Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  *

  Lugh was planning the morrow’s movements. To a disinterested observer, it would probably have seemed that he was resting quietly on his pallet, and to an uncharitably minded person, it might even have appeared that he was avoiding helping with the work. In fact, he was thinking very hard, and this was something you had to do in absolute quiet and absolute privacy. It was better if you could lie on your back as well.

  He was deciding what they would do when they reached Folaim tomorrow. He thought it might be time to select an ally as well. Allies were good things to have, provided you chose them carefully. He dismissed any of the Beastline at once, because he had not, truth to tell, been very impressed by them. In fact, he was inclined to think that Her Majesty had fallen in with a very doubtful set of creatures, and he hoped there would not be sorrow ahead because of it. And he dismissed Fintan and Cermait, and Tybion the Tusk, almost without thinking about them, because those three were really quite absurdly loyal to the Queen. Well, so was Lugh loyal to the Queen, only Fintan and the other two took it to a silly degree.

  That left the Druids. Lugh considered the idea of Dorrainge and Cathbad very carefully, because Druids were people of importance, and anything they supported would be accepted.

  On balance, Lugh was inclined to favour Dorrainge as his ally. Dorrainge was a bit suspicious by nature, but if he could somehow be brought on to Lugh’s side without knowing it, it would be a very good thing indeed.

  It should be Dorrainge. Lugh had considered Cathbad only briefly before dismissing him, because Cathbad, whilst an excellent person in his way, was also a terrible old gossip, and if there was one thing you could not be having in a confidential ally, it was a gossip.

  So Lugh would somehow quell Dorrainge’s suspicions and he would take him into his confidence, well it would not be entirely his confidence, because Dorrainge would not like the idea of carrying out a task for Medoc, even though it was for the good of Ireland. The thing would have to be wrapped up a bit.

  Lugh linked his arms behind his head and frowned and disregarded the rest of the camp who were being very busy and extremely noisy and clattering pots and knocking in tent pegs and swilling mulled wine.

  And then he had it. And really, it was quite brilliant, although no more brilliant than you would have expected from a Longhand. But it was so brilliant and so simple that it was a pity Lugh could not show everyone how very brilliant it was.

  In exactly one week it would be Samain. The third of the four nights in the year when every evil force was abroad in the world, and when gateways were said to be ajar between all the worlds. Lugh did not believe any of this, but there was no denying that a good many people did.

  The Druids believed. It was many years since they had been able to celebrate Samain properly; it was certainly a very long time since they had offered up a human sacrifice as their predecessors had done. The Queen’s greatgrandfather, Cormac, had outlawed the practice, and the Druids had bowed their heads in obedience to his law. Gradually the old ways had died out, and Lugh thought it was probably fifty years since the Druidical fires had been lit for Samain or Beltane.

  They would revive it. They would revive the ritual fire of Samain in Folaim, and they would invite everyone in the village to join in. And the children would surely come, for children loved a bonfire and a celebration.

  And once the children were there, he, Lugh, would be able to spot the Wolfchild with ease.

  *

  Grainne thought the sly glint was still in Lugh’s eye when he approached her with his idea of reviving the ancient Samain celebration, and a warning note sounded somewhere on the edge of her mind.

  “But it would be a very fine thing,” said Dorrainge, who had been primed by Lugh earlier, and could not see any reason why they should not celebrate Samain properly, and who thought that it was rather kind of Lugh to be going to so much trouble.

  “Would it?” said Grainne, frowning. “I am not sure —”

  “Of course,” said Lugh loudly, “it is quite unnecessary for human sacrifice to form part of the rituals.” He bowed as he said this, and Grainne said very sharply indeed, “I hope it is, Lugh,” and Lugh looked deeply hurt, and said that human sacrifice had not been practised in Ireland since he did not know when.

  “The very idea,” he said, shocked. “But it would be a wonderful thing if the Druids could be permitted to revive the old pure magic of Samain. It would be a wonderful thing for Your Majesty to be the one to revive it all.”

