Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  *

  It seemed to Joanna, forgetful of her own world, certainly forgetful now of Flynn, that the forest was coming alive. There was an alertness in the air, a listening. A sense of something powerful and commanding and seductive. A beckoning.

  Joanna thought: of course, it is the Mindsong, the Samhailt. He is sending out the summons to his half-brothers. He is calling up the Wolves of Tara.

  And if the Wolves obey, then he will know that the years of his exile are nearing an end.

  The forest thickened and thrummed with the feeling, and Joanna felt herself being borne forwards. “For,” she said afterwards, “although it did not call to me, although I was Cormac’s, body and soul, by then, and he did not need to use his sorcery on me, still I was drawn along by it.”

  It was like being swept into a whirlpool, only that you were not afraid, and it was like being blown forward by a huge wind, only that the wind was warm and infinitely sweet, and there was a tingling excitement and an anticipation in it.

  A beckoning. The Mindsong. Cormac Starrog’s Wolf-song.

  She paused at the edge of the forest, unsure of whether she should go back across the ravine, not wanting to intrude. For, said Joanna to herself, I must not be a nuisance to him.

  As she came into the open, she saw the Wolves, Cormac’s creatures, streaming down the hillside and across the valley. He has done it, thought Joanna, and knew a swift exultant pride. He has summoned the Wolves, and he has broken the enchantment, and he will ride upon Tara. And mingled in with all of this, was the singular feeling of vicarious triumph. She wanted to say: See? See how powerful and remarkable is the man who owns me? She did not say it, because there was no one to say it to, and because a tiny part of her was still not quite under the enchantment. Nobody owns me, the old Joanna would have said. I am no one’s.

  She stayed where she was, watching the Wolves pouring down into Scáthach, thinking they were swift and cruel and wild, but thinking they were darkly beautiful as well.

  And then, because there was no point in daydreaming, she brushed her skirt free of bracken, and moved forward. I suppose I am rather unsuitably dressed for a war, thought Joanna, half amused, half serious. What ought one to wear?

  *

  “The cloak of the first High Queen,” said Cormac, throwing it about Joanna’s shoulders. “Dierdriu’s Cloak of Nightmares.”

  He stood back and looked at her, and Joanna said, “Oh!” and felt the soft light folds fall about her. “Should I? I mean — is it allowed?” The cloak was rich and full; it ought to have felt heavy and cumbersome and stifling, but it was like a cobweb, like a spider’s gauze. Joanna felt it brush her skin, silk and satin smooth. “Is it allowed?” she said, huge-eyed with apprehension and delight.

  “It is for humans,” said Cormac. “I cannot wear it. I cannot even touch it for very long.”

  But the cloak was velvet-soft and Joanna stroked it with pleasure. “Is it magical?”

  “It is thought to be. It was woven by the sidh from the dreams of Dierdriu, and it is believed to possess immense power. In case of extreme danger it will summon up the creatures of Dierdriu’s nightmares.”

  “Oh,” said Joanna, and then in quite a different voice, “Oh!”

  “It is a fearsome weapon,” said Cormac, watching her. “It has only ever been used twice in the history of Tara. And there is a rule which must not be broken: the cloak can only ever be used once against an enemy; it may not be used more than once against the same person. But it is my right to give it and your right to wear it. It is a heavy responsibility and a woman’s weapon.”

  The dreams of the first Queen of Tara … Joanna wondered whether she would ever dare to use it.

  But the cloak gave her a feeling of confidence. It was a shield, a charm against what might lie ahead. Joanna stood before the gilded looking glass in Cormac’s bedchamber and thought it was not entirely vanity to think that the cloak became her, that it made her look different. She was taller, stronger-looking. She was certainly not the waif-like creature who had fled from Muldooney and tumbled through a doorway into the Dark Forest, and crossed the narrow bridge to Scáthach. She thought that Dierdriu’s cloak gave her dignity and grace; her cheekbones slanted upwards intriguingly, and her mouth was wider and redder, her hair swung about her face and shone like ebony.

