Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  Medoc looked sad. He said, “Yes, I am afraid that amongst your people I have an unfortunate name. It is a great sadness to me. And things are not always what they seem. Will you be seated? And will you perhaps take wine with me?” The slender white hands reached for chalice and flagon, and Lugh watched as the wine was poured. “This wine is not to everyone’s taste,” said Medoc, and his dark eyes flickered to Lugh and then back again and, just for a second, Lugh had the uncomfortable impression that something that was neither gentle nor scholarly showed in their depths. “It is not to everyone’s taste,” said Medoc. “But I think you may have a more discerning palate than most.” He handed Lugh the chalice. “It is not a wine that everyone could appreciate,” said Medoc, and sat back and smiled.

  And if it was appreciation of wine they were talking of, Lugh was your man. The Longhands had very delicate palates, which was not something widely known. Of course, you blunted these things a bit by living close to soldiers. You had to join in and drink the most remarkable liquids, just to be one with your men.

  Lugh did not, in fact, care for the wine overmuch, but it would not do to say this. Medoc had spotted him as a man of delicate palate, and it would be rude to dispel this image. He sipped cautiously at the wine, and found himself liking it better on closer acquaintance. He did not think he had ever tasted anything quite like it.

  “No, it is a very rare vintage,” said Medoc. “But I thought you would enjoy it.” He smiled, and Lugh smiled back, and relaxed a bit, because none of this was turning out to be nearly as frightening as he had expected. He sat back in his chair — very comfortable, these carved chairs — and took a look about him.

  The Sun Chamber looked very nearly cosy. “Firelight,” said Medoc in his soft voice. “Restful. I find it relaxing just to sit by a fire at the day’s end and think, and perhaps read a little, and ponder.”

  Whatever images Lugh might have conjured up of Medoc inside Tara, they had certainly not included one of Medoc sitting pondering by the fire. He felt even safer, because you could not be the least bit afraid of a man who admitted to pondering.

  “There is,” said Medoc thoughtfully, “so much in the world that is not restful now, would you agree?”

  Lugh said that was very true indeed, and would there be a drain more of the wine.

  “Yes, it is a wine which improves on closer acquaintance,” said Medoc, and Lugh jumped, because this was what he had been thinking. He held out his chalice and watched the wine flow into it. Medoc’s hands were swift and sure; they were the sort of hands you found yourself liking to watch. They were not, Lugh thought hazily, very manly hands. They were nearly feminine really, white and soft. There was a dark red ring on one finger, the like of which Lugh had never seen before, but which seemed to catch the firelight and glint. It made you blink a bit to begin with, but then after you had looked at it for a while, you found it was not at all dazzling. It was quite difficult to look away from the dark red ring, which was not anything that Lugh would have worn, but which looked quite at home on a slender white hand that belonged to a wicked, powerful necromancer.

  “I am not in the least bit wicked,” said Medoc softly, and Lugh thought again that he really had a very attractive voice. “As for necromancy” — there was a shrug, a gesture of self-deprecation — “I have dipped a little into the annals of these things,” said Medoc, “as who has not?”

  “Indeed yes,” said Lugh, who had never come within a mile of necromancy, and would not have recognised an annal on it to save his life. It occurred to him that Medoc’s voice had grown momentarily stronger, almost as if he might be pulling down some kind of power. But this was patently absurd, and Lugh sank back into the warmth of the room and the drowsiness of the wine, and allowed himself to listen to the soft beautiful voice. It was a voice you could go on listening to. There was even a thread of authority in it now. Lugh knew about authority. It was not something you could teach people to have. You either possessed it or you did not.

  Medoc possessed a remarkable degree of authority. He was smiling at Lugh and the great, dark red ring (would it be a ruby?) was catching and holding the light, so that Lugh could almost imagine there were fires within the ring, and that goblins with red eyes and pitchforks danced there, and that horned creatures waited there and that cave mouths yawned and … O be wary, Mortal, be wary of the vast caverns of hell …

  Lugh blinked and the ruby glowed steadily and quietly and innocently. A trick of the light, nothing more.

  “A trick of the light,” said Medoc. “But that has shown me you are a man of some perception, Sir Longhand.”

