Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  Then Dubhgall, who believed in being as practical as you could, no matter the difficulties, and who was, in fact, usually at his best in dangerous situations, said, “Well, Sire, I’m a plain man, and I don’t know much about magic, pure or the other sort. I always left that to the people whose business it was. But can’t we just outwit the Morrigna, Sire? By ordinary human cleverness?”

  “Would the cloak not help us?” asked Joanna hesitantly, who did not want to put forward any suggestion that might be thought silly, but thought they ought to consider every possibility.

  Cormac said slowly, “The cloak can only be used once against an enemy. I believe we should wait until we are in the severest danger before we use it against Morrigan and her sisters.”

  “Could there be a severer danger than this?” asked Gormgall, and Cormac replied at once. “Oh yes. Oh yes, Gormgall, there could.” Gormgall looked a bit white around the mouth, and relapsed into silence.

  “Remember that we must not be separated,” Cormac said, pacing the room restlessly. “Not for an instant. To lose each other now would be unthinkable.”

  “I suppose,” said Gormgall, “that the door is locked?”

  “Locked and bolted from the other side,” said Dubhgall, who had been trying it at intervals, alternately checking on the window.

  “What about the chimney?”

  “What about it?”

  “Couldn’t we climb out that way?” said Gormgall, and Cormac smiled for the first time.

  “My poor friends, did you truly suppose I would let you go up the chimney?” He pointed to the fire that blazed in the hearth.

  “We could damp down the fire,” said Dubhgall.

  “What with?”

  “If we hadn’t a lady present I could tell you,” said Dubhgall primly, and Joanna laughed, despite her fear of the Morrigna, because it was so like Dubhgall to remember the courtesies at such a moment.

  She said, “If you think it will do any good, please don’t worry about me. I’ve been travelling with the army for a number of days now.”

  “Ah, that’ll be the younger ones,” said Dubhgall with disapproval. “Weak bladders and no manners.”

  Cormac said, “Hush, I believe … yes, someone is coming.” He urged them: “Remember that under no circumstances must we separate.”

  He took Joanna’s hand firmly, and Joanna, who was still trying to pretend that she was not afraid, said, “Have we a chance of escaping?”

  “There is bound to be one,” said Cormac. “But we must watch carefully for it.”

  The door opened and Morrigan and her two sisters stood on the threshold.

  *

  The small amount of folklore that had survived Devastation told of many strange things. Joanna believed there were a number of tales — all of them horrid — about trios of evil women. But she thought there could never have been a stranger tale, or three more evil women, than the three in the room with them now.

  There was a dreadful white stringy substance flowing between the sisters — “The Bonds of the Hag,” said Cormac, softly. “Do not touch it if you value your sanity.”

  The Bonds had a life of their own; they flowed and pulsated, snakelike, and strands of them curled about Morrigan’s head as she stood watching, a smile on her full wet lips. The other two stood a little behind. They are subordinates, thought Joanna; they are pawns to her. Even so, they are very terrible.

  Macha, whom Cormac had called the Mother of Monsters, was a white sluglike creature, with fishlike eyes and tapering arms and legs that were webbed. But she was perceptibly female, and Joanna shuddered at the sight of the dozen or so breasts that protruded from Macha’s body. Then she remembered that Macha’s family was suckled by battlefield corpses. Macha caught Joanna’s eye, and gave a sly calculating look, as if she was sizing her up, and saying: oh yes, this one will do very nicely.

  Badb, whom Cormac had called Scald-Crow, was by far the ugliest of the three. She was bald and her skin was withered and puckered like an old apple. She looked at Joanna very directly, and Joanna said aloud, without realising it, “The wet eyes in the cave.”

  At once Badb grinned, “Like this, you mean, madam?” and became a huge single eye on scaly legs, waddling towards Joanna. She backed away, thinking: this is truly terrible. It is laughing at me. Can eyes laugh? Can one single eye laugh like that and look as if it might eat you …

  “Sister behave,” Macha said, in a low wet bubbling voice that made them all want to clear their throats and swallow, and Scald-Crow resumed her normal shape and scowled.

  “Only a little fun, Sister.”

  “A waste of valuable energy,” said Macha.

  “Spoilsport!”

  “Show-off!”

