight her enemy. She was the vessel of the desire experienced by all living things for survival and freedom, and she knew she must succeed. Opening her eyes, she directed the force within her at the giant Sea King and growled, "Back."
Balor snarled. He recognized this threat - this was how he had first been sealed in his dark prison ages ago by the white-robed men who called themselves Druids. He sprang for the weak and puny girl below him, intending to crush the life from her before she could bring the entire world to bear against him, but Sarah was too quick for him and he was hurled backward by the power radiating from her tiny hand.
"This earth shall not be ruled by you," Sarah said with unshakeable conviction. She raised her arms and pushed him back towards the darkest Gate, and every living thing on every world helped her. The crashing rivers and ageless rocks pressed Balor back into his prison, the growing things of the earth wove a new barrier where Duath had ripped it open, and the fierceness of the sun sealed it closed.
The Sea King was gone. He had lost, and Sarah had won. Slowly the power she had borrowed to protect her world drained from her, leaving her feeling like she was a million years old and weak as a mouse. The hall was utterly still. The demon soldiers had been flung back into the abyss with their King and she was left alone with the dead and the dying. Sarah bent her head over Jareth's face and wept. He still breathed, but the rise and fall of his chest grew shallower every moment. She couldn't bear to see his flesh torn and mangled, so she brought the magic within her to bear (how insignificant it seemed now!) and sealed the great rent in his side. He had lost far too much blood, however, and was beyond the healing powers of either magic or science.
Behind her, Draeda coughed. In some corner of her mind, Sarah registered that he was also still alive, but she could not be distracted from her grief. It wasn't until Draeda managed to twist himself around and kick her foot that she turned her head dully to look at him, eyes swimming with tears.
"Dead?" Draeda asked.
"Not yet," Sarah whispered. "Very soon."
Draeda have a huge, wracking cough and his lips were slick with cherry-red fluid. "I, too. Great victory can only come at a great cost. His life and mine are but a small part of the sacrifices made to stop my son. The seal on the Black Gate was destroyed when Balor came into Tir-na-nOg. The worlds will be able to heal now; do not despair."
"How - " Sarah's voice caught in the back of her throat, so she coughed and tried again. "How can I not despair? The man I love more than I ever thought possible is dying in my arms. Isn't there something I can do?"
"Death comes to us all in the end, even in Tir-na-nOg," Draeda rasped. "His life energy is spent. My heart grieves for you, but he died with honor."
"And what a bitter consolation that is," Sarah muttered. "It's not fair! If only I could give him some of my life energy, I felt it flowing so strongly through me just now. . . "
Sarah paused. She thought about what she had just said. There was no way she could know if it was even possible or if it would kill both of them or if it would just blow up in her face, but she didn't hesitate for a single instant. Grabbing Jareth's cold hands in hers, Sarah reached inside herself for the flowing energy she had felt there earlier. It was like a golden river of warmth, and she seized it and forced it down her arms and through her fingers, out her skin and into him. Pain blindsided her and she whimpered in shock, but forced herself to continue. Ye gods, she thought, this must be what it's like to get skinned alive. The agony was incredible, beyond anything she had ever imagined, but she hung onto his hands and grimly poured her life into him for what felt like hours.
After a very long time, Sarah felt that pushing the flow towards Jareth was becoming more and more difficult. The energy began to wash backwards, spilling back into herself, and Sarah knew she had given all she could. Her head felt muzzy and her vision seemed to be telescoping into blackness. Slumping over his body, she put a shaking hand on his chest. It moved - once, then twice, then steadily and evenly. Sarah was too spent to feel more than the embers of satisfaction, and she wanted nothing more than to get out of that hall. She turned to Draeda for help and met the glassy, fixed stare of a dead man. "Poor fellow," she whispered.
Staggering to her feet, she hooked her hands under Jareth's armpits and strained to pull him gracelessly down the hall to the wide band of black stone. After the darkest Gate, the Black Gate was child's play and hummed to life at her touch, collecting swirling darkness to lie in a thick sheet across the hall. Setting her teeth and heaving with all that was left of her failing strength, she dragged Jareth through the doorway into the Underground.
They climbed the round stair until Sarah thought her head would twist itself off, and she realized that either the oubliette had been buried a long ways underground or they had climbed up some of the tower proper. They finally arrived at a wooden door, locked and bound in black iron. Jareth set his ear against the wood and listened for a long moment, then whispered, "I hear nothing. We may be walking directly into a trap."