  Lugh nodded, pleased. He did not trouble to correct Medoc over the question of title because clearly this was only a matter of time. He said that perception was the thing these days.

  “Oh, perception has won many a war,” said Medoc, who seemed to be wholly in sympathy with Lugh’s ideas. “Battles are not always won by plundering and pillaging and raping.” They were not, this was very true, and as far as Lugh was concerned, you could keep pillaging and raping any day of the week. Plundering was different, because you acquired things by it.

  “But it is all so barbaric,” said Medoc, and Lugh, lulled by the fire and the wine, drowsy from Medoc’s enchantment, nodded and went on nodding, because it was difficult to stop once you had started. He wondered would there be any more wine, and he wondered as well whether Medoc was going to offer him a bite of supper. It was not that he was greedy, but only that Cathbad kept them on astonishingly short rations. Lugh would enjoy a good plateful of roast boar, perhaps with some wings of pheasant as a side dish, and maybe a few honey cakes to round it all off.

  The food was before him almost before he had framed the thought; succulent roast boar, exactly as he liked it, with the centre a little pink and the edges moist and brown. Pheasant wings stewed gently in mulled wine — a great delicacy. And honey cakes fresh from the ovens, the tops breaking open to spill out the warm fragrant honey beneath. The wine goblet, filled to the brim, was at his elbow.

  Medoc said softly, “Eat and drink, my friend, for ‘Do what you like’ is the only creed worth anything.”

  Lugh found this eminently sensible. It was shocking, when you thought about it, how in all of the stories told about Medoc, no one had ever said that he was sensible and courteous. People did not set much store by courtesy these days, but Lugh had been properly brought up and he knew what was what. Courtesy and good manners, and consideration for others, there was the thing. Plain old-fashioned politeness. Medoc was a gentleman.

  “I am what I am,” said Medoc. “And I think we understand one another, you and I.”

  Lugh said they did, indeed they did.

  “And now that we have arrived at such a good understanding,” said Medoc, “I wonder if I may impose on your good nature.” He looked at Lugh, and Lugh found himself nodding all over again.

  “Excellent,” said Medoc, and Lugh beamed, because Medoc was the sort of person you would like to find thought well of you. “And of course,” said Medoc in a soft purring voice, “of course, I am exceedingly generous to those who serve me. You have perhaps heard that? It is true. I will give much to those who swear allegiance, and who perform the tasks I set them.

  “I will give you many things and many honours if you will undertake this task, Sir Longhand,” said Medoc, and Lugh, caught all over again by the silken note in Medoc’s voice, certainly held by the steady red glow of Medoc’s slanting eyes, said slowly, “I will do anything you ask.”

  Medoc sat back in his chair and regarded Lugh. “The task is difficult and delicate,” he said, and a disinterested observer might almost have thought there was amusement in his voice now. “Discretion and imagination is called for. It is not everyone who could do this,” said Medoc, “but I have formed a very high opinion of your intelligence, Sir Longhand. I believe that you may be the one man in Ireland that I could …”

  “Yes?” said Lugh.

  “That I could trust,” said Medo
c, and smiled and raised the hand that wore the great heavy ring, and once again the depths glowed with life. Lugh thought it was perfectly possible to imagine you were seeing pictures in the ring again. And the layers of colour were all there. Red on red on red …

  And all the fires of hell reflected in between … all the torments of the burning dungeons … leaping, devouring flames … Look deep into the furnaces and be lost once and for ever, Mortal soul … look down into the boiling lakes and the beds of raging fire to the ovens tended by harpy-footed furies … look into the sins and the passions and the secret shameful desires of the world and be forever damned, human soul … follow the ways of the Dark Lords … the only creed is “Do what you will” … Follow me, human soul, and come down into the brimstone pit …

  Lugh blinked and the ruby dimmed and the fiery caverns shimmered and dissolved, and he was back in the Sun Chamber that was a Sun Chamber no longer, but a dark mysterious lair with a slender, dark-visaged gentleman who had given him excellent wine and a very good supper.