  “You are becoming Cruithin again,” said Cormac. “Your body is remembering, even if your mind does not.”

  It was a curious feeling to know herself sprung from the same root as the small, finely-boned Cruithin who came and went silently about the castle, and who were now busy in the kitchens, preparing food for the journey ahead. From the courtyard, Joanna could hear the whinnying of horses, and the jingle of spurs. The Wolves roamed everywhere.

  “But they will not harm you,” said Cormac.

  The Cruithin were to accompany them on the journey, “although we shall travel quietly,” said Cormac, and Joanna caught the longing in his voice. She thought that he must be remembering how he had once ridden out with all the trappings and all the ceremony of a High King, and felt a pity for him.

  “Do we go straight to Tara?” For surely Tara, the Bright Palace, the Shining Fortress must be their destination.

  “No. When I ride into Tara, I must do so as the acknowledged King. I must enter with the pennants of my family fluttering in the breeze, and with the Wolves of Tara preceding me. There must be cheering and dancing, triumphant music.” He turned away. “Before that happens, I must depose Eochaid Bres and Bricriu, and before that I must raise an army greater than has ever been known.”

  “The Wolves —”

  “Yes, they will be my lieutenants. But I must have far more. I must have the people of the Mountain sorcerers from the north; I must have the Wild Panther people of Gallan who are ruled by my cousin, Cait Fian.” He sent her a glance. “He is dark and strong and beautiful, but he is subtle and unprincipled, and you should trust him even less than you should trust me, Joanna. I must wake the sorcerers of the Morne Mountains who served my ancestors, for Eochaid will have his own magic, and we must be ready for him. Shall you be afraid?”

  “A little,” said Joanna. She pulled Dierdriu’s cloak more tightly about her.

  “First we shall go through the Land of Sleeping Trees,” said Cormac, “where we can gather the berries which yield the slumber-inducing juice. That will be useful. And if the trees awake, some of them may join us. But the trees have slept the Enchanted Sleep for centuries now, and no one knows how to wake them. We shall leave the army camped on the edges of Muileann, for I must cross the land of the Giant Miller to get to Cait Fian and the crossing must be as inconspicuous as possible.”

  “The Giant Miller …” Joanna said. “Is he one of Bricriu’s people?”

  “No,” said Cormac. “He is the Erl-King’s servant. He has giant mill wheels and millstones and his people fear him greatly.”

  “He makes bread?” said Joanna uncertainly.

  “No. His mill is for men,” said Cormac and looked down at her. “And the men are for the Erl-King’s banqueting table.”

  *

  Dierdriu’s cloak was Joanna’s protection and her comfort in the days that followed. She was not exactly frightened — or not very much — because Cormac seemed to her so strong and so invincible. But the cloak still felt like a shield; it was warm and light and strong. She thought: I have the dreams of the High Queen all around me. I am wrapped in magic and enchantment, and I can summon up the most terrible beings. I have only to concentrate, and the creatures of Dierdriu’s nightmares will come tumbling out.

  What would they be? Did people have the same kind of dreams? Joanna, child of an age that had never known monsters and giants, had dreamed of practical, tangible horrors; even so, there was a vein of atavism. She could just about visualise the sort of things a High Queen from the ancient past might have dreamed of, and she found the visions very terrible.

  Now and again, she felt the warm sweet breath of Dierdriu
all about her, and at those times she glimpsed visions that were wild and beautiful: courtiers with hawk-like faces and cat-like eyes, little, finely-boned, dark people who prepared scented baths and sewed satin and brocade gowns, hunting parties and feasts and the music of the sidh. The deep past, thought Joanna, entranced, and clutched at the visions even as they shimmered and dissolved.

  The exodus from Scáthach was impressive. “But we must travel more quietly later on,” said Cormac.

