Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  There was a short silence. “Gormgall,” said Cormac ominously, “are you being impudent?”

  “Your Majesty!” said Gormgall, shocked. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Yes, of course you would,” said Cormac. “Go away before I lose patience with you.” But he grinned as he said it, and Joanna thought that he and Gormgall understood each other very well, and in fact rather liked one another.

  “He’s an impudent old devil,” said Cormac, as they rode on through the trees. “He’s served my family for a long time, and so he thinks it gives him special privileges. I don’t pay him any attention of course, although he likes to think I do.”

  “The King pays a great deal of attention to me really,” said Gormgall to Joanna that night as they made camp. “Only it doesn’t do for him to admit to it, of course.” Joanna was helping to ladle stew into the wooden pannikins. “That’s not for you to do,” Gormgall said, shocked. “You’re the King’s Lady. His Majesty won’t be best pleased if he comes back and finds you helping with the work.”

  But Joanna had not been used to being waited on, “And anyway,” she said, “His Majesty is helping.”

  “Hunting,” said one of them. “Night hunting.”

  “Which he enjoys,” said another.

  “But it’s contributing,” said Joanna. “It’s providing food for us all. And anyway, I’m enjoying helping to cook supper. What is this, Gormgall?”

  “Venison,” said Gormgall, in the sort of tone that might just as easily have said poison. “Shot by His Majesty earlier today.”

  “And none the worse for it,” put in somebody. “I said we’d be glad we’d carried the carcass with us.”

  Several people said rather crossly that it was all very well to say so if you hadn’t had the carrying.

  “And it ought to have been, hung for at least a week,” said Gormgall.

  But the simmering cauldron of stew smelt and tasted very good. Joanna had never eaten venison before. “There are no such animals in my world,” she explained.

  “And won’t be in this one if we hunt them in the wrong season,” said Gormgall, and several people nodded agreement.

  “When His Majesty deposes Eochaid Bres,” said Gormgall, “he’ll have to restrict the hunting a bit. Not but what this isn’t a very good stew, but it’s not the season to be shooting deer. Deer should be let to breed for at least three Beltanes. Anyone knows that.”

  “I suppose,” said Joanna, eating her portion with enjoyment and rather liking talking to Gormgall and his people, “that His Majesty does know it really. But I suppose he thought we ought to eat fresh meat where we could. Until he gets us some more.” And glanced over her shoulder into the darkening forest, and hoped that Cormac would get them some more, and hoped as well that he would return before dawn.

  “There’s the thing,” said Gormgall. “Although you won’t tell him that it isn’t the season to kill deer. You can’t tell him anything, any more than you could tell his father. They’re all the same, the Wolfline. They can be led but not driven. It comes of not being quite human and not quite beast. That isn’t to say we aren’t all the King’s men, body and soul, my lady.”

  “Of course not,” said Joanna.

  “We’d follow him anywhere,” said Gormgall, and several heads nodded firmly. “Well, we followed him into exile, as you know, and my word, that hasn’t been all bull-feasts and Beltane revelries.”

  “More like cattle-raids and ceilidh.”

  “But,” said Gormgall, “he’s the High King, and we’re his people. We’ll follow wherever he takes us.”

  “We wouldn’t follow Eochaid Bres,” said one of them — Joanna thought he was called Dubhgall. “Not in a pig’s eye we wouldn’t.”

  “I should think not indeed. As for the Queen Mother, well, if she’s any more morals than the sidh I’ve never heard tell of them,” said Gormgall, and the heads wagged in agreement. Someone lit a clay pipe and the woodsy scent of it drifted pleasantly across the clearing.

  “Eochaid Bres is stupid,” said Dubhgall. “He’s not wicked, but he’s very stupid.”

  “Conceited,” said another.

  “Obstinate,” said a third.

  “He’d lead us straight into the clutches of the Giant Miller and the Erl-King,” said Dubhgall and was promptly shushed.

  “It’s bad luck to even speak the name,” said the one who had said Eochaid Bres was obstinate.

