Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  The thought that this was the Draoicht Suan flashed through Raynor’s mind, and then he saw the cruel, dark figure standing in the firelight, and he knew that it was not the gentle, kindly Draoicht Suan, but something far deadlier, and something that carried with it a sinister threat.

  He had fought the Enchantment, and although he had not quite beaten it, he had not quite succumbed to it either. His limbs had been heavy and tired, and a mist had swum before his eyes, but he had been able to see what happened, and he had heard Medoc’s words distantly, as if they came through a long, narrow tunnel.

  Medoc was taking Grainne and the Wolfchild to Tara to kill them.

  If it had been possible to break the Enchantment and tear Medoc apart, Raynor would have done so and found delight in it. For Ireland? said his mind rather mockingly, and at once was the response: No! For Grainne! He cared about Ireland very much, but he would never care for any living creature as strongly as he cared for Grainne. The knowledge that Medoc had her was anguish and torment, and he fought the dark Enchantment with every ounce of his strength and with every shred of his energy.

  If there had been help from outside somewhere, it would have made the task just about possible, but there was no help, because there was nothing and no one who could come to their aid.

  And then, on the outer rim of his clouded vision, Raynor saw a wisp of blue-green smoke …

  *

  Aillen mac Midha did not approach too closely to the humans, because to have done so would have been dangerous for them. They were vulnerable; they were unable to look upon pure magic and on undiluted enchantments, these humans. For them to have seen the sidh, properly and fully in their cold inhuman beauty, would have burned out their eyes and shrivelled their senses. Aillen mac Midha’s people had frequently hunted humans and stolen their senses; they had done so for countless centuries and they would continue to do so, for only thus could they pour into their music the beautiful aching joy and the strong Beckoning. But the Princess was in the direst danger, and with her was the Lost Prince who had been born in secret and raised in concealment. Aillen’s people knew of the Wolfprince’s birth; they had sung him into the world and they had spun their enchantments about him.

  They had known that this was the one who would finally drive back the Dark Ireland … the greatest High King Ireland would ever know.

  Eireann, the One True King …

  And now the child was in Medoc’s power and the Princess was with him.

  The Elven King sat for a long while on the grassy tussock, surveying the sleeping armies and the Beastline and the Cruithin with his narrow glittering turquoise eyes. He did not move, and to an onlooker it might have seemed that he was weighing up the two sides of the situation.

  The Lost Enchantments and the Lost Prince against the Dark Ireland.

  The sidh could dissolve Medoc’s Dark Spell of Slumber, but it would be dangerous for the humans. It would be dangerous for them because their senses were vulnerable: sight, hearing, sense of touch, sense of smell, taste, might be burned out. One of the Princess’s people would almost certainly have to pay the price to the sidh.

  Eyes, ears, tongue, nose, fingers …

  The Elven King gave himself a shake and stood up. There could be no choice. If the Princess and the Wolfprince were to be saved, Medoc’s spell must be lifted.

  No matter the cost.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Grainne was lying chained on the floor of the Sun Chamber, with the darkness of Medoc all about. The Sun Chamber was in the most complete darkness she had ever known; it was a place of near impenetrable shadows and of evil night creatures; of dark sinuous beings who would creep stealthily towards you and of black formless things that would writhe and materialise on the outer limits of your vision.

  Directly ahead was the massive crystal window which had been so precisely angled that it caught the first dawnlight every morning and the last starlight every night. Grainne, brought up inside Tara, bred into the tradition of the brilliant glittering Citadel that Tara had been, felt the loss of Tara’s brightness like a knife-twist in her heart. This was the Sun Chamber, this was the place her ancestors had called Medchuarta, Tara’s heart, its core, the dazzling prismatic centre, the Ancient Seat of the High Kings of All Ireland … Shrouded in darkness by Medoc’s evil.

  I am in his power finally and at last, thought Grainne, pulling at the chains that held her wrists and her ankles bound. I am in the power and at the mercy of the strongest, most evil necromancer ever to come from the Dark Ireland. Medoc, the dark, beautiful, evil sorcerer, and the Twelve Lords …

  She knew a very little about the Twelve Lords; she thought that very few people knew much about them, for there had grown up a belief that even to know or speak their names was to make it easy for them to find their way back to Tara. But Grainne, growing up in the Shining Palace, had listened to the stories and the legends, and she knew more than most about the sinister shadowy Lords, who were said to sit with Medoc in his dark halls, and to assist him in his sorcery. She had heard their names, and she could remember some of them, though not all. There was the Lord of Corruption, and there was the Lord of Depravity, and of Perversion, and the Lord of Vice. Names to frighten children with: Decadence, Degeneracy, Impurity, Greed; the list went on, and they were every one of them names to frighten children with.

  Children …

  He was lying beside her, as tightly chained as she was, but despite this there was an alertness and a watchfulness about him, almost as if he might be curious and intrigued, and certainly as if he was ready to turn any situation to their advantage.

  At length, Grainne said softly, “Are you all right?”

  “Chained,” he said. “But all right. And you?”

  “The same.”