"But any sane person would be spending his time getting as far away from Duath as possible," Sarah argued, more to convince herself than him. "The last thing he's going to expect is a direct attack on the home fort. This premise works for lots of the heroes in my favorite books."
The left corner of Jareth's mouth twitched. "These were biographical accounts?" he asked.
"Fiction is an expression of the greater truths in life," Sarah snapped.
"How true," Jareth murmured, and set his finger against the lock. There was a spark, the smell of singed wood, and Jareth smothered a yelp as he snatched his hand back. Concerned, Sarah started to reach for the injured member, but he conjured a crystal and broke it over his finger before she got to it and the angry redness quickly disappeared. Sarah filed that away under the growing list of things for which magic was truly handy.
Spells clearly weren't universal solutions, however. Jareth kicked the door and growled, "Orieth, probably made by some long-dead wizard to foil surreptitious invaders. The door is practically covered in the stuff, and I wouldn't be surprised if it ran through the walls as well."
Sarah squeezed up next to him in the narrow hall and peered at the lock. It looked old and solid and it gave her an idea. "Can you make me a thin metal rod, about four inches long, with a half-inch bend at the end of it?" Jareth gave her that all-too-familiar look which implied that he wasn't openly questioning her sanity because he was too much the gentleman, but complied with a flick of his wrist. It turned out that Underground inches were quite a bit longer than the ones Sarah was used to, but after a few tries they got something that looked right. She stuck the rod into the lock and felt gently for pins, then smiled triumphantly. She had been right - the lock was old and simple. "Fantastic," she grinned. "Now I need a nail file."
That concept took a little longer, but eventually she got a flat iron stick and stuck it into the lock next to the pick. A little torque, a little wiggling, a little scrubbing back and forth and the lock turned. "Presto!" Sarah said. "Who knew that breaking into dorm rooms would be such a useful skill?" She was flushed with satisfaction at being able to show off in front of Jareth, and recklessly pushed the door open with a grand flourish.
He responded by throwing himself on top of her and bearing them both to the floor. Sarah blinked up into darkness and whispered, "Ah. Not so smart, was that?"
Jareth put a hand over her mouth and listened hard for at least a minute, turning his head slowly from one side to the other. Sarah had just decided that her need for air superceded caution and was about to poke him in the ribs when he abruptly lifted himself off her and hauled her to her feet. Putting his lips next to her ear, he snarled, "You are the most brilliant and most idiotic person I have ever met. I fear I am doomed to a life of constantly fearing for your bodily safety."
Sarah's stomach fluttered. Did he say "life?" As in spending his life worrying about her? As in having her with him, so that he should be in a position to worry about her? Firmly ordering herself to get a grip, she determinedly squelched the internal butterflies. She was probably making a mountain out of a molehill anyway; people used that sort of phrase every day without thinking about it.
Now that her eyes had had time to adjust, Sarah saw that the blackness was by no means complete. Dim, gloaming light filtered through wooden shutters drawn across windows high up in the wall. Shapes began to distinguish themselves, and Sarah realized that the low tables and massive hearths could only belong in a kitchen. Of course - where else would the stairs from the storeroom come out? There was also a faint metallic ringing that she heard at irregular intervals, but couldn't place.
Jareth moved to the broad door set in the far wall and whispered three words: "Fighting. Be cautious."
He pushed the door open a crack, listened, then slipped through the narrow opening, motioning to Sarah to follow him. As soon as she was through the door, the metallic ringing became much louder. It sounded like a host of badly tuned bells, and Sarah felt sick as she realized that people were probably dying somewhere in the keep at that very moment.
They began moving toward the sound of fighting, proceeding slowly at first, but gradually with less and less caution. A feeling of urgency blossomed in Sarah's breast and her footsteps quickened unconsciously. The metallic ringing of battle became a driving beat, the chime of a hundred voices crying, "Hurry! Hurry!" When they finally found the source of the noise, they were practically running. In fact, Sarah nearly flew out right into the middle of the hall and was only restrained by Jareth's iron grip. He dragged her back from the entrance into the shadow of an adjacent alcove, pressing a finger against his lips, and they looked out onto the aftermath of war.