  “It’s very nearly death to speak it after dark,” said the one who had called him conceited.

  Dubhgall begged pardon.

  Joanna said, “You are all very loyal to — to the King.”

  “Of course,” said Gormgall. “We’ve served the High Kings down the ages. Our ancestors swore allegiance to the first Lady of Tara — Dierdriu of the Nightcloak — and vowed to serve her descendants. A little more stew, my lady?”

  “Thank you,” said Joanna, passing her dish. “This is very good, Gormgall.”

  “It would have been even better if the deer had been hung for a week,” said Dubhgall, but was not paid any attention.

  “Ever since the Oath of Allegiance was taken to Dierdriu, we have always served the High Kings,” said Gormgall.

  “The true line, of course,” put in another.

  “Well yes,” said Gormgall. “That’s what I meant. Her ladyship knows that. You knew that, my lady, didn’t you? Traitors and usurpers find no support here. Not if Dierdriu herself were to come back, as our people believe she will one day and command us, not even then would you find us bending the knee to Eochaid Bres or Bricriu the Fox.”

  “Especially not to Bricriu the Fox,” said Dubhgall.

  “There’s a belief —” began Gormgall, and stopped, and Joanna leaned forward, and said, “Yes?” and Gormgall continued, “Well, I daresay you won’t wish to hear of it,” and Joanna said, “But I love legends and stories.” And then, as Gormgall still looked doubtful, she said, “So much was lost when my ancestors fought the Apocalypse, my own world is very short of folklore.”

  Dubhgall, who liked battles, particularly if somebody else had the fighting of them, wanted to hear about the Apocalypse, but Joanna said it would keep.

  “For another night,” she said. “For now, won’t you tell me about Dierdriu?”

  “It is part of our folklore,” explained Gormgall, almost as if he thought he ought to apologise. “Our ballad-makers and our storytellers, the filid, sing about it, well, I daresay your ladyship has heard them while we’ve been travelling.”

  “A little,” said Joanna. “They were singing only the other night, I think.”

  “Ah, that’s the younger ones,” said Gormgall tolerantly. “They don’t think, you see. They’re a bit rowdy. They see all of this as a grand adventure more than anything, well it is an adventure of course,” he added. “To be sure it is. But they see the glory and the excitement and forget the dangers and the discomforts. Also, of course, they’re perhaps in the habit of taking a drop too much of His Majesty’s wine now and again, well aren’t we all —”

  “I’m not,” said Dubhgall rather crossly. “Not when I’m in the train of His High Majesty, I’m not. But even if I was, I wouldn’t make such a noise. I know what’s right and it’s not right to hold a ceilidh in the middle of a battle march. Anyone at all might have heard us, and then where should we be, I wonder. This is a serious undertaking,” he said looking very serious indeed. “And there’s a great deal too much flightiness about some of the younger ones. I wonder His Majesty allows it.”

  “I think he enjoyed the singing,” said Joanna, who had enjoyed it herself, but was trying to be polite. “He was telling me about some of your legends, and about the first Cruithin.”

  “Well,” said Dubhgall, “I take that very kindly of him, for we’ve served the High Kings long and well. But there’s no call for the younger element to go drawing attention to themselves. Time and to spare for singing. Gormgall, if you’re going to tell the story of Dierdriu, I wish you’d get
on with it. That’s always supposing her ladyship really wants to hear it, and isn’t just being polite.”

  “I do want to hear it,” said Joanna. “I’m not just being polite. Gormgall, do tell me.”

  Gormgall leaned forward, his rather lined face lit up by the camp fire. “My people tell of it,” he said, and quite suddenly, as if some kind of signal had been given, everyone fell silent. Dubhgall clamped his teeth down on his pipe, and sat cross-legged.

  “It was when the Great Queen lay dying,” said Gormgall, “with the Court all about her and the countryside hushed. Everyone was weeping, for she had been greatly loved and greatly respected, and she had led her people through many wars and turned back many enemies.