  Scald-Crow sucked in a huge breath, and drew one eye back into her head, while the other stood out huge and red, dangling on to her cheek. Her mouth twisted, distorted into an impossibly wide grin, until it reached her ears, and they could see down inside her throat. A thick column of dark, solid blood rose from the centre of her head like the mast of a ship.

  Joanna gasped and Cormac’s hand tightened over hers, and Scald-Crow changed back again.

  “A little amusement,” said Morrigan, her voice a purr. “They are excited at what lies ahead.” She studied Cormac. “I hope, Your Majesty, that you do not intend to try to savage me again? It would avail you nothing. My powers are far greater than any puny sorcerer you may have at Tara.” But for all her scorn her voice licked the name greedily, and Joanna knew that Cormac had been right: Morrigan had never ceased to want his kingdom.

  Morrigan said, “You know what will happen to you all?”

  “I know what you will try to achieve,” said Cormac, and Morrigan smiled.

  “You will be taken down to the Miller’s cages that lie below this house —”

  “Down below below,” said Scald-Crow.

  “And then I shall summon the Miller,” said Morrigan, and at once Cormac seemed more alert.

  “Summon? Does he not then wait for us?”

  “He has to be summoned,” said Morrigan, and Joanna, whose thoughts were already racing ahead, thought: summoned! So he is not yet here! Is there a chance somewhere that we might escape?

  “You will be chopped and skinned and minced,” said Macha leaning forward, the Bonds wreathing her head.

  “Your blood will bathe us,” said Scald-Crow, and at once became a gaping mouth.

  “And then you will be eaten,” said Morrigan with satisfaction. “A fitting end, Wolfking.” She stood before him, her eyes raking him. “But first, a little pleasure, Your Majesty?

  “Come now, am I so ill-favoured? Is not your reputation such that it is said you can have any woman? You can have me, Sire. Your final act before going to the Miller. But …” a shrug, “if you are unwilling, I have sufficient spells to harden you, Sire.” Her eyes narrowed. “And I will harden you, Cormac. I will have you in my bed.” She laughed, and Cormac snarled and reached for her. Morrigan moved deftly away and the snake-tongue flickered, and as it did so, something began to uncoil in Joanna’s mind, and something that had been long asleep and deeply asleep, began to wake.

  Banish, adversary … begone, Morrigan … The anger that she had experienced earlier began to rise up, and she thought: how dare this wicked greedy repulsive creature speak to Cormac like that! How dare she!

  Morrigan was still regarding Cormac, hands on hips, his eyes slitted. “Snarl away, Wolfking. It will do you not the smallest good. I have you at last, and you will go to the cages, and then to my Master’s table. Silver platters and golden goblets … we are going to eat you, Cormac, and your precious kingdom will be ours at last!”

  Morrigan laughed again and so contemptuous was her laughter, that Joanna forgot about feeling sick now, and stood very still and allowed the overwhelming anger, and the sudden and immense strength to pour into her, as easily as pouring water from one jug to another. She thought: it is filling me up, this anger that is not mine and this stre
ngth that is someone else’s. And she broke from the others, and walked to stand before Morrigan, her eyes blazing.

  Morrigan did not exactly flinch, but looked startled, and Joanna felt a tremendous surge of power. She looked straight into Morrigan’s eyes — after all, I am easily as tall as she is, thought Joanna, surprised — and saw that Morrigan’s eyes were cold and old and colourless.

  And after all, filth, I have defeated you once before …

  The thought brought no surprise with it. The heat of the battlefield, the air dark with Morrigan’s sorcery, the stench of the Army of Corpses summoned by Macha … oh yes, I was there, thought Joanna, and knew a swift exultation.

  I have defeated you once before, Morrigan … I shall do so again …

  Morrigan was watching Joanna, and there was something behind her eyes now that was not quite fear, but that was certainly not triumph.

  Joanna felt the scalding power again, and heard her own voice speaking.

  “Tóg ort! Bi a shiúl! Gread leat!”

  For a moment there was a silence so profound that no one seemed even to breathe.

  Then Morrigan said, very softly, “Cé hé thusa? Who are you?”

  “Is me Dierdriu de shiul oiche,” said Joanna, and a flame of the purest terror flared in Morrigan’s eyes. She backed away, and behind her, Macha whimpered and cowered, and Scald-Crow hissed and undulated, wisps of smoke curling from her nostrils.

  Standing a little apart, Cormac said in a low voice, “Gormgall … Dubhgall … Is not that a very old form of Gael?”

