Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

“But it will be interesting to watch you try,” said Medoc, and then a soft mocking laugh echoed round the cell, and there was the sound of an immense door clanging shut.

  Fergus was alone in the dungeon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Grainne had not been aware of moving. One minute she had been standing close to the bonfire — they had all been standing close to it — and she had been listening and searching the shadows that lay thickly beneath the trees, because it was from somewhere out there that the crying of the child came. And although she had not been aware of moving, it had suddenly seemed that she had been running headlong into the dark forest, straight to the crying. She had picked up the poor, thin, ragged little thing that lay under the trees, and she had comforted it and soothed it, thinking that there could be no more desolate sound and there could be no sadder sight. She had carried it carefully back to the warmth and the light, telling it how it should have warm milk to drink and a plateful of good food, assuring it of affection and welcome, stroking the dark hair from its forehead and smiling down into the huge eyes that stared up at her.

  The revellers had fallen silent; they were standing watching, dark silhouettes against the leaping flames. The scent of roasted meats was still on the air, and the sharp tang of the mulled wine that the soldiers had brewed. The Beastline were close by. Grainne looked up briefly to see Raynor’s eyes on her, golden and watchful, and she thought he started to say something, but she could not be sure.

  And all the while, deep within her, she knew that it was not the poor pitiful creature she was comforting, but the child born six years ago. Fergus’s son and mine … Ireland’s Lost Prince. And I have never ceased to ache for him, thought Grainne; there has never been a day nor yet an hour when I have not thought of the boy and wondered how he had grown up and tried to imagine how he would look … I have never been able to shut out the thought of Fergus’s son and mine somewhere out there in the dark night … I could never be sure that he was properly looked after, that he was loved and protected and fed and kept warm and safe. Unbearable to think of a child, made of such love, being itself unloved.

  She had been told that his foster-parents had been carefully chosen, that the boy would grow up well cared for, surrounded by love and comfort. But I could never believe it, thought Grainne, staring down at the huge hungry eyes of the child she held. I have never been able to bear the sound of a child crying. I could never bear to hear the tales of the Lost Children, sacrificed to Crom Croich in Cormac’s time.

  She carried the shivering child to the fire, and laid it down, and turned to cut meat and bread into cubes, and poured wine and water. In a minute the child would sit up, it would stop shivering and lap the wine and water, it would reach hungrily for the plateful of food …

  “Please won’t you eat a little?” said Grainne, bending down and proffering the food. As she did so, the flames of the bonfire leapt into the night sky, and the hungry-eyed child sprang to its feet and stood grinning and leering, and a shudder of horror went through the watchers.

  The Lad of the Skins stood very still, the fire burning up behind him; then he raised both his hands and threw his head back, and, as he did so, the skies behind him seemed to split and tear. Evil-smelling smoke belched forth, and as the split widened, tearing open the night sky, beyond it the watchers saw the grinning, leering, demon-faces of the terrible denizens of the Dark Ireland.

  Raynor, who had crossed the clearing in a single step, and was at Grainne’s side, holding her hard against him, cried, “The Gateway! The Gateway to the Dark Domain is opening!” and people began to scream and turn to run towards the safe shadows of the forest.

  The Gateway yawned wider, and Grainne, transfixed, unable to move, stood staring into the terrible other Ireland, the Domain of the Necromancers, where Medoc ruled.

  There was a sudden stirring deep within that other world, a sudden swirling of the smoke and a screech of triumph and homage from the creatures of the Dark Ireland. Out of the gaping chasm that had rent the skies above Folaim appeared a dark-visaged figure.

  Medoc, with Damnaithe at his side, walked into the clearing and stood in the midst of the watchers. A sudden silence fell, and Medoc smiled and, lifting his hand, beckoned to Grainne.

  As he did so, a thin sticky web, a snail’s trail of slimy, evil Enchantment, fell across the watchers.

  There was a moment when Grainne was able to think, The Draoicht Suan! And there was another moment when she knew, quite surely, that this was not the Draoicht Suan, the legendary gentle Enchantment of Slumber, but something different, something far more insidious and evil.

  Medoc said softly, “They will wake when I wish it,” and he smiled at her, and Grainne blinked, for it was a smile of such evil beauty, and of such cold cruelty, that her senses swam.