  Grainne looked at him rather coldly, and Raynor said gently, “But surely — Samain is one of the four nights in the year when evil is abroad. Some of the rituals are known to lure the evil ones closer.”

  “But,” said Lugh, “surely the gentler bewitchments, the kindly spells …” He said this very respectfully, so that it was really rather rude of Fintan to remind everyone that the gentler bewitchments and the kindly spells had once upon a time stretched to including human sacrifice on a bonfire.

  “Human sacrifice has long since been seen for the empty mockery it is,” said Dorrainge, who was not going to let their plan be upset by Fintan, who, after all, was nobody at all.

  Grainne said wistfully, “I confess I should like to see some of the old rituals. And if there is to be a feast for the people of Folaim —”

  “A very fine feast,” said Lugh, who had already planned this with Cathbad.

  “A feast,” said Dorrainge, “and a properly laid bonfire, with the correct woods gathered at the correct times. Wild agaric and dry oak. That,” said Dorrainge, “makes the new fire — needfire it is called.”

  Raynor said softly, “The wildfire of Samain,” and Dorrainge said, “Well, yes,” and thought it was all very well for Her Majesty to be consorting with these people, and to be sure the Eagles were an old and honourable House, and some kind of alliance would certainly be entirely in order, but it was to be hoped that people who had held authority at Court would still be allowed to do so. He eyed Raynor suspiciously, and Raynor smiled blandly at him.

  “Wildfire,” said Dorrainge, as if he had been about to say this, and Raynor said, “Quite,” and Dorrainge reminded himself that he was Second Druid after all, and a person of some importance.

  Grainne said, “It would be a wonderful thing for the Beastline to be part of the full Samain celebration. It would be a welcome for them.” And paused, and frowned again, because Lugh still had the sly look in his eyes, and now there was a sudden fat complacent air to him, as if he might have achieved something he had been trying to achieve. But surely there could be nothing wrong about celebrating Samain in the old way, with a feast, and the people of Folaim invited?

  And so Grainne quenched the misgivings, and smiled at Dorrainge and said, “Yes. Let us do it.”

  From the forest, the Lad of the Skins watched, unblinking as a cat.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  As they went deeper into the mountain, Annabel could still hear the drumming of the hoofbeats somewhere over their heads.

  “The Four Horsemen,” said Fael-Inis, standing still and listening intently. “The Heralds. But I think they are not yet inside the mountain with us.”

  “Are they following us?” asked Annabel, who thought they would have enough to contend with without meeting the Horsemen.

  Fael-Inis said slowly, “They are following me.” He looked at them. “We have brushed before, the Horsemen and I,” he said. “They serve one against whom I have fought before.”

  “The Apocalypse?” said Taliesin.

  “It had a different name then,” said Fael-Inis, and now it was the remote creature who had walked in other worlds and consorted with different beings. Neither Taliesin nor Annabel spoke and, after a moment, Fael-Inis seemed to give himself a shake. “Now,” he said, “it is the Apocalypse we must outwit.”

  “Yes,” said Annabel, and thought that on balance she would prefer the Conablaiche again.

  Fael-Inis said, “Listen for the hoofbeats constantly. Gauge their di
stance. Only by doing that can we know how near they are. You understand?”

  Taliesin said, “And the Conablaiche …?”

  “For the moment it has gone,” said Fael-Inis, and smiled at them. “We shall hear that one approach,” he said. “We shall smell it and sense it, and perhaps we shall again outrun it.” He led them deeper along the tunnel. “Come now, both of you.”

  Annabel had expected to find the inside of the mountain dark and stuffy. She had thought it would smell of mould, and that there would be pale wriggling earth creatures. It had been one thing to visualise charging down a hillside, perhaps riding a horse (which she had never actually done), sweeping to victory, but it was another thing altogether to walk along in the dark like this, trying to penetrate the gloom.

  The mountain was not especially dark. There were great echoing caverns, and huge crypts and rock tunnels; there were labyrinths and narrow passages, and once or twice they had to bend low to avoid hitting their heads on overhanging rocks. But there was a constant bluish light, and there was immense space, and it was very easy indeed to see their way.