  He raised his eyes and looked directly at Medoc and said, “I will do whatever you wish,” and with the words the last traces of allegiance to the Wolfkings fell from Lugh of the Longhand, and he was Medoc’s body and soul.

  Which was exactly what Medoc had wanted.

  “Lies have been told of me through all eternity,” said Medoc, his eyes unwavering, and Lugh nodded solemnly. He thought he would perform this task for Medoc, whatever it turned out to be, and he would be very pleased to do it. The thought of the Twelve Dark Lords weighed a bit heavily on him, but he would not let this sway him. He would certainly not let the thought of Dorrainge and Fergus and the rest sway him either. Medoc would control the Twelve Lords, and Lugh would control Dorrainge and the others. It went without saying.

  “The Dark Lords need not concern you,” said Medoc. “They are useful at times.” He smiled and Lugh smiled back. “One makes use of the instruments that come to one’s hand,” he said, and Lugh saw the sense of this at once.

  Medoc said, “Ireland is threatened. It is threatened by a terrible menace.” He looked at Lugh, and Lugh nodded once again, because he knew all about terrible menaces and dreadful threats. Wasn’t Ireland always falling victim to one or the other? To be fair, they had all of them believed that Medoc himself was a terrible menace, if he was not a dreadful threat. One was as bad as the other. But Lugh could see that Medoc was neither. He sat up a bit straighter and waited to hear about the terrible menace. Or dreadful threat. Whichever it turned out to be.

  Medoc leaned forward so that the firelight washed over his face and threw a strange, rather eerie mask across the upper part of his features. “As you will know, Sir Long-hand,” he said, “the Wolfline of Ireland is nearly extinct.”

  Yes, Lugh knew this, everyone knew this, and it had been a source of some worry. He watched Medoc rather anxiously.

  Medoc leaned back again and regarded Lugh. At last, he said, “Have you ever heard of the legend of the Lost Prince?”

  For a very long time, neither of them spoke further. A silence of such brooding quality settled on the fire-lit chamber, that Lugh thought you could almost have reached out and touched it.

  The Lost Prince … The legendary child who would appear and who would finally defeat the Dark Ireland … Tara’s once and future King …

  Medoc said, “Yes, it is a seductive notion, of course. An attractive myth. And you will find the belief in many countries and in many creeds. People — uneducated people — like to have these foolish dreams and these absurd hopes.”

  Lugh said he quite saw that and wouldn’t a sensible man dismiss it for the superstition it was.

  “Unfortunately,” said Medoc silkily, “in this case, it is more than superstition.” The dark eyes glowed. “A few years ago,” said Medoc, “a child was born with the ancient and mystical wolfblood running strongly in its veins. A Wolfprince …”

  Lugh did not speak, and presently Medoc said, “Great mystery surrounded the birth of this child. It was born in the most extreme secrecy ever to attend on the birth of any Prince of Ireland. It was taken by night and given into the care of an obscure family. But for all this anonymity, it is a Prince of the Old Nobility; the sidh stole up to the Gates of Tara and sang it into the world, as they have always done for the Wolfprinces.” Anger twisted the patrician features briefly, and Lugh flinched.

  “It is said that the Elven King, Aillen mac Midha, foresaw such danger for the Prince that he attended its birth,” said Medoc. “And wove about it such a strong magic that it was believed the child would be forever safe.

  “I learned of the creature’s birth by means which do not concern you,” said Medoc, and Lugh at once thought, Sorcery? Did he use sorcery! and Medoc smiled, and said, “Of course I used sorcery. Am I not a member of the Ancient Academy of Sorcerers? Do I not hold the right to wear the Dark Star of Necromancy, and do I not know of every spell spun and every enchantment woven in Ireland?” He seemed almost to sink into a reverie for a moment, and Lugh looked up.

  Medoc said, very softly, as if he had forgotten Lugh’s existence, “And have I not drawn about the Tyrian sorcerers the Cloak of Failure, so that their absurd, pitiful attempts to re-create the Royal Beastline should never succeed?” His eyes gleamed redly, and Lugh felt an uncomfortable prickling on the back of his neck.

  And then Medoc looked up, and smiled, and said, “Of course I use sorcery,” and Lugh saw that perhaps after all it would have been a reasonable thing to have done.

