Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  “That is rather different,” said Fael-Inis. “For there are other powers, and other laws that govern the soul.” He looked at them very gently. “But it is possible that Fergus’s soul will never return,” he said.

  “Are you using Fergus’s sacrifice to compel me to take his place?” said Taliesin suddenly.

  “No. Are you?”

  “I thought I was not,” said Taliesin slowly.

  “But you are thinking that it would be a dreadful irony if Fergus had given his soul into the captivity of the Prison of Hostages, only to have his quest abandoned?”

  Taliesin stood up and regarded Fael-Inis steadily. “Well?” he said. “Wouldn’t it?”

  “You will do it?”

  “Save the world?” said Taliesin, and all of the old careless mockery was there. “How could I do otherwise?”

  And then Fribble said, “The Looms have stopped.”

  *

  “I think it will work,” said Calatin. “It’s being finished. It’s cooling, you might say. You’ll have to treat it carefully, because it’s a fragile sort of spell. Don’t let it get torn or worn.” He eyed them severely. “Are you ready to leave?”

  “The Chariot will be here at dawn, good Calatin,” said Fael-Inis, and Calatin at once said that this was a very good time for a journey.

  “Dawn, there’s the thing. My word, you can’t beat a dawn journey,” he said, pleased. “I’ll bring the spells down to you, and then you’ll be off and away. Dear me, what an excitement. I’ve made one for each of you, of course.”

  It was then that Fribble said, “I’m not going.”

  He was very definite about it. “I should be in the way,” he said firmly. “Dorrainge was quite right, only I wanted to argue against him, fat fool. It doesn’t do any good to let him think he can overrule me either — well, he can’t really, because I’m Chief Druid after all. But he needs to be reminded now and again. I was reminding him when I said I’d come with you. And I’ve enjoyed it all very much,” said Fribble, quite seriously. “It’s all been very interesting and I’ve learned quite a lot of things I didn’t know before. But I should be in the way from here on. Taliesin will do very well on his own.”

  Taliesin, rather appalled at the “on his own” part of this speech, said, “But we might need you for all kinds of things, Fribble. We might need your knowledge. You know things that I don’t. You certainly wouldn’t be in the way.”

  “Yes, I should,” said Fribble. “It’s polite of you to say that, but it’s a young man’s venture this — well, that’s not to call Fael-Inis a man precisely, and that’s meaning no disrespect either,” he added to Fael-Inis, who replied with grave courtesy, “None in the world.”

  “You will be in my thoughts, of course,” said Fribble in a down-to-earth tone. “Well, you’ll know that. And there’s a lot of strength in properly ordered thoughts, you know. People don’t think of it, but there is. I shall set aside a part of each day to think about you.” He regarded them quite severely.

  “What will you do?” said Taliesin.

  “Well,” said Fribble, “Calatin here has been so kind as to invite me to stay for a while.” He glanced over his shoulder to where Calatin was trumpeting into a red spotted handkerchief. “It’s hit him very hard, you know,” said Fribble. “About the Sons and the Conablaiche. Fael-Inis told him very gently and very nicely, but you can’t expect him to be other than quite dreadfully upset, can you?

  “So I thought I’d stay with him,” said Fribble. “We shall have a good deal to discuss, you know. I shouldn’t be bored. We’re going to write his memoirs, well, we’re going to start writing them, and that will be extremely interesting. And then we’re going to edit the Chronicles of Amaranth, and after that” said Fribble, “after that, we’re going to embark on a history of the Sorcery Wars between the Amaranthines and the Tyrians. Of course, that will take a very long time indeed. But I expect I shall learn quite a lot. Also,” said Fribble, glancing to the velvet couch beneath the forest window, “also I do think that one of us ought to stay with Fergus.”

  “Yes of course,” said Taliesin, his eyes going also to the motionless figure, because it was certainly unthinkable that they should leave Fergus like this, in the middle of a dark old mansion at the heart of an ancient forest.