  Grainne said hesitantly, “You must forgive me, but I do not know your name.” And waited.

  He turned his head to regard her, and a sudden smile touched his eyes. “Erin,” he said, and Grainne smiled, because of course they would have called him Erin, Eireann meaning “Ireland.”

  “Erin, do you know where we are?”

  “Tara,” he said, his eyes glowing. “We are inside the Bright Palace.”

  “Are you …?” She stopped, because surely it would be wrong to use the word “frightened” to him.

  But he put out a hand and said, “You can use the word to me, madam.” And smiled, and Grainne felt as if she had been given something precious and rare and more valuable than all the riches of the world, for he had heard her thoughts, and he was surely using the Samhailt, the ancient bequest that was only ever bestowed on the Ancient Royal House … “I am only a very little frightened,” said Erin seriously. “And I know this place —”

  “Yes?”

  “Perhaps it was a dream.” He looked at her, and Grainne knew at once that he was willing her to say that it had not been a dream. For a moment, memory slipped sideways, and she was back in that terrible night when he had been born, and the brilliance of the Sun Chamber had been a sick mockery to her. He had been only a few hours old when he had been taken from her, but, looking at the slanting dark eyes, now she thought, How far back can memory go? Can he possibly have retained some scrap of awareness? She said carefully, “It may not have been a dream at all.”

  The dark eyes narrowed. “You were there,” said Erin. And then, in delight, “Yes, I remember. You were there.” You know what happened, said his expression. One day you will tell me.

  “Yes,” said Grainne gently. “One day I will tell you.”

  “The Bright Palace,” said Erin, as if he liked the sound of the words. “Tara.”

  “Not so very bright at the moment.”

  Erin looked at her. “But it will be again,” he said. “It will be bright again.” And grinned, and quite suddenly Grainne felt an upsurge of confidence, because the Dark Ireland had been defeated before, and the Wolfline had been exiled and returned before …

  And this is Ireland’s heir, this is the
Lost Prince, the son I bore and thought never to see …

  “Are we going to escape, madam?”

  “Yes,” said Grainne, her heart beating painfully. “Yes, Erin, I think we are going to escape. We will make a plan and we will be very watchful, and we will escape.”

  “Are they going to kill us?”

  Grainne drew breath to speak, although she had no idea what she was going to say, only that it was immensely important to reassure him, and important not to lie to him.

  “I think —” she began, and stopped, and they both looked towards the great double doors of the Sun Chamber.

  The doors were opening slowly, and the darkness was altering, it was becoming tinged with crimson. Crimson, the colour of anger and malevolence and vice and sin …

  Medoc and the Twelve Dark Lords stood framed in the doorway.

  Medoc wore the ceremonial robes of the Academy of Sorcerers, and on his left breast shone the Dark Star of Necromancy. Grainne remembered, and wished not to remember, that it was Medoc who had destroyed by sorcery the original priceless Codex of Necromancy, that manuscript of incalculable age revered by every sorcerer in Ireland, and who had tricked the Academy into accepting the corrupt and warped Charter for Enchantry. Medoc it was, as well, who had created the terrible fearsome Order with the insignia of the Dark Star that he now wore on his breast.

  He walked forward calmly and quietly, the Lad of the Skins at his heels, and the Twelve Lords fell into line behind him. As they did so, Grainne saw a sliver of moonlight fall across the floor, so that she saw the Dark Lords clearly and terribly.

  Clad in unrelieved black, every one. Garbed in the black matte armour that legend ascribed to them; the visors lowered but the eyelets gleaming softly. Grainne, watching from the corner where they lay, had the thought that if you reached up to lift one of the visors, you would find that behind it was nothing. Faceless beings. Each of the Lords carried a black spear, from which flew a black pennant with his insignia: Corruption, Decadence, Greed, Impurity, Lust …

  Medoc came to the exact centre of the Sun Chamber, and stood looking down at them both. When he spoke, his voice held a deep savouring pleasure.

  “The Crown Princess and the Wolfprince,” he said. “Ireland’s Lost Prince. I bid you welcome to Tara, madam. You will not escape me, for no one has ever escaped me.”

  “No one has ever escaped you yet,” said Erin, and regarded Medoc with his narrow stare. Medoc became very still, and the two of them eyed one another. Then:

  “So,” said Medoc softly, “so, you have the arrogance and the insolence of your ancestors, do you, Wolfprince?” He moved nearer. “You know who you are, don’t you?” said Medoc, and Erin said at once, “Oh, yes, Medoc. I know who I am.” And sent Grainne a look that said, Forgive me. And trust me.

  “I cannot remember when I began to know,” said Erin. “I cannot remember when I knew that the dreams were not really dreams at all.” He studied Medoc. “I have walked in these halls before,” he said, and turned his head to look about him with detached interest. Grainne was struck all over again by his complete absence of fear. Because he knows we can escape?

  Because it is important that this evil one does not sense our fear …

  He had not moved, and the chains were still about his ankles and wrists, but Grainne felt his thoughts pierce her mind as clearly and as easily as spring water flowing down a mountain.