  He rode a coal-black horse, and Joanna a white one, and the Wolves padded silently behind them, with the Cruithin bringing up the rear, laden with the packs, weapons and other trappings of their journey. Some of them carried poles in horizontal bearer-fashion, with provisions slung from them. A few rode or drove carts pulled by sturdy shaggy ponies. Some carried the braziers, fringed canopies and pointed tents which would make their camp. “Although we shall find caves where we can,” said Cormac. “And when we reach Muileann we must leave the wolves and the Cruithin behind for a time.”

  The days were golden and green and the nights were blue and misty. They lit fires, and the Cruithin prepared meals, and sometimes sang in their soft Irish voices, which were unlike any Joanna had ever heard.

  “Of course they are not,” said Cormac. “The Cruithin speak the Old Irish, the true Irish, and everything else is a travesty.” And he pulled her against him in the fireglow of the supper fires, and told her how the Cruithin had come to Ireland after the great ice sheets had melted, and how they brought wonderful and hitherto unknown implements into the barren land Ireland had then been; items of jewellery and tools for the hunters and fishermen. There had been torques of twisted gold; gorgets of sheet gold; swords and vessels and cups.

  “It is the age known to men as the Bronze Age,” said Cormac, “but to Ireland, it was the Golden Age.”

  He slid an arm about her and leaned back against the rocky hillside, and spoke of the ancient trade routes, of Tarshish and Tyre, who had traded with Ireland, and he recounted, in his soft caressing voice, the words of an ancient seer, which were believed by the first High Kings to have been written of Tara.

  “Thou that art situate at the entry to the sea and carry on merchandise with many lands. Thou who has said ‘I am of perfect beauty; thy borders are in the midst of the seas, thy builders have perfected thy beauty.’” He paused, and Joanna recalled that first night — “Nothing that is not beautifully perfect or perfectly beautiful can enter into Tara.”

  All about them the night was silent and still. A little below, the Cruithin slept by the fires they made, small dark shapes. Joanna was comforted by them.

  Cormac said, “They are a remarkable race, Joanna.”

  “Yes.” Joanna moved away from him, into the cave where they would sleep that night. It was dark and the roof was low. A wolves’ lair. Someone — the Cruithin? — had arranged animal skins into a bed.

  Cormac had followed her. He stood at the cave’s entrance, watching as she moved about, his features slanting, his teeth gleaming.

  “Tell me, Human Child —”

  “Yes?” Joanna turned, because there was something in his voice she had never heard before. The slightest hint of a snarl? “Yes?” said Joanna, and felt the warmth of Dierdriu’s cloak brush her skin.

  Be careful Joanna …

  “Yes?” said Joanna, rather loudly.

  Cormac came closer and there was a warm musk scent rising from his skin. “Do I frighten you?” he said, and this time the snarl was a little more defined.

  Joanna stood quite still. She thought: yes, you do frighten me. You frighten me and you excite me and I think I have no choice but to follow you … throughout the world, my lord …

  But it is not the man who frightens me, because for most of the time I can think of you as a man, a human. Only then something happens, like it has happened now, and I remember you are not entirely human. I am not afraid of the man, but I think I am afraid of the wolf.

  You do well to be afraid, Joanna, child of my blood … The cloak stirred a little, as if there had been a breath of wind from outside the cave.

  Cormac came a little closer. “For most of the time I am human,” he said. “But ahead is danger, and ahead is certainly a battle, and that excites me. It wakes the wolf —” He stood for a moment longer. Then, “Go to sleep, Joanna,” he said abruptly.

  “Are you — are you going out?”

  He turned his head, and Joanna saw that his lips were drawn back in a snarl.

  “Are you — not coming to bed?”

  “No. There is another hunger I must satisfy tonight.”

  *

  He returned at dawn, moving stealthily but waking her despite it and stood watching her from the cave entrance, his eyes glittering, the wolf-look sharpening the planes of his face.

  Joanna was still half asleep. She raised herself on the bed of animal skins and stared at him.

