A/N: Dear lords of Dernhire, what's this? Something very odd is happening to Clarice's captors right before her very eyes – and it is definitely not pretty…will Erik be able to come to the rescue?
Chapter Nineteen –
Impending Doom
There was indeed a jewel.
There always had been a jewel.
Long ago, it had been stolen from its rightful owners, and the ruins of an ancient Celtic fortress somewhere along the coast of Ireland, at the towering Cliffs of Moher, had become its hiding place. But the thieves that had taken the jewel had been much too clever to simply leave it there with just any simple kind of means to remind themselves of where it had been placed; no, that would have proved much too easy a case for the would-be finders of the lost gem! No, a much more intricate and thought-provoking map – really more of a gigantic trap – had to be laid…
And so, the thieves had come up with this solution: they would create an entire set of artwork that would lead them back to the jewel, should they forget as they were sometimes wont to do. There would be several pieces in all, and the first would be a painting, which would have clues in it that led to a second painting, which would lead to a statue, and thence on to a mirror, and then a tapestry, and then…the jewel.
But this jewel wasn't just any jewel.
To be sure, this was easily seen by the thing's mere appearance. As large as the curled-up fist of an average-sized woman, it was huge but surprisingly light: its colour was the most glorious, light-filled yellow-gold of the sun's liquid rays that pierced through rain clouds on a spring afternoon. It wasn't simply a jewel, however – it was a necklace, with that great golden gem as its crowning element. Dazzling, sparkling loops of diamonds made up a shining crescent of starlight that fastened around the wearer's neck lightly, effortlessly.
This jewel, named the Mahat-Marandas, was part of a story that had been set into action many years before, by a chain of bizarre events…
A story that would prove to be a marriage of fantasy and reality, horror and wonder, tragedy and bliss…a story that began with the words, Once upon a time…
* * *
It began at dawn one morning. The door of her cell swung open, and Clarice looked up, in half-aware confusion, to the door. In it stood two figures, both cloaked and hooded, their faces and bodies completely hidden. One of them beckoned to her.
"Up…sss…girl." it said. She was rendered unable to move by sudden shock and fear, which brought her fully to reality and out of her uneasy sleep, upon hearing the voice issuing out of the shadows beneath the hood.
Had he just hissed at her?
When she showed no alacrity in responding to the command given to her, the figure who had spoken made a sharp gesture to his companion, and both came forward, advancing on her with hands that were wrapped in filthy rags outstretched…
Clarice shrank back against the wall, a shriek fluttering up in her throat but never coming out, her only noise a feeble, terrified whimper. Blackness welled in the corners of her eyes, and she felt a pressing urge to succumb to the watery feeling in her knees, but she refused to surrender to it. I will not faint! I will not fall on my face in fright before them! I will NOT!
The two cloaked figures that had been sent to retrieve her reached down and took hold of both her arms, hauling her to her feet. Then, together, they escorted her out of her prison cell, taking her – at long last – into the castle beyond. Clarice noted her surroundings with apprehension as they walked: everywhere about her, she saw the rank, crumbling, decaying remains of what had once been a fine Celtic fortress. The walls were blackened with age and soot, smoking torches that glowed a sullen orange placed in sconces all down the length of them, and the stone floor looked as if it was slick in places with mold, while water dripped incessantly from somewhere far off down the corridor, echoing against the stones.
All was dark and foreboding, and from somewhere up ahead of her, a draft of air came – but it was not fresh air. No, instead it was incredibly foul and putrid, and almost warm, as if it came from the nostrils of a huge slumbering dragon. More like an ogre – she had always thought better of dragons.
On and on they walked, and finally she saw a dim glow of light coming from up ahead: a deep red hue, so intense that it reminded her of one thing…
Of blood.
A freezing, awful sensation passed through her then, and caused her to stiffen between her two guards.
Taking this for a balking at their will, the two tightened their grasp on her, as she inhaled sharply with pain: their hands were cold, and so sharp! Almost dragging her along with them, they brought her nearer, nearer, nearer to that awful, blood-red light, and suddenly, a room materialized before them: a huge audience chamber of sorts, with a vaulted ceiling that towered above the stone floor, gigantic gaps in it all over the place, caused by years of disuse and ill-attendance. Beams of hazy white light fell in through them, striking the floor and washing the room in a mix of light and shadow.
