Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  “Bricriu doesn’t care to hear such talk,” said Sean and reached for the mead again. “I make it a rule to keep such things out of anything I write,” he added. “You don’t have to go looking for trouble.”

  Flynn found the storyteller’s friendship comforting, but the very next night, Sean had entertained the assembled company with a newly written lament, all about a young man who had strayed into the forbidden territories of the sidh and been carried off by them, leaving his friends and his loved ones weeping on the shores of the world. It was a sad moving tale but it was very effective, and Sean told it well, half chanting, half singing. At the end of each stanza was a general lament, in which everyone joined.

  “When the Golden Bough bends

  You will hear his lament;

  Cold and lonely and bereft of content.

  He has taken his soul to the Lands of the Sea

  And his life is in pawn to the powers of the sidh.

  And his love weeps anon

  And his soul is in bond;

  From the shores of the world he is vanished and gone.

  For they hunted him down through the nights of the World

  And he’ll never return to the daylight of Men.”

  Flynn thought Sean was very talented, but he experienced an angry grief that Sean, whom he had thought a friend, should have seized so carelessly and so greedily on Amairgen’s tragedy, and turned it into an hour’s pleasure for the Court. He looked at the listening faces, and knew a sudden desire for Tugaim and Joanna. He thought: what am I doing here with these cruel, charming, entirely heartless people? I have lost Amairgen, and I am no nearer to finding Joanna.

  And there was something else, something so potentially sinister that he had not dared examine it in any further detail.

  He had gone, on the morning following Amairgen’s capture, to the West Gate, knowing that Portan would be eagerly waiting for him, finding a great comfort in the knowledge. I have lost Amairgen — perhaps for good — but at least there is Portan, dear loyal Portan. At least there is another with me in this world, that I can trust. I am not quite alone, thought Flynn, walking purposefully through the sunlit halls, thinking how different they looked last night.

  He had not thought very much about actually getting out of Tara; he had supposed vaguely that there would be guards of some kind who would unlock the gates and let him through.

  He had certainly not expected that he would be barred from leaving.

  “Only until Beltane,” explained the sentry of the guard, who felt rather sorry for Flynn, but whose present affluence was all due to Bricriu. “The King doesn’t like anyone to leave until after the ceremonies.”

  “But I’m not involved in the ceremonies,” said Flynn, and the sentry, who knew Bricriu’s little ways, thought: oho, and that’s what you think, poor doomed-to-die spy! Aloud, he said soothingly, “Very likely you’re not, but there’s a terrible old danger about on Beltane.”

  Flynn said, “But Beltane isn’t until tomorrow.”

  “Not it is, nor it is,” said the sentry, who knew what the Fox wanted of him. He leaned forward. “Surely you know,” he said, “that the Eve of Beltane is one of the four nights when the world of men is considered to be loaned to the Dark Powers.” He propped himself up against his box and elaborated. “In safe keeping for most of the year we are,” said the sentry, “but there’s the four nights when the light dims a little, and the Dark Ones find their way through the chinks in the world’s armour.”

  Chinks? Armour?

  “There’s some say that it’s the sorcerers’ task to throw an armour about the world,” said the sentry. “So it is, of course. But no armour’s entirely impenetrable, only the Girdle of Gold, and, of course, that got lost centuries ago. We all know where it went,” said the sentry, “and we all know that we’ll never get it back, more’s the pity. But there, sorcerers are venal same as the rest of us. They’re open to all kinds of bribery, and everyone knows that the Girdle of Gold is the most powerful defence anyone can have. It ought to be around Tara — so it was once — well, it ought to be around the world,” said the sentry. “But we all know it’s not. And so the armour we’ve got isn’t as strong as it might be. Anything can slip through. And on the four Dark nights, the Evil Ones find it very easy to do just that.” He smiled pityingly at Flynn. “The Eve of Beltane is very vulnerable. His Majesty won’t hear of anyone setting foot outside the Palace,” said the sentry, who knew very well that His Majesty would not have given a tinker’s toss if his entire Court had upped and walked through the West Gate that very minute. “Very particular he is,” said the sentry. “Why you might be seized by a demon the minute you went through that door, and a fine thing that would be!”