  “The child must not be allowed to live,” said Medoc, looking at Lugh very intently. “The Wolfline is tainted, and it must die out.” Lugh, unable to look away from Medoc’s unwavering stare, said, “Yes, it must die out.”

  Medoc leaned back, and appeared to relax very slightly. “For the Wolfline to disappear,” he said, “this child, this so-called Lost Prince, must therefore be destroyed.” He looked at Lugh and waited, and after a while, Lugh said slowly, “Yes. He must be destroyed.”

  “He is no true Prince,” said Medoc. “He is an imposter.”

  Lugh nodded.

  “An imposter,” said Medoc again. “A fake. A cheat.” The slanting eyes were still fixed on Lugh, and to Lugh’s drugged mind it seemed that they grew larger. “But he is being reared in secrecy, and one day in the future he will rise up and challenge me.” He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming redly. “I have Tara,” he said. “And I will keep Tara. But to rule, I must have absolute power. There can be no pretenders, no Wolfprinces, no legends growing up in secrecy who might raise an army against me. You understand all this?”

  “Yes,” said Lugh.

  “The Prince must be sought out and killed,” said Medoc.

  “He must be killed,” nodded Lugh.

  “Destroyed completely.”

  “Destroyed completely,” said Lugh.

  “And you will destroy him.”

  “Yes. Yes, I will do that,” said Lugh. And then, with a sudden frown, “But if he is so protected — if there is such secrecy …”

  Medoc sat back in his chair, the fingers of one hand curled about the stem of his wine chalice. He said, “The child’s whereabouts are known to me. He is in a village called Folaim, which, in the old, pure Gael, means a place of concealment. It was not difficult to discover him.” He smiled, and turned the ruby ring on his hand, so that the strange red lights began to glow again.

  “They will guard the creature as well as they can,” said Medoc, and Lugh remembered about the Guardians, about the Spectre and Reflection, and the terrible Sensleibhe, and hoped he was not going to encounter any of them.

  “The Guardians serve another at present,” said Medoc, and, as Lugh looked up, he smiled. “Had you forgotten that I possess the ability to hear you, Sir Longhand?”

  Lugh said, rather hesitantly, “The Samhailt,” and Medoc made a quick, contemptuous gesture with one hand.

  “A milk and water enchantment, bestowed only on weaklings. There are stronger powers than t
he Samhailt. It was the Amaranth line who spun the Samhailt enchantment, and presented it to the Beastline of Ireland,” said Medoc. “But they forgot that there are others of an even older line, a line far stronger and darker than the Amaranthine. While the Amaranths were perfecting the Samhailt, I was spinning a far stronger, far more incisive enchantment. There is no code of honour binding the enchantment that permits me to hear your thoughts,” said Medoc scornfully. “I can hear whatever I care to.” He sipped the wine in his glass.

  “The Guardians have served me,” he said, after a moment, “but they were called from the Dark Ireland to be of use to a world not yet born, and they are still serving that Master.”

  He looked at Lugh, and Lugh vaguely remembered about Fergus and the journey to the Far Future, and wondered if Fergus would encounter the Guardians, and whether Medoc would know about it.

  Medoc said softly, “The Guardians travelled into the Future only because I permitted it.” The thin, cruel smile touched his face. “Have you forgotten, Sir Longhand, that I rule in the Dark Domain also? And that every creature who dwells there must answer to me?” He studied Lugh again, and appeared satisfied. “The Wolfchild is hardly guarded at all,” he said. “They believe that the enchantment spun by the Elven King at the creature’s birth is sufficient.” His eyes glinted redly. “And so you must go to the place called Folaim,” he said. “You must seek out the Lost Prince, and you must kill him.”

  “How will I know him?”

  “He possesses the wolfblood. You will know.”

  “But if I do not?”

  “Then,” said Medoc, “you must kill them all. You must slaughter every first-born boy in Folaim under the age of seven years. And if you are still unsure, then you must slaughter every Manchild under the age of seven years in Ireland.” He gave Lugh the narrow gleaming stare again. “We shall revive the cult of Crom Croich to do it,” he said.