Thick stone pillars that reminded her of elephant's legs in their height and breadth stood along the walls, at the doors, garishly carved with horrible, cruel, bloody scenes of war and conquest. Clarice quickly turned her eyes away from these…
And was met by an infinitely more unnerving sight!
There was a huge raised platform at one end of the room, opposite the huge pair of double doors that led into it, and upon it had been set a dark, cruel-looking throne of sorts. No more than thirty paces to its right was another platform, more of a dais, since it was smaller, and upon rested a pedestal. A shaft of light from the broken ceiling fell full upon the top of this, and she could barely make out that something about the size of a dinner plate but not quite as thick rested upon its smooth surface. But to the left of the throne was the thing that filled her with a dire, gnawing dread and terror.
An altar-like stone structure, about which had been thrown garlands of some wilted, black flower, the smell of which was like rotting peat, stood on yet a third dais, with torches set in brass stands on all four of its sides. Yet another cloaked and hooded figure, this one all in black, stood next to it, silent…and waiting.
Clarice could feel herself writhing in her revulsion and fear.
It was then that she realized that there were more of those cloaked and hooded figures about the room; indeed, almost the exact number of the Marquis's men were there, all silent and motionless, seeming – however – to watch her as she was brought forcefully into the room.
Dragging her across the floor, the two guards approached the throne on the dais and suddenly knelt in a deep, reverent bow before it, compelling her to drop to her knees along with them as well. She had barely had the time to wonder what – or whom – it was that they were bowing to, when a velvety, mocking, all-too-familiar laugh issued out of the darkness in the depths of the throne, and suddenly a cloak-swathed figure materialized within it.
Her green eyes narrowed, in absolute hatred and loathing.
Armand leaned forward, continuing to laugh that same, deep-throated, victorious laugh, and she felt his gaze fixed on her.
"Very well done indeed, my lady! A most convincing and moving display of dramatic flair! I applaud you. However," and his voice became all the more sinister as cruel, twisted, manipulative amusement joined with threat bled into its tone, "it is now my duty to tell you that the games are over – this morn, you shall assist us in ending a trial that should have been dealt with long ago."
He leaned back in his throne, waving a gloved hand at his minions who stood nearby.
"Take her away."
Clarice found herself surrounded by several more of the ghastly figures, who wordlessly turned her about and began to lead her from the room.
But as they did so, she heard the Marquis's voice call after her.
"Your eyes betray your thoughts, pretty one – how long ago, they ask?"
A pause full of diabolical exultation.
"Seventeen years this month."
Then she was taken from the chamber.
* * *
The ancient ceremonies of the bloodthirsty, evil Druids of Ireland could have been no more horrifying, no more depraved and morbid, than the scene that now conspired in the audience chamber of the old castle at the Cliffs of Moher.
A heavy, potent cloud of what might have been termed as a kind of foul incense hung on the air, giving to it a kind of mind-numbing haze, while torches burned all about the room. The dais upon which rested the altar, with all of its streaming black garlands, had been prepared for its occupant, while across the room, the object that lay atop the pedestal occasionally gave off a bright, strangely light-filled flash.
Then the action began.
A small, pale figure of a young maiden – a slender girl with pure white skin and a wealth of ebony hair that had been allowed to fall freely down her back and over her shoulders, mingling with the thin, wispy black silk of her Greek goddess-style gown – was brought into the room from one side, hauled along by her cloaked and hooded captors. A hideous music began then: drums, some deep and some more hollow, that were beaten, rhythmic and sinister. The girl was led to the throne that was on one end of the room, and someone made a gesture.
Immediately, the drums stopped, as a menacing, dark figure rose from the throne and came down the steps of the dais towards her, slowly advancing on her.
Then, a voice spoke.
"For seventeen years, we have wandered this contemptible, worthless husk of a world: bound to it by the magic of the ss'elfynsor Shazrat* that followed us here, who closed our portal to the realm from whence we came. For seventeen years, we have searched far and wide for the object of our search, knowing that we might only be returned to our home – our world – by the reunion and then annihilation of the accursed Mahat-Marandas and its bearer. And now, at long last…we have found her."