  Gormgall, whose eyes had never left Joanna, replied, “The oldest, Sire, and the purest. Her … your lady, has bidden the Morrigna begone, and when Morrigan asked who she was, said, ‘I am Dierdriu of the Nightcloak.’ At least, Sire, that’s as near as I can get.”

  The Morrigna quickly recovered from their horrified surprise. Macha was standing by the door, her arms folded across her repulsive breasts, and Scald-Crow had taken on the form of a great leprous worm, and was squirming and hissing and chuckling evilly.

  Morrigan said slowly to Joanna, “So it is true. All of the old prophecies … the High Queen returned … Madam, you travel more inconspicuously than once you did. And in strange company.”

  “I travel with my own. Get thee gone, Morrigan!”

  “But we have an old, old score to settle first, Your Majesty,” said Morrigan, and walked thoughtfully round Joanna. Cormac, watching, saw that Morrigan was walking in a circle again, and knew a pang of fear. But he knew that to interrupt now would break the tenuous strength that Joanna was drawing on, and he knew that if this was, indeed, the High Queen returned, then Joanna would be struggling to keep Dierdriu’s presence within her. And despite his fear of Morrigan and the sisters, he felt a great exultation: Dierdriu returned to Ireland!

  Morrigan was still studying Joanna. “A pretty bird for the plucking,” she said, and reached out to stroke Joanna’s cheek. “Oh, yes, a very pretty bird. So you lie with the wolves, do you my lady, just as you did all those years ago, just as you did when you commanded the sorcerers to weave the Enchantment of the Bloodline.” She moved closer, her face level with Joanna’s. “Do you enjoy them, Dierdriu, those wolves, with their cruel natures and their sharp pricks? Do they spear you, Dierdriu? And did you really create the Enchantment to save Tara, or to pleasure your own lusts?” She smiled, and Joanna looked coldly at her.

  “The Enchantment was woven to cheat your curse, Morrigan. To save my people.”

  “Curses can never be cheated,” said Morrigan, “because curses can never be unmade, Dierdriu. We both know it. I shall be revenged on you at last, as I always promised you.” A pause, then, “I wonder how your wolf lover will feel towards you after I have had my fill of you?” And then, nodding to her sisters, “Take the Wolfking and his servants to the cages, and make ready to call up the Miller. But the High Queen take to my bedchamber.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Flynn and Amairgen sat up and looked about them. It was not quite dark, but it was very nearly so. There were thickening shadows everywhere, and the heavy unmistakable scent of twilight.

  Twilight. The Purple Hour.

  Amairgen called, “Portan?” and at once there was a response.

  Flynn, still dazzled and dazed by the Time Curtain, thought: we are truly here. We have travelled through many hundreds of years. We are in the ancient past. And felt his blood stir and his emotions fire.

  Amairgen stood up and brushed his cloak clean. “There is no time for being emotional, Flynn. We are here, where we wanted to be, but I am afraid we have been followed. Do either of you know what happened to the two men who were chasing us?”

  Flynn said slowly, “Yes. They are here. I can feel it… A kind of dark muddy anger. They are annoyed at us, but they are not quite sure what has happened.”

  Amairgen said, “Oh they of little imagination.” And then, quite lightly, “Your powers are heightened, Flynn.” Flynn realised with surprise that Amairgen was right. He could feel and he could sense in far greater strength than ever before. He could feel Portan’s fear of this unknown world, but he could also sense her devotion and her gratitude flowing like a great golden river. He could feel as well Amairgen’s concern and the man’s determination.

  Amairgen sent Flynn one of his rare sweet smiles, and Flynn said at once, “Should we try to find them? Joanna’s father and Brian Muldooney?”

  “They will find us soon enough. And is it not those two whom Joanna was fleeing?”

  Flynn had very nearly forgotten this. He was horrified to realise it: “How could I? Amairgen, those were the men —”

  “I do wish, Flynn, you were not so volatile.” Amairgen was standing up looking about them. Flynn thought: as if he is sniffing the air, and then discovered that he, too, was sniffing the air. And he thought that there were things here that he had never encountered in his life, and he was both frightened and exhilarated.

  Amairgen moved from the shelter of the trees on to a kind of highroad that unravelled before them, and Flynn and Portan followed. Flynn thought: “the blue and green misty island.” At last. And looked about him and saw that the forest fringing the road was indeed mist-shrouded, and that the forest colours were so soft-hued as to be almost turquoise, and the shadows were purple tinged.