  “She is said to have spoken to them before they took her to the Plain of Delight, which is where all the High Kings and Queens must go to die. She told them not to weep for her, but to turn their minds to the future and the one who should succeed her. ‘For,’ she said, ‘I am on the edge of the greatest journey anyone ever makes, and to enter eternity is surely the finest adventure we can have.’

  “And the courtiers wept afresh, but they tried to hide it from her.

  “But Dierdriu knew her people and she sought to comfort them.

  “‘I shall be with you again,’ she said. ‘You must look for me in the good things of life. In the things you love. I shall be there. In the woodsmoke of a twilight fire, and in the moonlight over the Morne Mountains, and in the golden sunrise over Tara. You will hear me laughing in the Purple Hour, for that is the most magical time of all. I shall be in the wine you drink, and when you hold feasts, I shall be among you still. You will never quite lose me.’

  “They say she fell into a great weakness then, for she was sinking deeper into death.

  “But at the end, as her litter was carried to the Plain of Delight, she opened her eyes and spoke again, and her voice was young and strong once more, so that the older courtiers heard the voice of the warrior queen who had led them through so many battles and emerged victorious. They saw her again as the beautiful, rather wild Dierdriu who had ridden out at the head of Tara’s armies.

  “Her words are with us still, for the ballad-makers wove them into their songs, and the Lay of Dierdriu has ever been sung at our feasts.

  “‘If the Darkness of the Necromancers should ever dim the Bright Palace again,’ she said, ‘you may be sure I shall return in reality, for eternity is a place from which one may sometimes return.

  “‘I have many lives yet to live, but Tara will always be the place to which I shall return, and I shall be forever homesick.

  “‘Farewell. Do not mourn me, but remember me.’

  “They did mourn,” said Gormgall, staring ahead of himself thoughtfully, “it is written that they mourned for a year and a day, and even then, they would gather round their fires and tell tales of her bravery and her beauty. And they never ceased to hope for her return, just as my people today hope for it.” He fell silent, and all about them the Cruithin were silent also. At length, Joanna summoned up her courage to speak, for although she did not want to break the silence, she knew they were waiting for her to do so.

  She said, very softly, “It is a very moving story, Gormgall. And is it still the belief among your people that the Queen will return?”

  “It is something of a sacred belief, my lady,” said Gormgall. “We have kept her memory alive for centuries, and we have always obeyed the laws she made when she ruled us. It is told that she will return in Tara’s time of greatest need, and it is told, as well, that she will not come as a great and mighty Queen, but that she will be recognised by her own people.”

  I shall return … I shall be forever homesick until I come back …

  “I daresay,” said Gormgall knocking out his pipe against the side of the iron stew pot, “I daresay there are similar beliefs amongst your own people?”

  Joanna said slowly, “My ancestors once revered a man who lived among them for a time, and who taught a way of life which was to be followed by thousands. And yes, his return was always promised.”

  “Did he come back?” one of them, not Gormgall, asked.

  “Well,” said Joanna “I don’t think he did. Or if he did, the story of his return was lost, along with so much else. My ancestors burned the world and called up the beast Apocalypse, and so much was lost to us.”

  “Perhaps he did return,” said Gormgall “but perhaps it was too late.”

  “Yes. Or perhaps,” said Joanna, “my ancestors had to be given a punishment for their greed and their selfishness.” She looked up and smiled. “But it was a harsh punishment!”

  “Even worlds must sometimes die,” said Gormgall. “Your own world will do one day. Do you not miss it, my lady?”

  “No,” said Joanna and smiled. “No, for I never felt I had a place there.”

  This is my place …

  “Do you not miss your people?” asked another.

  “No,” said Joanna. “No, I cannot think of anyone I miss.” She smiled again. “And for sure there is no one who is missing me.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Flynn thought that without Amairgen and Portan he would have been very nearly out of his mind with worry for Joanna. He thought he would certainly have despaired.

  “Never despair,” said Amairgen sharply. “To do so is a very old and very serious sin.”