  Fribble beamed. “Do you know, you’re improving by the hour,” he said. “You’ll be quite a good sort of person by the time you return from the Future, supposing you do return, of course, because I didn’t like the sound of that spell, did you? Seven days only, that’s not long. I should miss you,” said Fribble seriously. “Dear me, yes, I should.”

  “That is extremely ki —”

  “Well, I should miss your wine,” said Fribble, “because it’s really very good. No, I wasn’t hinting — well, perhaps we ought to speed you on your way. My word, that’s a large helping you’re pouring me.”

  *

  Dawn. Birdsong and rebirth and the sheer undiluted delight of living creatures awaking to face another day. Tongues of colour washing over the old grey mansion. The vibrant hues of coral, and the rose and gold of dawn light. The shimmering dusky pink of a poppy field under a dawn sky.

  Fergus should have been standing here, thought Taliesin, and there was a pain and an aching void at the knowledge, for this had been Fergus’s quest and his covenant. Standing in the dawn-lit hall of Calatin’s house, Taliesin knew that for Fergus this had been not just a venture, a battle for the Fiana, but something much deeper. The restoration of the Wolfqueen … And Fergus had made that final, overwhelming sacrifice so that Ireland should be safe, and so that the Wolfqueen should regain Tara. He should be here, thought Taliesin again, but since he is not, since he is forever inside the Prison of Hostages, then I must carry out the quest for him.

  The morning light was piercing the old house now, sending shafts of pure colour sliding across the floor, making the dust motes dance in and out of the rays. With the light came the music. “The Beckoning,” said Fael-Inis.

  Taliesin could never tell afterwards where the light ended and the music began. “The light ran into the music,” he said, “and the music into the light. I was dazzled and bewitched.”

  Even so, he was able to look at the fireglow of the Chariot, and he was able to look into the light and see the salamanders with their wise faces and their eyes filled with ancient knowledge. He felt the cool silky spell woven by Calatin brush his skin like a thin liquid cloak, and he remembered that there were only seven days for Fergus’s task to be performed.

  There was a strong sweet scent: sandalwood and patchouli and freshly cut grass on a summer morning. Applewood burning on an autumn night. Everything that makes up Ireland, he thought. I wonder if I am afraid? And he knew he was not the least afraid, he was only afraid of failing Fergus, who had surrendered his soul that the Wolfqueen might rule again.

  And then the music was drawing him into the fire and the light, and he could see the massive shape of the Chariot limned against the forest now, bathed in its own radiance, hung with silk, lined with satin …

  The echoes were all about him now, and the beautiful fragile images created by the people of the worlds not yet born … A Chariot of the Sun is being given to you … And the light is a garment … A flying chariot through the fields of air …

  And time and the world are ever in flight

  And love is less kind than the grey twilight

  And hope is less clear than the dew of the mom.

  And I am going into the light and I am going into time, and if I am to save the world, then I shall have served the world, and if I do not save the world, then at least I shall have tried.

  Because nobody ever said life was meant to be easy anyway …

  He caught the glint of a smile from Fael-Inis at that, and felt a sudden delight, because the fire was surging up all about them, and Fael-Inis had taken up a stance at the fore of the Chariot, and he was gathering up silken reins between his hands, only the reins were of living c
olour and shifting light, and there were certainly spells within them as there had certainly been spells in the Chamber of the Looms …

  There was the sweet warm fragrance of gentle heat and of silken bodies, and the salamanders tossed their manes, and sparks of light cascaded across Taliesin’s vision.

  And then Fael-Inis lifted the silver pipes to his lips, and there was a final burst of music, and the forest and the house and the Ireland of Tara’s Court vanished, and they were pulled into the Far Future.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lugh of the Longhand though things were going rather well. It was not everyone who could lead a party of men from Innisfree on to the mainland without being spotted. Lugh was certain that there had been nothing in the least bit noticeable about their journey. There had been a certain amount of bustle about it, but you could hardly have a journey — any journey — without a bit of bustle. You certainly could not lead upwards of twenty men, never mind a pair of Druids, on to Ireland’s mainland without being a bit noisy.