  Annabel, walking cautiously between Taliesin and Fael-Inis, began to find it exhilarating, and began to think ahead to what they were going to find.

  The torchlit Cavern of the Doomsday Clock …

  They were going to save the world.

  This was such a tremendously uplifting idea that Annabel began almost to enjoy the entire peculiar journey. She certainly began to find the mountain fascinating.

  But the hoofbeats were still over their heads, and the memory of the Conablaiche was still very fresh, and Annabel shuddered, and tried not to think too much about either of these things, and was very glad that Taliesin and Fael-Inis were there. And then she remembered that if it had not been for Taliesin and Fael-Inis, she would not have made this journey anyway, and saw the absurdity.

  It was warm inside the mountain, and although there was a feeling of great space, there was also a tremendous oppressiveness. Their footsteps echoed and the smallest whisper bounced off the walls and reverberated all about them, and all the time there was the knowledge of the hundreds of tons of rock directly over their heads. Annabel found it terrifying and awe-inspiring, and hoped they would not miss anything unexpected, and hoped they would not miss their footing anywhere either, because there were narrow rock bridges over which they had to pass, and there were underground rivers which flowed silently and rather horridly beneath their feet. If you fell into one of the rivers, you would be swept away before you could be saved. You would be taken away, down to the mountain’s bowels, and you would never survive, and it would be the nastiest death … There was something particularly frightening about the thought of the black sluggish rivers and the still lakes where strange creatures might lurk. There was something very sinister about great volumes of stagnant water. You never knew what might lie below the surface.

  It was not as dark as they had feared. “Starlight,” said Fael-Inis. “It is spilling in through the chinks in the mountain.”

  The starlight was soft but rather eerie. It disturbed the shadows and showed you things you did not want to see, and that you were probably better not knowing about. Annabel had been treading carefully, because there might be all manner of things on the floor, and she thought she would not look down, because she had the really dreadful suspicion that they were walking on small bones. The bones were very small indeed, and there was a dreadful dryness about them, a twig-like feeling, as if the bones had shrivelled where they lay for a very long time.

  Marrowless bones … sharp hollow hones, sucked dry by the creatures who prowl these dark mountain halls …

  Stop it! said Annabel to herself, very fiercely.

  It would be much more sensible to think about what they were doing, and about what might be ahead. Annabel concentrated hard on this, and tried not to think about the Guardians who might be lying in wait somewhere, and tried as well to listen for the hoofbeats, which might mean the Horsemen were close behind them.

  Fael-Inis said, “They are not so very close yet,” and Annabel jumped, because for the minute she had forgotten Fael-Inis’s disconcerting habit of hearing people’s thoughts. She said, “What will they do if they catch us?” and Fael-Inis said at once, “They will try to kill us.”

  “Oh.”

  “They are sworn to bring their Master, the Apocalypse, into the world,” said Fael-Inis. “They will certainly destroy anything that threatens to prevent that.” He looked at them. “We have to outrun the Horsemen, Mortals, and also we have to outwit any more Drakon patrols.” His eyes glowed unexpectedly. “And then,” he said softly, “we have to face the Guardians,” and the other two saw mischievous delight in his eyes, and shared a thought: He is looking forward to facing the Guardians! Taliesin, who had been concentrating on thinking what they would do if they met any more patrols, stopped and looked round.

  “Do the Guardians exist?” he said. “Or are they only creations of a disordered mind?” The old mocking grin slid out. “Are they perhaps simply visions, filled with sound and fury, signifying nothing?” said Taliesin.

  Fael-Inis looked at Annabel, as if he might be saying, After all, my dear, this is your world. I know about the Guardians, but you tell us. Aloud, he said, “Shall we rest? The Horsemen are still quite distant. And we have a way to go yet.”

  “How do you know that?” said Annabel.