  Flynn had stared, for “sin” was not a word often heard. He thought it was a Lethe word, although he could not be sure.

  “It was a word old before the Letheans,” said Amairgen. “The Letheans were not very aware of the severity of sinning, Flynn; they knew about the great teacher and leader who had lived among them — oh, centuries earlier, perhaps more than two thousand years — but they had grown arrogant. They knew about the laws that leader had left them, but save for a few isolated people, they did not pay them any attention. They had their own laws, and they were far more comfortable than any left by a half-forgotten foreigner.”

  Flynn said, “You know so much. You have so many memories of the past.”

  “My people were preservers,” said Amairgen. “They revered the past and they were afraid for the future. They kept what they could.” He regarded Flynn. “Even so, what they did keep was little enough, although I am grateful for what there is. But I do know that in the days when religious sects still existed — when men and women voluntarily forswore the world and its comforts to follow the ruling of that long-ago leader, then to despair was considered the gravest sin there was. They called it accidie, and they taught that it was the ultimate giving up of hope; the rejection of a higher power. Once you have despaired, Flynn, truly despaired, you are lost indeed.” He paused, and Flynn had a sudden, startlingly clear image of a great aching void; a nothingness so complete that his mind reeled. That, then, was true despair, the real thing. A belief that there was nothing, ever again, anywhere.

  “Yes,” said Amairgen softly, “yes, you understand. Never give up, Flynn, for there will always be something.” He glanced to where Portan was curled up, listening intently. “I think Portan understands me very well,” he said.

  “Yes. I might have despaired when I was in that place. I think I nearly did despair when my father took me there and left me, and when I thought I should never see the outside world again. But there was something — I do not know what it was, but something that said: there is more. There will be more. You will see. And so there was,” said Portan simply. “You came.”

  They had descended the hill of the Gealtacht easily enough, and a cold dawn was glistening the sky as they saw the scattered farm buildings of Tugaim ahead of them.

  Flynn had wanted to go straight to the Glowing Lands, but Amairgen had said it would be better to wait until nightfall. “We should be seen,” he said. “And the task of breaking through the Time Curtain may require all our concentration, Flynn. Also, there is Portan to be considered.”

  Standing in the thin light, both men felt the shiver that went through Port
an, but when they looked at her, she smiled, and said, “Yes, I am afraid, but also I am so very happy. To see the world again …” And then was silent, but Flynn thought it was the silence of deep contentment, and he thought that she was absorbing the scents and the sights and the sounds of the countryside. He thought that she was so intensely happy that she could hardly bear to speak.

  Amairgen said, “As well as that, we are both tired and dispirited. The things we saw inside the Gealtacht … We should all rest before any attempt is made to go through the Time Curtain.”

  “Yes.” Flynn tried not to sound ungracious, and knew that Amairgen was right. “Yes, of course. Will you both come to the farmhouse?” he said, and felt again the shiver of apprehension go through Portan. He smiled at her and said, “You may trust my father with your life and more, my dear,” and Portan looked at him gratefully.

  “But even so,” she said, “it would be better for no one to know that you have taken a Mutant from the Gealtacht.”

  “People are not always kind,” said Amairgen rather brusquely, “and you are right. But there is no reason why we could not shelter in an outbuilding of some kind. Flynn?”

  “The Dutch barn?” said Flynn. “One of the original buildings, watertight and snug.” He grinned. “We are rather proud of the Dutch barn, my father and I. Lethe arrogance. But you would be quite comfortable there, and I could bring out food and blankets.”

  “Admirable,” said Amairgen when Flynn showed him the barn. “We will stay here, Portan and I. Will you come back at the Purple Hour?”

  Flynn smiled at the words. “My father’s own expression,” he said. “I had not thought to hear anyone else ever use it.”

  “It is a very old term,” said Amairgen. “Another of the things my family salvaged, perhaps. But it was always thought to be a very magical time of day. If we are to break through the Time Curtain, then we may as well use all the magic we can.” He said this in a matter-of-fact way, and Flynn and Portan both stared.