  “Demons?” said Flynn, child of a world where the word had long since ceased to hold any meaning.

  “Dancing on the Plain of the Fál,” said the sentry without so much as the flicker of an eyelid. “Spreading their net to catch souls for their master.”

  “Their master?”

  “The Erl-King,” said the sentry, and quite suddenly felt afraid, because it was one thing to feed a doomed-to-die spy with a nice little tale that would keep him safely under lock and key for the Fox; it was another thing altogether to speak aloud the name of the ancient evil enemy of them all. Still, it had done the trick; the poor young man looked quite pale, well the sentry probably looked fairly pale himself, because it was a nasty old feeling it gave a man to even think about the Erl-King. The sentry would rather have Bricriu as master any day, even if he did have a terrible old habit of sending people to the Miller’s cages for the smallest of misdemeanours, and summoning up the sidh to snatch a man’s virility right from between his legs! But: better the Miller or the sidh any day than the Erl-King! thought the sentry, and shuddered.

  Flynn had not been particularly frightened by the mention of demons — superstitious nonsense, he thought it — but he had listened politely enough.

  And then the sentry had spoken that name — the Erl-King — and such a cold fear had sliced through Flynn that for a moment he had been unable to speak. He felt rather sick and rather weak; he experienced the sudden nauseating pain of wrenching an ankle whilst running, or the wincing of a nerve when a fingernail is scratched slowly across a slate surface.

  When the sentry said solicitously, “The King doesn’t like any of us to go wandering abroad today,” Flynn nodded. And when the man said with genuine apology: “And I daren’t open the Gate for you,” Flynn said, “No, of course not. It doesn’t matter in the very least,” and turned away.

  Portan would surely wait, he thought, after all, it would only be for another day. This time tomorrow he would walk out freely. Surely she would wait another day, thought Flynn, but his mind was still feeling rather sick at hearing the Erl-King’s name, and he was not reasoning as clearly as he might have done. He felt a fresh wave of desolation at Amairgen’s loss, for Amairgen would have given him the courage and the strength to see what ought to be done next.

  He managed to persuade himself that it was only what Amairgen had called race-memory. I suppose I once faced the Erl-King in battle, he thought. And with the thought came a glimpse of a terrible menace: a dark citadel in a walled city; a great stone banqueting hall and a stone table. Seated in the stone hall was a creature so uncanny, so soulless that it could scarcely be borne. The Erl-King! Again he felt the cold sickness.

  Well, he would wait until tomorrow — Beltane — and he would help with their feastings and their revelries, because it would be something to do, but at the height of it all he would simply walk away.

  He became one of them, joining in the party at the central open courtyard, helping to gather the wood for the Sacred Fire, even finding a rather pleasant camaraderie there. When Sean the Storyteller said, “We’ll have to carry this up to the Plain tomorrow,” Flynn at once volunteered to help, thinking that once outside he might seize his chance to get away.

  “I’ll help,” he said eagerly,
and Sean replied doubtfully, “Well, it’ll be heavy, all this wood. Still, there’ll be several of us.”

  “I’ll carry my share,” said Flynn. And thought that he could sling it across his shoulders. It would be easier.

  He did not know that in so doing he was setting the most pitiable, most exquisite of all execution traditions. He would walk to the place of his execution, and he would be carrying across his back the instrument of his own terrible death.

  *

  Portan was very frightened indeed. When the thin-lipped man and the fat, red-faced one had pounced on her, she had been utterly helpless. They had overcome her easily and swiftly, and the thin-lipped one had tied her up quite tightly, so that it was difficult to walk.

  She had recognised John Grady almost at once, and there had been a terrible coldness about the recognition. As she half walked and was half dragged along at his side through the dark forest surrounding Tara, she felt herself back in those far-off years when the Elders had searched her family’s house, and dragged her out from the tiny cramped cupboard so cunningly built for just that eventuality.