  But nobody would think anything of it. As for Dorrainge’s idea of travelling by night, stealthily and furtively, Lugh had never heard anything like it. They would go openly and honestly by day, he said, and pretended not to hear when Dorrainge said they were inviting all kinds of trouble.

  What Dorrainge did not realise was that Lugh was being subtle. It would pay off, they would all see. Lugh was going to be playing a decisive part in this victory. Dorrainge was in for a very big shock.

  The setting up of the secret camp and the training of the men was a blind and a cover to fool Medoc, and people who said lugubriously that Medoc could not be fooled did not know what they were talking about. Lugh was going to fool Medoc very neatly, and they would all eat their words. While the men were training and getting their eye back for archery and broadsword fighting, Lugh would be creeping up on Tara, studying the Bright Palace to find out its weaknesses; he would be charting the movements of the guards and sentries, and counting up the number of people on watch at the Western Gate.

  He knew that there was a whisper among the men that they ought to have had Fergus with them, but Lugh knew that Fergus was no great loss. It was plain to Lugh, as it should have been to everyone else, that Fergus — and whoever he took with him — was going to get into severe difficulties in the Far Future. Lugh had never thought it a good idea, and he had said so at the time, only nobody had listened. The Queen had agreed to it because the Queen would agree to anything Fergus wanted; everyone knew that.

  Lugh had heard a few extremely surprising tales about Her Majesty and Fergus, but he had not gossiped, because Longhands did not gossip. You could not call what Lugh had done gossip, because he had done it for their own good. And he had done it tactfully as well, just mentioning to one or two people who had Dierdriu’s ear that Grainne and Fergus were sometimes seen together in rather questionable circumstances. Tact and discretion he had used, and he dared say that Dierdriu had been told who had been at the back of it. She would have thought the better of him for it as well, Lugh knew he could be sure of that. He had not liked doing it, but he had known his duty. Anyway, it had been a very long time ago, goodness gracious, it had been at least six years. It might even have been seven.

  Fribble was not really very much of a loss to this expedition, because he would only have got in the way, falling asleep at important meetings (Lugh liked meetings), and eating all of their supplies. Lugh was being very fair about distribution of supplies.

  “It’s to be fair shares for all,” he had said to Cathbad, and Cathbad had at once said, “Oh, dear me, yes, of course. I don’t know how else we should do it,” and had gone off to prepare their evening meal. And it had been extremely unkind, not to say ill-bred, of several of the younger ones to remark on Lugh’s own plateful of stew and to compare it unfavourably with their own portions. Everyone knew that the leader of the party had to be given larger helpings than anyone else.

  But Lugh would rise above it all, and would not bother to listen to complaints about who was getting larger helpings of stew, or who was having the most comfortable sleeping quarters, or even who was getting up a bit later than everyone else. Leaders needed their sleep more than the people they led.

  Lugh was not sure, now, if it had been a good idea to bring Dorrainge. He ought to have known that Dorrainge would meddle, well, he had known it, but it had actually been rather difficult to leave him behind.

  “He’s Second Druid,” said Cathbad. “You can’t leave him behind.” And he had gone off to brew up a kettle of some herbal concoction, which he had said would do wonders for the men’s aching joints after the long march. “Legs and knees,” said Cathbad busily. “Legs and knees, and probably thighs as well. My word, thighs have to be looked after, don’t they? You can’t march an army unless your legs are in order. I’ll just give them all a little bit of a massage, shall I?”

  Dorrainge was turning out to be very meddlesome. He poked his nose into things that ought not to have concerned him. “How much dried bear meat have we?” he asked. “Dear me, is that all?” And, “Are you sure we ought to make camp here?” he said. “Don’t you think we can be seen too easily? We’re in a direct line from Tara for Medoc’s spies. Of course, it’s nothing to do with me.”

  It was nothing to do with Dorrainge at all; Lugh would make the decisions about where they pitched camp and how much bear meat they brought. They would probably not bring very much bear meat at all, because Lugh was not especially partial to bear meat, but it would have looked odd to say this.

  Lugh would address all the meetings as well, and Dorrainge would not get a look in. Lugh always showed well at meetings, and he was good at speeches. It was not many who could make a speech like Lugh.