The figure suddenly whirled on her, and Clarice felt the chilling sensation that a gleaming grin of pure malice and evil had been cast upon her.
"You think that you are the human-child Clarice Boisvert. You have been raised to believe that you are an orphan from your earliest days, a foundling of your house…but now we have come to tell you the truth. For, child, you are no more of this world than we."
Then, a hand reached up from within the depths of the dark cloak that he wore, and, laying hold of the hem of its hood, the figure revealed himself at last, the mass of fabric that had obscured his form for so long dropping to the ground, a huge shadow. Around her, she heard the other figures doing the same, but her eyes could not leave the form before her.
And now she pulled back in horror.
For what she now saw before her was not human – but monster!
Upon a base of four scorpion-like legs rested the upper half of the body, which could almost pass for human-like, but for the two pairs of arms that sprouted from and below the shoulders, and the ridge of jagged, razor-sharp spines that went down the creature's back. The hands had but four fingers to each of them, but all grew out to a length of nine inches, ending in the needlepoints of talons! The thing's entire hide was of a dark, mottled red-black colour, thick and rough, like to the skin of a reptile, and its head – its head was, perhaps, the most horrifying aspect of its entire appearance.
Strands of tangled black hair fell from the dome of the skull, reaching down to the creature's shoulder blades. Its face was terrible with twisted features: gleaming yellow eyes with black pupils like those of a cat, a nose with wide, flaring nostrils, and a wide, long mouth that smirked openly, exulting in her horror and fear, revealing the long white snake fangs that lay within its maw. And from those monstrous lips issued the voice of none other than Armand, the Marquis de Mercier…or the being whom she had thought was the Marquis de Mercier…
Gloating at her, the monster let her see him fully before he spoke again – and when he did, his words cut deep, biting into her soul, into her very mind.
"Not quite what you were expecting, is it? Quite a wonder though, you must admit – everything that you'd ever seen in your worst nightmares come true. Now you see, pretty one, that when you called me a 'monster', you weren't entirely incorrect. However, I – and most of my kind – like to know ourselves by a slightly different name."
The gleaming smile broadened, dripping fangs shining.
"Goblins. Of course, not all goblins are as well endowed as I. You see Grog, and his companion, over there, by the doors?" he continued, in a deadly conversational tone, motioning vaguely at the hulking shapes of the two creatures that he had just mentioned by name. "They are of a different kind of our species. They are Lower Goblins, which are chiefly employed – and allowed to live – because of their sheer brute strength. What paltry defense could hold up against such massive force, such indomitable stubbornness? Not many. Now, I am a Higher Goblin – I and my kind are more cunning, more tenacious and intelligent than our fellows…we are not only able to employ ourselves with more deadly force, but we can also think with the minds of our foes, namely humans and all those like them…"
By now, he had come down the steps to her, scorpion-like legs tapping hollowly against the stone, and his last words were breathed directly into her ears. Then he stepped away, turning from her and going into the center of the room, continuing to speak proudly.
"Oh yes, little beauty, we are very real. If you wish, any one of us could reach out and pinch you," How his voice made her shiver as he said that! "We could do so at this very moment, and then you would have no doubts. Yes, we are more real than you could have imagined, until this day. And yet, it is your imagination that allows you to know us for what we are – everything that you have ever conjured up in your mind is real. You wished for someone from a fairy tale to come alive, and find you, and now it has happened – we, the goblins, live! And, unfortunately, your wonderful Prince Skye won't get to you until it's too late!"
And he began to laugh in mad, hysterical triumph.
She couldn't move.
It was all real.
Everything that she had ever imagined – the goblins, the very fabric of her fairy tale itself – was real, living. She couldn't deny what she saw: this was reality; she was awake and cognizant of all that was going on around her.
It was real.
She had not been drugged, and she was not walking in the midst of some awful nightmare. She had seen the evidence of the goblins' transformation from the human glamour that they had taken on in order to fool her – to fool the world, back to their true forms. This was not a nasty nightmare.
It was real.
And now his voice broke back into her mind.