The hall was long and low with thick wooden beams arching overhead and a raised platform at the far end. In the middle of the hall, the architect had used bracing of black, flint-flecked stone instead of wood, and the dark material circled the hall in a great arch. Even the marble underneath that arch was black, except for where it was smeared with scarlet. A dark throne was placed on the dais, and in the throne slumped the motionless form of a white-haired man. Sarah couldn't tell if he was alive or dead, but the floor of the hall was strewn with at least a dozen bodies of men whose deaths were not at all ambiguous. She stared in horror at the blood splashed across the walls and pooled on the floor, unaware that her face had turned as white as a sheet and that her nails were leaving bruising marks on Jareth's hands. In the center of the hall, the two remaining combatants hacked wildly at each other with broad, bright swords that shone red. From the gold bird of prey embroidered on his surcoat, Sarah identified one of the last two fighters as Duath.
She hoped with all her heart that his assailant would chop Duath's head off, but the other man seemed to be having a rough time of it. He was already grievously wounded, scarlet rivulets running down his right side from beneath his arm, and even Sarah could tell that he wouldn't last long. As they watched, Duath raised his arm and moved in for a mighty stroke. The other man blocked desperately, and above the ringing blow shouted, "My lord! You must reconsider!"
Duath just snarled and came at him again. The poor fellow retreated, stumbling over the bodies of his companions as he yelled, "We came here with swords sheathed to reason with you, my lord! We swore oath and remained faithful to the end. Can you not see that what you do is madness, utter madness?" He came to the wall at the far side of the hall and stopped. There was nowhere else for him to go.
It happened too fast for Sarah to follow. Duath closed in amidst a flurry of blows, and suddenly the other man fell lifeless to the floor, Duath's sword buried in his neck. The warlord of Tir-na-nOg pulled off his helmet, his hair falling in a black river down his back, and causally spat on the body. Turning toward the dais, he strolled arrogantly through the carnage, calling, "You see, Father? There is no one to help you."
The white-haired figure on the dark throne raised its head to reveal a pale, lined face. Although the rest of the man's body slouched down in the throne, the very picture of defeat, there was something defiant in the cast of his head. When he spoke, the voice was not the reedy piping of an old man, but the rich baritone of a general. "Do not call me 'Father,' Malocoli, for I have disowned you from my House."
"I'm wounded, Father," Duath said, placing a mailed fist on his breast. "I shall be the instrument of restoring our House to greatness! Not so long ago you still had faith in me. Will you not ride with me, as you once did?"
The old man said sadly, "I never rode with you but to restrain you, boy. Once, the weight of my fist was enough to keep you in check - but now it falls more lightly, and you have passed beyond my reach. I helped you when I believed your purpose to be simply the reopening of the Winter Gate, but now you tread a condemned road. Mind well your current purpose: would leave such a world to your children?"
Duath threw back his head and laughed, a harsh and ugly sound that ricocheted from the stones and fell like knives on Sarah's ears. "My children!" he shouted. "You live to see the last of our House, Draeda, for I shall have no children. The last of our House, yes, but not the end, for I will live forever and rule all the world!"
"Then Yavvah, once your dearest friend, spoke true. You are utterly mad," Draeda Duath said.
"I care not for your ramblings," Duath sneered dismissively. "The signs are right, the worlds aligned: it is time. Goodbye, Father." Raising his voice, he cried a few words in a very weird, very ugly, very wrong-sounding language. A handful of the nasty creatures that now populated Duath's army bounded into the room, chittering gleefully. They swarmed around the throne, pawing and groping at the old man, and Sarah realized that he was tied up. Duath directed the creatures to cut the bonds that held his father to the throne, then had them drag the old man down the hall toward the alcove where Jareth and Sarah crouched in horror.
Just before the bracing of black stone in the center of the hall, Draeda cried, "The Mages of each realm will know of your plan. The very earth shudders in repugnance at your doings, and even this Labyrinth of yours works to stop you!"
Duath motioned to his soldiers to keep hauling. "A touching final appeal," he scoffed.
The twisted creatures dragged Draeda to a spot on the floor less than twenty-five feet from where Sarah and Jareth hid. Duath then made his servants clear away the bodies from a circular area on the floor. Sarah felt like the demon cronies were practically on top of them, and at any moment one of them was bound to look up or drag his gruesome burden into their little alcove. Although none of them approached, a few did cast glances her way. When that happened, a film of darkness seemed to collect in front of her eyes, and when it passed the creatures had moved on and were continuing about their business. Sarah didn't know if it was Jareth, the Labyrinth, or even she herself doing it unconsciously, but she issued a silent prayer of thanks to whoever it was.