  “It’s not many who’d want to,” said Cathbad, distracted by the necessity of having to provide supper early on one of Lugh’s meeting nights. “There’s me with thirty-five men to feed, and not a morsel in my larder tent!”

  Cathbad did not contribute very much to the meetings, and so Lugh did not pay him very much attention. As for Dorrainge’s complaints, the camp site they had chosen was very good. It was unkind of Dorrainge to criticise and say that Medoc would be able to see them, and that Medoc would be able to tell everything they did. Medoc would not be able to see them, not when Lugh had finished his cunning arrangement of branches and twigs and leaves. Ah, the Longhands knew how to conceal things.

  “But it’ll take you the best part of two days to provide the concealment,” said Dorrainge, surveying Lugh’s neatly drawn plans and watching the men sawing off branches and raking up leaves from the forest floor. “What do you suppose is happening all the time we’re making the cover?”

  Lugh said it would not take two days and it would not even take all night. Medoc would not see them.

  “It’s too close,” said Dorrainge. “I said it was and now I see I’m right. We’ll be seen. We’ve probably been seen already.”

  Lugh kept his temper extremely well and pointed out all the advantages of the site. He was logical and courteous, so that it was unnecessary for Dorrainge to say that he supposed a Longhand had nearly always featured in Ireland’s greatest defeats, and Lugh was only following tradition. “We’ll be seen,” he said again. “You mark my words.”

  Lugh did not enter into an argument. He walked away with dignity and went off to tell Cathbad to make several small fires instead of one big one that night, just in case their usual large fire was large enough to attract unwelcome attention.

  “Little groups of us,” said Cathbad, nodding. “Cosy.” Cathbad thought it was a good site. “Plenty of nice dry wood for the cooking,” he said, “and I’ll just collect some of those wild mushrooms, shall I? There’s nothing to beat a handful of mushrooms in with a rabbit stew. And look at the wild sorrel! Sorrel with fish. I must gather some.”

  Dorrainge said that at any minute Cathbad would start talking about holding a pig-sticking party, and Cathbad, who was plunging about happily in the wild sorrel,
said, “And if we could only hold a pig-sticking party …” Several of the younger soldiers hooted with laughter, and Cathbad looked hurt and had to be brought out of the sorrel and soothed.

  “And I’ve been stung by nettles,” he said, injured, and pretended not to hear Dorrainge, who said it was a mistake to pamper nettle stings, and they hadn’t the time to soothe people’s silly imagined injuries.

  The soldiers liked being close to the Bright Palace, and they thought that Medoc would probably not be able to see them. Medoc was not that powerful, surely he was not, they said.

  “Yes, he is,” said Dorrainge. “I’ve told you.”

  But the soldiers thought it was great altogether to be near to Tara, and began to talk about getting up a party to go along and take a look, because wouldn’t it be the finest old inspiration a man could have to see the Bright Palace again.

  “It’s not bright any longer,” said Dorrainge, and the soldiers looked as disappointed as children. Cathbad clicked his tongue, because this was not the sort of thing you should say to soldiers, who were easily cast down and sent into gloom and doom, something you should certainly avoid before going into battle.

  Somebody asked why the Bright Palace was no longer bright, and Dorrainge said, “Because of Medoc’s dark enchantments of course,” and looked at the soldier as though he thought him a complete fool. “Which,” said the soldier afterwards, “I am not. I only asked a polite question.”

  “To be sure you did,” said his colleagues, “and isn’t that the way of Druids to be so squashing.”

  “I wouldn’t have come,” said the soldier, who would not have missed it for worlds, “I wouldn’t have come if I’d known there would be Druids squashing and glooming. Because if it isn’t Dorrainge telling you how we’ll be defeated, it’s Lugh Longhand making speeches half the night.”

  Several people said it was, to be sure it was, and didn’t it make a plain man flinch.

  “And if it isn’t that,” said the soldier, who was a man of fixed purpose, “if it isn’t that, it’s that Cathbad forever trying to get his hands on your —”