"Take the girl…" he said, and shot his loathsome, gloating smile directly into her eyes, purely enjoying every moment of his triumph. "And place her on the human sacrificial stone – the Mahat-Marandas will only reveal her for what she truly is if her blood is properly spilt."
No – NO! This can't be happening! Think, Clarice – think! You've got to get out of this! You've got to get out!
She was paralyzed only for a moment longer.
Then, she did the only sensible thing to do, in a situation like this one.
She gave her captors a terrible time of it.
Armand – or rather, the creature that had once taken on the name of Armand, and the title of the Marquis de Mercier – watched from the stairs for a few moments longer, disgust written across his Higher Goblin features as his lackeys, some of the Lower Goblins under his authority, struggled to propel the struggling maiden across the room. Never leave a hulking brute to do an intelligent being's job, he thought in revulsion to himself, and leaped down off of the dais, crossing the room within a split second to grab the girl's arm in one of his four hands. Snarling at his cowed minions, he said, "Out of the way, you mindless idiots! I will finish this today if I have to do it myself!"
They backed swiftly away from him as he hauled the girl along after him, towards the wide, tall stone block that awaited her. As they went, he muttered to himself so savagely in what could only be his own tongue – the language of the Higher Goblins, she bemusedly thought – that she was rendered completely powerless to resist his strength. Every part of her being screaming at her to fight back, to run, to somehow get herself out of this horrible place and now, she found herself pushed up the steps towards the altar.
Her legs gave out, conveniently, at the last moment before he would have placed her on the altar, and she fell gratefully to the ground, her back against the stone. Armand fixed her with his fulminating, terrifying gaze and hissed, "Get up."
"No." she said, her voice flat and willful.
The cat-like yellow eyes glowed with fire.
"Get up!" he repeated.
Clarice turned her emotionless, unperturbed, emerald green eyes on him. All fear had left her. Whatever this goblin – this thing – wanted of her, he wasn't going to get it with any sort of ease. He had taken her love from her, imprisoned and tormented her, and now he expected that she was going to simply give in to her fear and let him win? NEVER!
The goblin had raised his arm, talons extending, and he was about to deal her a savage blow when there was a sudden commotion of clattering, roughshod and hobnailed boots, and another goblin – clearly a mix between a Higher and Lower goblin, for it was rather small and scrawny in build, and not seemingly all that intelligent – came darting into the room, shrilling, "Khazan Ahrmant! Khazan Ahrmant*!"
Her tormentor stopped his arm mid-swing and whirled around, eyes blazing and teeth bared in rage towards this intrusion. "What?" he snarled.
The panic-stricken creature performed a hasty, clumsy, half-forgotten kneeling bow and then stood, babbling, "He is here – he has come! The Shazrat quar elfynsor*! He is here!"
Clarice saw that the swarthy, knotted cords of muscles in the Higher Goblin's back suddenly and quite visibly tensed; disbelief and fury radiated off of him.
"Shazrat quar elfynsor?" he breathed, speaking in a tone almost too low for anyone but her to hear, and even then she was straining her ears. "It cannot – it cannot be! He met his death in the pale dawn, in the cold of merciless autumn's morning…it is impossible!"
Abruptly: commandingly then, with a fine veneer of smooth, oil slick suavity and calm, "Very well. If the Shazrat Sh'eesye quar elfynsor wishes to meet with his age-old enemies and look upon his princess once more, he shall be permitted! Bring him!"
The little goblin shook with a violent tremor, seeming terrified, then turned and bolted off across the floor, clattering away over the stones yet again. His superior did not turn back towards her, but she did not have to hear from him what had come to pass—
Erik – whom the goblins knew as 'Shazrat Sh'eesye' – had come.
* * *
A/N: Goblins! And Erik makes his appearance at last…what could possibly happen now? The answer to that question? A lot. This is the story of Erik and Clarice, after all. Nothing is impossible…
* ss'elfynsor Shazrat – royal Elven Prince
* Khazan Ahrmant – Captain Ahrmant
* Shazrat quar elfynsor – Prince of Elves, sometimes also phrased with the additional word Sh'eesye, which is how the goblins say Skye's name in their tongue.