As the floor was cleared, a thin pattern of green inlay in the marble was uncovered. It must have been thousands of years old because it was worn down almost to nothing by the tread of countless feet, and in some spots was missing altogether. It seemed to be a depiction of water or trees or some waving green thing. When Draeda saw it, he raised his eyes to his son and laughed. It was a dead, hopeless sound. "You fool," he said dully. "This pattern lost its power ages ago. The darkest Gate is conjured from madness and blood, not a drawing on a floor, and the price of its opening is terrible."
Beside her, Jareth froze. "By all the powers on earth," he whispered. "Surely not. . . "
For a moment Jareth hesitated, caught in his own disbelief. That brief delay came at an unfortunate and critical time. Before Jareth started moving to blast Duath from existence (and probably himself as well, but Jareth thought that price well worth it), Duath began chanting and the power of the ritual flooded into the hall like polluted water. Jareth, Sarah, Draeda, and even the malformed soldiers were caught in its stifling grip, unable to move or speak. The only person unaffected by the grim stasis was Duath himself at the center of the spell. He moved his arms and hands in emphasis of the words as he intoned the incantation and Sarah was seized with a deep, instinctive fear. Something terrible was about to happen, something worse than she had ever imagined and which the earth itself abhorred. She felt the power within her rising like a struggling animal, but the pressure of Duath's dark words bottled it up. She grew acutely aware of her own heartbeat and of the struggle to draw in one breath after another.
Duath reached the end of his spell. He clapped his hands together and drew a gleaming knife from his belt. Sarah's stomach lurched and she squeezed her eyes shut, knowing what would come next.
"I shed the blood of my friend," Duath chanted, "I shed the blood of my servant, I shed the blood of my father." Sarah bit her lip to keep from screaming and tasted the tang of her own blood against her teeth. There was a cry, a soft slapping sound, and suddenly the hall was filled with a tremendous roaring and the pressure lifted as wind whipped through her hair.
Sarah cracked her eyes open and saw the poor crumpled figure of Draeda, a red river running from beneath him. He didn't appear to be dead - in fact, it looked as if Duath had stabbed him in the side, and now Draeda was curled around the wound like a child protecting itself from further harm, but Sarah knew he couldn't lose that much blood and last for long. Duath himself was standing with arms raised, hands stained red, and in front of him was a vortex of pure nightmare.
It was like the rift that had brought Sarah to Tir-na-nOg, but darker and fiercer. It pulsed with purpose, and somehow seemed to expand while at the same time delving down into itself. It grew and grew until it practically touched the ceiling of the hall, and the demon soldiers surrounding Duath began to chant, "Fomhoire, Fomhoire."
"What is it?" Sarah whimpered.
"Very ancient," Jareth said hoarsely. "They are the source of our blackest myths. They came from the deep places of the oceans, seeking to conquer the world when it was young. They were defeated and sealed away in a dark prison long ago."
The chanting of Duath's creatures changed. "Balor, Balor," they repeated, undulating their bodies in time with the syllables.
Through the swirling vortex, a clawed hand emerged. It was at least as long as Duath was tall. The soldiers at the base of the storm went wild, howling and gyrating and cavorting about, screaming incoherently. The thing behind the hand seemed to be having some trouble getting out of the vortex, as if it was having to climb up a very steep hill. "Please let it fall back in," Sarah begged silently. "Let it fall away and leave forever."
But Duath had worked his spell too well. Slowly but surely, inch by loathsome inch, the King of the Fomhoire pushed himself into Tir-na-nOg. He was a bulky, muscled monstrosity, a scaled and scarred giant standing at least twenty feet high. He bowed beneath the roof of the hall and his long green hair dripped with seawater. The demon soldiers piled around his feet like flies, and his cold serpentine eyes spared them enough attention to hurl them from him with a flick of his huge claw. Turning his ponderous muzzle to Duath, he hissed in an ancient and cracked voice, "Art thou he who hath opened this dark Gate?"
"Yes, O Balor, King of the Sea!" Duath cried, bowing. "An army of your servants stands ready to invade both the Underground and the Upper Country. We await only the breaking of the seal on the Black Gate."
The great grizzled mouth cracked open in a horrible smile. "Then all is in readiness. And thy price, little man? What wouldst thou claim as thy prize for betraying thy people?"