  It had been John Grady, the youngest and the most diligent of the Elders who had found her. Portan could still remember how it had felt to be pulled bodily from the dark suffocating place that she had always believed would represent safety for her. She could remember the expression on John Grady’s face when he held her out before the others and the gloating note in his voice when he said, “A Mutant! An accursed deformity! Throw it into the Gealtacht!” And so her father had gone, by night, and left her crying on the threshold of that terrible place. She had forgiven her father, because she had understood, but she had never forgiven John Grady.

  She thought that he had enjoyed wielding his power then, and she thought he was enjoying doing so now. He had fashioned a rope from his belt, had tied it about her neck, and there had been the gloating note in his voice that she had never forgotten.

  “You won’t escape me,” he had said. “Do not think you will.”

  The other one — Muldooney was it? — had stammered and mumbled; he had said, “Steady on now, Grady,” and John Grady had said at once, “My dear Muldooney, you must not think I am using violence. Violence is a word which has no place in my vocabulary. I am simply being firm. And I daresay the creature is accustomed to being restrained.” He looked down at Portan, who was still crouched on the ground, and a smile touched his lips, and Portan knew, without shadow of a doubt, that he was enjoying his power and his superior strength.

  She did not speak. She thought that Grady would not remember her, because he would certainly have dealt with other Mutants since. To him, they would all appear much the same. This was a dreadful thought but it was one that Portan was familiar with. John Grady would not remember the shivering, crying creature he had sentenced to incarceration all those years ago.

  She had not spoken yet, other than to cry out in a startled voice, and now, her mind working furiously, she thought that if she stayed absolutely quiet, there would be a better chance of escape. If both these men believed her to be witless, they might relax their guard.

  Grady said, “You see? It is quite accustomed to being tied.” And smiled with a dreadful gentleness again.

  Portan was by now very frightened. She thought she was not showing it, and she thought she would be able to continue not to show it. It was very important to fool these two men, and it was particularly important to fool John Grady. Grady was searching for Joanna, Flynn’s Joanna, and therefore he would inevitably be searching for Flynn as well. And Portan would have died before she would have divulged the whereabouts of either Flynn or Amairgen to these two men. Padding along quietly at Grady’s side, her mind was working furiously, trying to see a way of escape, trying, as well, to see how she might outwit these two and make her way back to where Flynn and Amairgen would be waiting for her. And even like this, even in the dark forest, dragged along by John Grady, the thought of Flynn and Amairgen brought its own comfort and its own strength. They would expect her to be brave and to use her wits and so she would be. She thought she would probably have died for both of them.

  When Flynn had smiled at her in the Gealtacht and told her that she had a gentle face, she had known a rush of immense love for him; when Amairgen had taken her hand in the Dutch barn and promised that he would never allow her to be sent back to the Gealtacht, she had known herself bound to both of them. Forever? Yes, of course. Probably she would never be able to do anything to repay either of them for what they had done for her, but she would watch her every chance. To begin with, she would not let these two men know that she could have told them where Flynn and Amairgen were had they asked.

  And so she padded quietly along, and she was humble and obedient, and even a little cowed. In fact, she did not need to pretend about this, for the sight of John Grady, the man who had caused her to be flung into the House of Mutants, had struck such fear in her, that she flinched from him.

  John Grady smiled and nodded to himself, and thought that after all it was easy to quench these creatures. You had only to be firm, to show a little strength. Perhaps the Letheans had been in the right of it after all. All men equal, but some more equal than others …

  Brian Muldooney would not have thought it of Grady the Landgrabber. No sensitive he, but he had now realised that the other was enjoying the subduing of the poor deformed soul they’d found wandering in the forest. Grady was finding a queer dark pleasure in cowing the creature. Muldooney hoped that once they reached the Gealtacht the poor thing could be handed over, and Grady would revert to normality. To be sure, it was a terrible idea for them to be going up to the Gealtacht in the first place; Muldooney had never thought to see such an event in his life. It was to be hoped, as well, that the journey would not last very much longer, because hadn’t they all been tramping about in this forest for what seemed like hours, and didn’t the grim dark building seem as far away as ever? Muldooney began to doubt that it was the Gealtacht at all, after a while. And now and then there was a curious sound all about them; a kind of mocking laughter, a soft, nearly-out-of-hearing music. Muldooney did not hold with music — nasty frivolous time-wasting stuff — but he found himself pausing to listen, straining to catch the voices inside the music.