  “So, my dear,” said Medoc softly, “at last I find you. At last we meet. Ireland’s Crown Princess.” He gestured to the waiting figure at his side. “You have met,” he said, rather dismissively, and Grainne stared, and Damnaithe laughed.

  “The child appears witless,” she said, and there was a rather horrid purring note to her voice. “She will do very well as a plaything for your Lords, Master. And then the Lad will have his way with her.” She looked to where the Lad of the Skins was standing watching, panting slightly, his eyes on Grainne. “You have done well,” said Damnaithe. “Our Master will reward you.” And made an unexpectedly regal gesture of dismissal.

  Medoc was still watching Grainne, and there was something behind his eyes which Grainne could not fathom.

  At last, he said, “You have tried to impede me at every turn. You have tried to come between me and that which I am sworn to possess.”

  “Yes?” said Grainne, putting up her chin.

  “Tara,” said Medoc, and now there was a sensuous and a savouring note to his voice. “I am sworn to possess Tara, Grainne. But you knew that.”

  “You already have Tara.”

  “Not completely. Not until I have removed the accursed Wolfline from Ireland.” He stood very still, regarding her. “You could never have defeated me,” he said. “You woke the Lost Enchantment of the Beastline, and you called up the sidh. But I am the most powerful necromancer of them all, Grainne. I ride at the head of the Dark Armies, and I command the Twelve Lords, and the Dark Ireland is only waiting for me to open up the Gates, and then it will flood in.” He smiled. “I can summon the Guardians and the Conablaiche,” said Medoc. He moved nearer, and Grainne stayed where she was. “And before many more hours have passed,” said Medoc, “Ireland will see once again the birth of Crom Croich into the world. Crom Croich, who eats the living hearts of its victims, and to whom all Ireland shall swear allegiance.” He was standing before her now, and Grainne was dimly aware of Damnaithe close behind him.

  “A sacrifice,” said Damnaithe gloatingly, and Grainne looked at her, and felt a terrible cold chill close about her heart. My mother, and she would give me to Medoc.

  Medoc said, “Yes, a sacrifice. For my Master is greedy, and also he is particular.” He smiled. “What better offering can I make to him than the Crown Princess of Tara,” said Medoc. “You will be the worthiest sacrifice I shall ever make, my dear.”

  “My armies will never let it happen,” said Grainne, and Medoc laughed, his red-flecked eyes gleaming.

  “Where are your armies, Wolfqueen?” he said. “Where is your beloved Fergus, your brother, and where are your Beastline Lords?” He made a swift gesture to where Raynor and the others stood motionless, caught in the tendrils of the malignant spell. “Where are your faithful staunch Cruithin and the warriors of your people?” said Medoc mockingly. “And where, my dear daughter, are the brilliant magical sidh? Where is Aillen mac Midha who cast an Enchantment when you were born, and whose sidhfolk are allowed to serve and protect the Wolfline? They are helpless,” said Medoc. “They are caught in the lightest and easiest of spells and they cannot even break free.”

  “The Draoicht Suan?” said Grainne, kno
wing that it was not.

  “The Draoicht Suan is a pale spell,” said Medoc.

  “Insipid,” said Damnaithe, and laughed and tossed her tangled mane of hair. “Send them a nightmare, Master,” she said, pressing against him again. “Send them the harpies and the Furies. Send them the flesh-eaters of the Ebony Mountains and the blood-drinking trolls of the Red Caves, and the demons of the furnaces.” She slid to the ground, rubbing her face against his hips, and laughed again, a horrid, bubbling, curdled laugh, and Medoc bent down and removed her twining arms from his body quite gently, and put her from him. Against her will, Grainne remembered that Medoc, of all the necromancers, had ever been spoken of as a gentleman.

  “The stories do not lie,” said Medoc, and Grainne knew that he had heard this with ease.

  “What are you going to do with me?” she said.

  Medoc looked at her for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful. And then, “We are going back to Tara,” he said.