"Immortality, my King," Duath answered immediately. "To rule beneath you and serve you always."
"Ah." A huge green eye blinked lazily at the human standing so earnestly and incongruously in front of the ancient King of the Seapeople. "I would give thee all that thy heart desires and more," Balor said, voice dripping with false regret, "but I have many sons and daughters who wait to follow me and possess this lush earth, as we have dreamed for uncounted ages. Immortality I shall grant thee - we shall eternally raise our voices to thy memory on the anniversary of this day, as the author of our release." The King stepped forward with clear intent.
"My King!" Duath cried in alarm, backing away and gesturing down to where Draeda lay curled. "Fresh meat for you, still living!"
"Thou seekest to tempt me with a gift that is already mine," the King of the Fomhoire chuckled. "Such an insult shall not be forgiven!" With one swift lunge, Balor impaled Duath on his claw, threw back his huge head, and ripped him asunder, swallowing him in two great gulps.
Sarah's mind reeled in shock. Things were spiraling way out of their control. Balor had to be stopped, but she had no idea how they were going to do that. At least Duath had been human! She turned to Jareth, eyes beseeching. The look on his face - equal parts determination and hopelessness - made her blood run cold.
"Stay here," he commanded her, adding a surge of power behind the words. She suddenly felt like her legs were locked in iron.
"What are you doing?" she hissed. "Let me go!"
He didn't respond. Instead, he drew his silver sword and stepped out into the hall. "Balor!" Jareth roared. The ponderous head turned toward him in surprise.
"Another man," the Sea King remarked. "And what shall I give thee? A throne beside Duath, where thou shalt rule through all the ages?" The terrible sneer in Balor's voice made Sarah quake.
"Only one thing can you give me," Jareth said. "Your death!" As quick as lightening, Jareth whipped back his arm and threw his sword at the King's enormous chest. The weapon flew straight and true, striking deep into Balor's flesh. The Sea King roared in pain and reared back, clawing at his wound. With a wild yell, Jareth fell upon the King and struck him with his bare fist, the raw power of sorcery flowing down his arm and out through his hand, and the smell of burning hide filled the air. Jareth struck again and again, each time with the force of a thunderbolt, and the Sea King seemed to shrink into himself. Sarah clapped her hands in jubilation. Jareth was winning!
All at once, however, Balor flung his arms wide and seemed to grow even larger than he had first appeared. Sarah suddenly noticed in utter dismay that he bore no mark, not even at the place where she had seen him struck, and he held Jareth's sword in his hand, flaming red. Growling in anger, Balor swung for the Goblin King - and Sarah saw, as if in slow motion, the arc of the blow come under Jareth's guard. She saw the blade bite deep into his side, its inexorable and deadly path taking it just underneath his heart. Even now, she knew, his left lung would be filling with blood. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, a slow thudding. Balor released the hilt and Jareth fell to his knees. Her Goblin King never looked in her direction - even at the end, he sought to protect her - but kept his gaze trained on Balor's face as he toppled sideways to the slick marble.
Sarah wasn't even conscious of moving. She was only aware of reaching him, flinging herself to her knees beside him and pressing her face against his bloody cheek. His body had gone so still. She looked into his strange eyes and stroked his wild hair, pressing her finger gently against his mouth when he tried to move his lips. "Don't speak," she whispered. "There is nothing that needs to be said." Drawing his head gently into her lap, Sarah closed her eyes and a single tear tracked from under the lid down to her chin.
Balor. Balor had done this. If he remained free, he would continue on to destroy everything she had ever loved and everything that was good about life. A rage like nothing she had ever experienced exploded inside her and she raised her head to look at the Sea King standing over her, his great paw raised to draw her away from her beloved. Her power rose eagerly to her call, a liquid fire that poured through her veins, but she knew that it was not enough. The Fomhoire were of an older time and their King would not mind her small magic. Instead of reaching outward to her enemy, Sarah dove inward.
She felt the force of life running through her, the sweet energy that fed her mind and body, and instinct drove her deeper. She plunged into the secret depths of herself, searching for the wild, dark place that she somehow knew was there - the kernel at the heart of every living creature that bound her to the earth in the most fundamental way. And there, in the silence of her innermost being, she felt a stirring like the awakening of some massive beast.