  You will never reach Scáthach, Men of the Desolate Land …

  Be blowed to that! thought Muldooney, who was cold and tired, and who had had quite enough of wandering about in dark forests. Be blowed to that!

  You will see, said the silvery music. You will see …

  *

  The feast of Beltane Eve was nearly at an end. The Court was replete, satisfied. In some cases, it was satiated, and in some cases, it was surfeited.

  Sean the Storyteller sighed and leaned back and hoped in the name of all the gods together that no one would call for entertainment. To be sure, couldn’t a man have a bit of a rest now and again. He belched delicately, and reached for the wine.

  Eochaid Bres had eaten nearly as much as he could, which was not quite as much as he would have liked, but was certainly more than anyone else had eaten. He drank his wine and eyed his Court, and wished that he could have given them some kind of brilliant witty speech, told them to raise their glasses to something or other — oh yes, of course, to Beltane on the morrow — and that they would all have cheered him. But —

  “A speech, Your Majesty?” Bricriu had said, lifting his brows. “Dear me, how enterprising of you. Well, Sire, I can certainly get one of the lesser ollam to pen something; Sean has been at the wine tonight, although of course if you have a preference for his work …?”

  Eochaid Bres had grunted and waved Bricriu into dismissal, because he had not wanted any of the ollam to write his speech for him, and he had certainly not wanted Sean to do so. Not that Sean would be very much affected by the wine, of course. He never was. Only look at the really shocking exhibition he made of himself on High Feast Days when the young girls were brought up to Tara to pleasure the visiting chieftains!
Eochaid wondered that Sean was not more careful of his dignity and he the chief ollam, and no chicken either! Sean would in fact have written a very good speech for Eochaid to deliver; the only thing wrong with it would have been that every person present would have known it was Sean’s. Eochaid glowered into his stewed hare, and said that Bricriu need not bother, it had only been a passing idea.

  Bricriu had enjoyed the feast. A little indigestion afterwards perhaps, but nothing he could not cope with. He thought he might very well send for one of the ladies of the Court tonight; there was no denying that a bit of lovemaking put a grand edge on a man’s appetite, and he was looking forward to ridding the Court of Flynn next day.

  The Druids had been calmly pleased at his offer; human sacrifice, they had said seriously, could not be matched and Ireland would have a richer year for it. And of course the poor young man would acquire instant merit with Dagda and the other gods, and be taken at once to the place beneath the Roof of the Ocean, which was all any of them ever aspired to anyway. They had gone away, mentally rubbing their hands, yet physically unmoved.

  Bricriu thought he was managing things rather well. Yes, he would certainly send for one of the ladies tonight. Which one should it be? He stretched back in his chair and curled the fingers of one hand about the stem of his wine glass, studying the females.

  The rest of the Court, in their varying ways, were relaxing, fighting off a slight sleepiness — weighing up the merits of taking a couple of partners to bed against the benefits of an uninterrupted night’s sleep. The morrow would bring Beltane, the Sacred Fire and the Wicker Man of the Druids. Beltane Night was always a lively one, and it would not do to be found wanting. The older gentlemen thought that a quiet night’s repose would the better armour them for the exigencies of Beltane, while the younger ones thought after all didn’t you need to keep your muscles in good working order? It didn’t do to let a muscle — any muscle — fall into disuse. Everyone knew the terrible stories of people who’d not exercised themselves in anyone’s bed for positively weeks, and then been quite incapable on Beltane Night! It was not exactly obligatory, but it was expected. A matter of honour, you might say.