  *

  There was no point in struggling or trying to run away. Grainne knew there had never been any point. Medoc would fling an enchantment to bring her down within seconds. In any case, the landscape for miles around was still lit to weird, unnatural life by the boiling red skies of the Dark Ireland, and there was no hope of concealment. There was no use in calling for help either, for no help could possibly come. Grainne cast a desperate look to Raynor, and saw that he, that all of them, were held fast in the spell, the travesty of the Draoicht Suan. They were blind and deaf, and there was no help to be had.

  “How long will they be like that?”

  “Until I decide to let them go,” said Medoc.

  “They will find a way to break the spell.”

  “No.”

  “They will march on Tara,” said Grainne defiantly.

  “They will not get within yards of it.” He regarded her almost with affection. “My poor child, do you not understand even yet? I have called up the Guardians, I have summoned Spectre and Reflection and the Sensleibhe, and no living creature has ever defeated those three.” Medoc glanced to where the Lad of the Skins stood, grinning. “The Guardians will protect Tara,” said Medoc carelessly. “Your armies will not get past them.” He stopped and seemed to study Grainne very intently. “There is one more thing,” he said, and now his voice was a caress.

  “Well?”

  “Six years ago,” said Medoc, “you gave birth to a child, Grainne.” Again the smile, terrible and inhuman and beautiful. “It was fathered on you by your brother, and therefore it inherited the wolfblood from you both.” He studied her. “The child was taken from you,” he said. “It was then that the legend of the Lost Prince arose. Your people believe in it, Grainne.”

  “Yes.”

  “They believe that one day the child will rise up and drive out my armies.”

  “Yes,” said Grainne softly, watching him.

  Medoc’s beautiful lips thinned. “I have spent years searching for that child,” said Medoc. “I have expended more time and energy than you could possibly imagine, and I have used every dark Beckoning I could find to draw the child to me.” He glanced to the shadows, where the armies and the Beastline and the people of Folaim were still sleeping.

  Grainne said, hardly daring to breathe, “You feared it? You feared the Prince?”

  “Let us say I knew it to be a danger,” said Medoc. “A threat. A Royal Wolfchild. I preferred it to die. When I finally rule completely, and when Crom Croich holds sway in Ireland, there must be no pretenders, you see. No Wolfprinces to grow up in secret and amass armies to ride on me. Your son is a threat, Grainne.”

  “They sent him away,” said Grainne, half to herself. “I never knew where.”

  “But I know,” said Medoc. “I knew of his birth, for there have always been those who would work for me, and I knew the exact moment he was born, Grainne.” He leaned closer. “I heard the sidh singing him into the world, my dear, just as they had once sung for you.”

  “Yes,” said Grainne, staring ahead of her, and just for a moment she was back in the birth chamber, torn apart with pain, barely able to breathe, her senses blurred and her heart in torment for the child being born, whom she would never be allowed to know. And through it all, she had heard the singing: faint, beautiful, comforting. For after all, this is a Wolfprince, and after all, we shall spin our Enchantment, just as we spun it for his ancestors …

  “For several years I lost him,” said Medoc. “I lost sight of him, and I lost the knowledge of where he was. But I worked and I paid the sorcerers, and I sent out spies and I laid traps. Finally I found him as, of course, I must have done. I should not have allowed him to escape me, Grainne.” He was standing before the fire, at the very centre of the sleeping revellers, lit by the flames. “He was brought to Folaim,” said Medoc. “And he is still here. I smell him and I feel him and I know he is here. Your son, Grainne. The child you bore your twin brother in secret. The Lost Prince, the Wolfchild who will one day rise against me.”

  Grainne said in a whisper, “You cannot know that.”

  “I do know it. I sent out the fool they call Lugh of the Longhand to kill him for me, but he has proved a squeamish tool, and I do not trust him. The boy is here,” said Medoc again, “and I shall have him.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes.” His hand came out to her and closed over her arm painfully. “That is why I have come,” said Medoc. “I have come to take him back to Tara with you, so that there I may offer you both to my Master, and render your souls to the greatest god Ireland will ever know.”

  Crom Croich … the Crown Princess and the Wolfprince both slain and sacrificed … And then all Ireland will run with blood and the skies will be forever dark …

  Medoc lifted his head and turned to look at the circle of children, and a slow smile touched his lips. He lifted his free hand, and a shower of dark red sparks whipped across the clearing. Grainne received the sudden impression of a rope of fire and, as she formed the thought, the rope snaked about one of the small dark figures on the other side of the fire.