  “The island of mist and mystery, where men lay with beasts and Magic was alive …” Flynn did not know where the words came from, and he did not very much care. And it was twilight, it was the Purple Hour, but it was like no Purple Hour he had ever known before. Heady and heavy and laden with enchantment.

  The Deep Past. The Old Ireland. We are here.

  A great and painful longing swept over him, an only-now-recognised homesickness. This is where I belong. This is where I was meant to be. I feel it and I sense it. Not a part of the bleak struggling world that was left to the survivors of Devastation; not an Irish farmer, tilling the land and gathering the fruit harvest and shearing the sheep. Here. Here is my rightful place. In this strange misty land of dark forests and tall mountains and beckoning woodland paths. Here, where humans lie with beasts and give birth to strange halfhumans who rule the land by powerful magic. This is what I have always yearned for, what I have ached for. I was born homesick, thought Flynn, but now I have come home, and a great joy unfolded in his breast. I was born in the wrong time and in the wrong world, but this is my time and this is my world, and I have come home.

  And never once, in all the days and weeks and nights that followed, did he ever feel the loss of Tugaim, or miss its people. Never once did he lose the almost unbearable feeling of belonging.

  They did not know it, but Flynn and Amairgen had broken through the Time Curtain in a slightly different place from Joanna. The great dark outline of Scáthach, the Fortress of Shadow where the Wolfking had sat out the days of his exile, lay across the valley from them, a distant shape. Before it was the hillside down which the Wolves of Tara had streamed in answer to the High King’s call. Sprawled acros
s the valley was the silent sinister Forest of Darkness, the dwelling place of the sidh with their eerie temptings. Directly ahead of them …

  “Oh!” said Flynn softly, and for a brief space almost forgot about finding Joanna.

  Ahead of them was the great, legendary Palace of Tara; the Shining Palace itself, brightly lit and blazing against the night sky; the Glittering Fortress, the Ancient and Magical Seat of the High Kings of Ireland; the Bright Castle, the shimmering City. Tara, with its soaring spires and its sparkling pinnacles, bastioned in colour and turreted in gilt and bathed in its own iridescence. Invulnerable and impregnable and beautiful beyond imagining and beyond bearing. Gramarye and the Gates of Paradise and the Isle of Avalon all bound up in one great radiant mansion.

  And in my Father’s House there are many such mansions …

  Flynn thought: where did those words come from? The past? Or the future? How lovely it is. Dare we approach it?

  For a long time, no one spoke, and they were to think afterwards that it was as if they had been feasting on the splendour of Tara and drawing renewed strength from it. And then, Amairgen, who of the three had perhaps been a little more prepared, said as if repeating an incantation, “Nothing that is not beautifully perfect or perfectly beautiful could ever enter into Tara.”

  “Can we enter? Dare we?” said Flynn, but his whole body ached to go up to the great portcullis and gain entry.

  “Joanna is days ahead of us,” said Amairgen thoughtfully. “If she came this way, she would surely have gone to Tara.”

  Or been taken there? thought Flynn, but he did not say it, because to say it aloud might give substance to the thought.

  Portan said hesitantly, “If we travel on this road, we may meet other wayfarers. People who could give us news.”

  “Yes, we need all the knowledge we can acquire,” said Amairgen. “And not only of Joanna. We need to know about the people of this world. Most of all, we need to know about the people of Tara itself.” He glanced at Flynn. “It is drawing you, Flynn. It is stretching out its enchantment to lure you inside. Well, that may be no bad thing. But were you imagining the people of Tara to be benevolent and kindly? Were you thinking that our ancestors were gentle and benign? I promise you they will be no such thing, Flynn. They will be beautiful and cruel and wild and totally unlike anything you have ever encountered.” He smiled. “The world before Devastation was very different, Flynn. Even then, people were greedy and selfish. How much more so will these people be?” He looked at them both. “But we can be cruel and wild if we have to,” said Amairgen. “Certainly we can be cunning.” He touched Flynn’s arm and laid a hand on Portan’s head. “The Letheans had a saying, ‘When in Rome, behave as a Roman.’ I think we must do that now. I think we must walk up to the gates of Tara and request admittance, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. As if we have no thought of a refusal. That way we may get inside.” “And once inside?”