  “You know it also, Mortal,” said Fael-Inis, studying her. “You have perceptions that are more finely honed than most of your race,” he said, and Annabel felt pleased, because Fael-Inis would have met with a great many different people and creatures, and would not make this sort of comment lightly. It was an odd sort of compliment, but it was rather nice. She sat on the floor, because there was nowhere else to sit, and leaned back against the rockface, and looked at him expectantly.

  Taliesin, who had been unpacking their small store of food, said, “Tell us about the Guardians, Annabel,” and Annabel frowned, and tried to gather up all the tag ends and the snippets of legend, and the untidy fragments of myth, and roll them into some kind of sensible whole. She accepted a wedge of bread and cheese from Taliesin, and said carefully, “A little is known about the Guardians, but it is not very much. Some of it is probably myth, and some is certainly conjecture, and most people do not believe any of it really.” And stopped, and took a mouthful of bread and cheese, and wondered whether people really did not believe, or whether they only pretended.

  Fael-Inis said, “In all myths there is always a grain of truth. That is how myths are built.” He looked at them steadily. “Perhaps I am nothing more than a myth,” said the rebel angel softly. “But, as you see, I am here. I have an existence and a reality. We are making this strange perilous journey together.”

  Annabel said, “Yes. I see.” And wondered if she did. She regarded the remains of the bread and cheese, and accepted the apple that Taliesin handed out, and wished she could put off telling the little she knew a bit longer.

  “My people do not believe very much in legends,” she said at last. “Although I think they once did. Once legends and myths and folklore were a delight to them.”

  “To you also,” said Taliesin, watching her, and seeing how her face had grown rather wistful.

  “Yes,” said Annabel, looking at him, and seeing that he understood, and experiencing the sudden jolt of delight again, because she had thought that there would never be anyone who did understand. “But it was all a long time ago,” she said, pulling her mind back to the matter in hand. “And there have been so many other things … Enchantments have been crowded out,” said Annabel apologetically.

  “But something lingered?” said Taliesin, thinking he could watch her face for ever, and thinking that he had never seen eyes change colour in quite this way.

  “Yes. Fragments of myth. Queer stories. Memories.

  Whispered beliefs, handed down through families. I suppose,” said Annabel thoughtfully, “that is how the real stuff o
f legends is made and preserved.”

  “Of course,” said Fael-Inis. “If you had not believed in me — even a little — do you think I could be here?”

  “I — am not sure,” said Annabel, and he laughed.

  “No matter. Go on.”

  “In the main,” said Annabel, “we are a practical race, you see. Our lives are built around possessions and machines, and the struggle to find new inventions and new power and different sources of energy and force. I suppose it is all necessary,” said Annabel, “because once you have had these things, and are in danger of losing them, you do not give them up easily.” She looked at the other two. “It is all very boring,” she said, and the sudden smile flashed.

  “The legend of the Fire Mountains is a very old one,” said Annabel, returning to her story. “There are labyrinths and underground rivers here. In the past, people used to journey here, to try and reach the mountain’s heart. Many people made the attempt,” said Annabel, her eyes huge and faraway, “but I do not think that any single person ever returned. It was thought that they lost themselves for ever in the dark, or were killed by creatures that dwelled here.”

  “That will not happen to us,” said Fael-Inis, and Annabel felt safe again.

  “The labyrinths stretch for many miles,” she said. “One of the stories tells of how if you go deep enough and far enough, you will come to the great and terrible River of Souls. Once there, you will have to face the Ferryman, who is ever on the look-out for human souls.” Annabel looked at them. “No one really believes that,” she said.

  “Nevertheless,” said Fael-Inis, “the River exists.”

  “Within these mountains?”

  “Yes. There are doorways between this world and other worlds,” said Fael-Inis. “And there are many worlds, and there will be many worlds yet. The worlds rarely converge, for to do so would mean confusion and chaos, and those are things reserved for the ending of worlds,” He looked at them both. “But there are gateways,” he said. “Tears in the Curtain of Time, through which people sometimes struggle, or fall, or slip. Sometimes it is deliberate and sometimes it is not.”