Help me, she begged. The earth beneath her moved in response. The slow, steady might of Tir-na-nOg rose up around her and she felt the passionate, wild energy of the Underground mingle with the cool, calm force of the Upper Country, flowing to her aid. All around her, she sensed the pulse of life as the worlds swelled to her call and poured their power into her. Even Jareth's dim spark, flickering fainter every moment, rose to help her fight her enemy. She was the vessel of the desire experienced by all living things for survival and freedom, and she knew she must succeed. Opening her eyes, she directed the force within her at the giant Sea King and growled, "Back."
Balor snarled. He recognized this threat - this was how he had first been sealed in his dark prison ages ago by the white-robed men who called themselves Druids. He sprang for the weak and puny girl below him, intending to crush the life from her before she could bring the entire world to bear against him, but Sarah was too quick for him and he was hurled backward by the power radiating from her tiny hand.
"This earth shall not be ruled by you," Sarah said with unshakeable conviction. She raised her arms and pushed him back towards the darkest Gate, and every living thing on every world helped her. The crashing rivers and ageless rocks pressed Balor back into his prison, the growing things of the earth wove a new barrier where Duath had ripped it open, and the fierceness of the sun sealed it closed.
The Sea King was gone. He had lost, and Sarah had won. Slowly the power she had borrowed to protect her world drained from her, leaving her feeling like she was a million years old and weak as a mouse. The hall was utterly still. The demon soldiers had been flung back into the abyss with their King and she was left alone with the dead and the dying. Sarah bent her head over Jareth's face and wept. He still breathed, but the rise and fall of his chest grew shallower every moment. She couldn't bear to see his flesh torn and mangled, so she brought the magic within her to bear (how insignificant it seemed now!) and sealed the great rent in his side. He had lost far too much blood, however, and was beyond the healing powers of either magic or science.
Behind her, Draeda coughed. In some corner of her mind, Sarah registered that he was also still alive, but she could not be distracted from her grief. It wasn't until Draeda managed to twist himself around and kick her foot that she turned her head dully to look at him, eyes swimming with tears.
"Dead?" Draeda asked.
"Not yet," Sarah whispered. "Very soon."
Draeda have a huge, wracking cough and his lips were slick with cherry-red fluid. "I, too. Great victory can only come at a great cost. His life and mine are but a small part of the sacrifices made to stop my son. The seal on the Black Gate was destroyed when Balor came into Tir-na-nOg. The worlds will be able to heal now; do not despair."
"How - " Sarah's voice caught in the back of her throat, so she coughed and tried again. "How can I not despair? The man I love more than I ever thought possible is dying in my arms. Isn't there something I can do?"
"Death comes to us all in the end, even in Tir-na-nOg," Draeda rasped. "His life energy is spent. My heart grieves for you, but he died with honor."
"And what a bitter consolation that is," Sarah muttered. "It's not fair! If only I could give him some of my life energy, I felt it flowing so strongly through me just now. . . "
Sarah paused. She thought about what she had just said. There was no way she could know if it was even possible or if it would kill both of them or if it would just blow up in her face, but she didn't hesitate for a single instant. Grabbing Jareth's cold hands in hers, Sarah reached inside herself for the flowing energy she had felt there earlier. It was like a golden river of warmth, and she seized it and forced it down her arms and through her fingers, out her skin and into him. Pain blindsided her and she whimpered in shock, but forced herself to continue. Ye gods, she thought, this must be what it's like to get skinned alive. The agony was incredible, beyond anything she had ever imagined, but she hung onto his hands and grimly poured her life into him for what felt like hours.
After a very long time, Sarah felt that pushing the flow towards Jareth was becoming more and more difficult. The energy began to wash backwards, spilling back into herself, and Sarah knew she had given all she could. Her head felt muzzy and her vision seemed to be telescoping into blackness. Slumping over his body, she put a shaking hand on his chest. It moved - once, then twice, then steadily and evenly. Sarah was too spent to feel more than the embers of satisfaction, and she wanted nothing more than to get out of that hall. She turned to Draeda for help and met the glassy, fixed stare of a dead man. "Poor fellow," she whispered.
Staggering to her feet, she hooked her hands under Jareth's armpits and strained to pull him gracelessly down the hall to the wide band of black stone. After the darkest Gate, the Black Gate was child's play and hummed to life at her touch, collecting swirling darkness to lie in a thick sheet across the hall. Setting her teeth and heaving with all that was left of her failing strength, she dragged Jareth through the doorway into the Underground.