  Medoc stayed where he was, his eyes on the small slender shape. And then the child moved into the circle of firelight.

  *

  My son. My son and Fergus’s. The might-have-been child of fire and light and grace; the slender, slant-eyed boy with wide-apart eyes and mischievous lips; the Royal forbidden Wolfchild with the magical ancient blood of every High King and every High Queen — Cormac, and Niall of the Nine Hostages, Mab the Wanton and Dierdriu the Madcap--every warrior Queen and every hero King … Patrician and beautiful and wolvish, and just very faintly dangerous, certainly not wholly human …

  The lost Wolfprince.

  He was wide awake; his dark hair was turned almost to crimson by the fireglow, and red pinpoints of light danced in his eyes, giving him the look of a devil or an angel or both. There was the narrow skull, the glossy dark hair like an animal’s pelt … And his eyes! thought Grainne. Once you had looked at his eyes, you could never have mistaken him for a pure-bred human …

  The ancient Royal Wolfblood, alive and strong and ready to fight for Ireland … Certainly able to call up the Wolves …

  And then Medoc nodded to the Lad of the Skins, and Damnaithe moved into the light, and they both swooped on the boy, and, as they did so, Medoc turned back to Grainne. There was no time to think properly, and no time to feel joy at the child’s closeness. There was no time to be afraid. Medoc had enveloped Grainne in the swirling cloak, and there was a great rearing black stallion waiting, and they were galloping hard across the countryside, and there was no time to think or wonder, or even to breathe, for the countryside was rushing past them, and Medoc’s arm was about her as firmly as a band of steel and there was no possible escape.

  But despite everything, she felt a soaring delight in the boy’s presence — Fergus’s son and mine! — and there was an exhilaration in the knowledge of where they were going.

  The Crown Princess and the Lost Prince, return
ing to the Bright Palace …

  Grainne had known that Tara was soaked in Medoc’s darkness and she thought she was prepared for it. But it was still a shock, it was a dreadful sickening jolt, to see it suddenly there ahead of them, in all its dark intensity, shadowy and dense …

  For Medoc and the Twelve Lords have put out the light …

  This is the worst yet, thought Grainne. I do not think I can bear this. But then she looked to where the Lad of the Skins and Damnaithe were riding alongside, the child held firmly between them, and knew that there was much worse to come.

  The child looked across to Grainne; his hair was whipped into disarray and the night wind had painted fingers of colour on to his high cheekbones. He smiled at her briefly, blindingly, and Grainne felt her heart lurch, because it was Fergus’s smile, the boy was Fergus over again, but with the slanting eyes of their great-grandfather Cormac, and the mischievous grin of Dierdriu.

  And then they were down the avenue, and the beech trees were on each side, and they were riding hard to the Western Gate where once had flocked the travellers and the scholars and the pilgrims of the world, and the terrible darkness was closing about them.

  There was time to see the boy become suddenly intent; to see him become alert and to see his eyes narrow. Grainne thought, He is recognising it. He is coming back to the Palace of his ancestors, and although he does not know, for he cannot know, he senses it.

  The portcullis was lifting to admit them, and the drawbridge was lowered, and they were riding hard across the drawbridge, the horses’ hoofs ringing out sharply.

  And then they were inside, and the portcullis was lowered again, and Grainne and the Lost Prince were shut inside the Dark Palace with Medoc.

  And the armies of Ireland and the powerful enchanted Beastline she had striven so hard to waken, and every single person who might have rescued them, were held helpless in sorcery far away in Folaim.

  *

  Raynor had not been aware of the exact moment when Medoc had flung the heavy dark Enchantment of Slumber at the revellers; he thought it ought to have been possible to see it and feel it and sense it, but it was not. At one minute they had all been feasting and laughing and drinking the mulled wine and the mead. And then, without warning, there had been the towering figure of the dark cloaked being, and there had been dull red lights all about them, and it was as if a great weight had descended on their eyes, so that it had been impossible to keep them open. There had been a drowsy scent as well; something exotic and languorous, so that you wanted to surrender to it: and you wanted to drown in it, and let it carry you away wherever it wished …