  Another hunger I must satisfy …

  He was naked and the curling pelt between his thighs and on his stomach was wet and matted with blood. His shoulders and chest were splashed with gore and there was a sleek satiated look about him … Another hunger …

  He walked lazily to the cave opening and stood, quite unselfconsciously, urinating. From inside the cave, Joanna could smell the acrid tang of it, mingled with the barely dry blood on him. More wolf than man. He is more wolf than man. He has killed something — oh God, let it only have been a sheep — and he has devoured whatever he has killed.

  Cormac turned then, as if he had picked up her thought, and his eyes glinted in the dawn light. The animal scent rose from him in the confined space of the cave, and he gave a low growl and moved forward.

  He was on her before she realised his intention, biting and clawing, the victim’s blood still wet on his skin so that it smeared Joanna’s arms and shoulders. He forced her legs apart, thrusting himself between them, and Joanna cried out in pain and fear. Cormac pinned her to the floor of the cave, and the stench of the blood was like tin in her nostrils, so that she felt her stomach lift with nausea. She pushed at him, but he seemed not to notice. His head was thrown back and as his climax approached, his thrusts became harder and more uncontrolled, and he gave a long drawn-out groan that almost, but not quite, turned into a howl.

  Joanna’s arm was outstretched; she felt the back of her hand brush Dierdriu’s cloak, and there was the faintest crackle of something from the silky folds.

  Help me … cried Joanna silently, and felt at once the invisible presence of someone — something? — in the cave with them. Cormac hesitated for the fraction of a second, and Joanna grasped a fold of Dierdriu’s cloak more firmly.

  Help me …

  There was no question about the response now. Forks of icy light shot from the cloak, illuminating the cave, sending tingling sparks along Joanna’s hand. For a moment she saw, quite clearly, the underside of the cave roof with its centuries of accreted dirt. Beneath their feet …

  Beneath their feet, the cave floor heaved and pulsated, throwing them both off balance. There was a dreadful wet squelching, a sucking sound, and the ghost of a bubbling chuckle. The cave floor tilted, and Joanna screamed.

  Thin morning light filtered in through the entrance to the cave, showing up the floor quite clearly. And where there had been a solid dry, rather warm floor, there were dozens upon dozens of huge lidless eyes, swivelling in invisible sockets, jellylike and viscous against Joanna’s bare feet. She screamed again and backed into a corner shuddering uncontrollably. Her foot slipped in the wet mess breaking open one of the eyes, and at once a dreadful glutinous substance oozed out, splashing her leg. She sank ankle deep into the ruptured eye, and felt the slimy fluid on her skin.

  Cormac had fallen in a huddle in the opposite corner, and through her panic, Joanna heard him snarl and whip round, one hand reaching across to her.

  The broken eye sucked her a little more deeply in, and there was a throaty evil laughter again, echoing round the cave, bouncing off the walls.
>
  All the better to see you with, my dear …

  Joanna thought: I think I am going to die. Oh somebody help me …

  Cormac was inching his way to her, his hands stretched out — “Hold on, my love,” and Joanna, through her terror, thought: he called me “my love.” He is trying to save me. The man is in the ascendant again.

  The eyes were like dead fish, they were like raw liver. She tried to crawl across them, to where Cormac stood unflinching, but the eyes held her, they swivelled and turned, clammy and mucous, pulling her into their depths.

  All the better to see you with, my dear …

  Someone very close by was screaming, or was it someone inside her head … oh God let me get free, oh God, make it go away … help me somebody …

  Cormac had reached her now, and Joanna thought he said, “The cloak — Dierdriu’s cloak —” but she could not hear properly because of the person so close to them who was screaming, and she could not think properly because of the wet sucking eyes … In another few minutes, I shall have been swallowed by them … oh God, let me wake up …

  And at once, two quite separate things happened.

  The wet fishlike eyes vanished, leaving the warm dry earth floor. And there was a sudden, achingly beautiful picture of herself — or was it herself? — waking in a blue and silver room with sunlight pouring in. And then the room also vanished, and Joanna gasped and sat up in the dawn-lit cave.

  Cormac wiped the blood of a bitten lip from his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at Joanna without speaking.