  Erin said, “Are you going to sacrifice us to Crom Croich, Medoc?”

  “I am.”

  “I thought you would,” said Erin. “Will it make you very powerful?”

  Medoc laughed, and at his side the Lad chuckled horribly. “Listen, Wolfchild,” he said, “I am more powerful than you can possibly imagine.”

  “Listen, Medoc,” said Erin, “you are in the Ancient Royal House of my ancestors, and I am going to drive you out.”

  For the briefest moment, surprise showed in Medoc’s eyes, and then his lips curved, and he bent down so that he was on a level with Erin. “I have flung aside your House,” he said. “And I have toppled your accursed line.”

  “You still consort with a Wolfqueen,” said Grainne, who was drawing more strength than she could have believed possible from Erin. “Where is Damnaithe, Medoc?”

  “When I am ready I shall call her,” said Medoc. “She will come.”

  “Poor creature,” said Grainne, half to herself.

  “She is content with her lot,” said Medoc curtly, and turned back to Erin, and Grainne, watching, listening, thought, Medoc is disconcerted by Erin. He is not afraid, but he is surprised. Erin is throwing him off balance. She looked again at this slender remarkable child who could sit chained and bound in the power of the wickedest necromancer in all Ireland, and still manage to throw him off balance. “Damnaithe it will be who will occupy the High Throne,” said Medoc.

  “But you will rule through her,” said Grainne.

  “Of course.” There was the smile again, thin, cruel, quite beautiful, and utterly evil.

  “It will not happen,” said Erin. “It is a very great pity for you, Medoc, but it will not happen.”

  “It will,” said Medoc.

  “No,” said Erin calmly.

  “Who will prevent it, Wolfchild?”

  “I shall,” said Erin. “I know everything about the Wolfkings, and I know that I am the one who will destroy you.” He smiled as he said this, as if he was offering Medoc some kind of present. “But you knew that,” said Erin. “You did know it, didn’t you?” Again the sly, mischievous smile. “I am the One True King,” said Erin.

  Medoc said, “A pity you will not live long enough to prove that.”

  “I shall,” said Erin calmly. “In me the ancient enchanted wolfblood is stronger than ever it was before. I have the power and the light and the strength, Medoc. I have the Samhailt and I can call up the wolves, and I will call them up, Medoc. I am the vanquishing of the old, old curse that you have tried to revive.” He smiled. “You have ruled in a sort for some years now, but you will not do so for very much longer.” Again the smile — grave, considering: “But I hope you will proceed with your foolish ritual, Medoc, because we will be interested to see it.” He glanced at Grainne as if to say, Is that all right? Can we watch? and Grainne, alternately terrified and fascinated, fiercely proud, said gently, “We shall find it intriguing, Medoc.” And smiled up at him, and said, “Do please proceed.” And thought, Well, at least I am managing to sound as untroubled as Erin. How does he do it?

  All a pretence, madam, came the mocking response. But we have him puzzled. Aloud, he said, “Go ahead and summon Crom Croich, Medoc,” and Grainne, listening very intently, knew at once that Erin had spoken calculatedly and deliberately, so that Medoc would be annoyed.

  But if Medoc was annoyed, he gave no sign. He turned on his heel, and nodded to the Lad of the Skins, and at once the Lad sprang up grinning, and followed Medoc to the centre of the Sun Chamber. Grainne noticed that Medoc was standing directly over the ancient symbols etched into the Sun Chamber’s floor, whose origins were so old and so wreathed in myth and mist and legend that no one knew what they meant any more.

  “I know what they mean, my dear,” said Medoc, turning his dark, slanting eyes on to Grainne and smiling the beautiful, cruel smile. “I could tell you how, at the very beginning, when Tara was raised from the rock by the sorcerers, the hags and the harpies and the Furies and the banshees came pouring out of the Dark Ireland; for Tara was then so beautiful and so desirable that every sorcerer and every necromancer and every enchanter sent out bewitchments to capture it.

  “But no one ever did, for Tara’s own sorcerers were wily and far-seeing, and they sank into Tara a protective spell, and the sidhfolk came up to Tara’s ramparts and poured their music into its halls and into its battlements and into its fabric. Tara is wrapped about with enchantment and spells, my dear, and it is here, in the great Sun Chamber, that the spells are strongest.” He gestured to the symbols that caught the light faintly and
gave out a bluish glow. “There is immense power here,” said Medoc, “and where there is power it can be harnessed. I shall harness it, and I shall use it, and we shall send it outwards and call down the great god-idol of all Ireland.”

  Crom Croich …

  “Yes, Crom Croich,” said Medoc, and smiled. “But you knew that. You will meet him,” he said, “and you will honour him and render to him allegiance.”

  “No,” said Erin.

  “You will!” said Medoc, and his eyes were shooting sparks of light. “You will, for I shall force you to do it.” He regarded them both. “And after you have done so,” he said, “I shall feed you both to him.” He paused, and the Lad of the Skins gave his low, bubbling chuckle. “I shall call up Crom Croich’s greatest and most loyal and diligent servant,” said Medoc, “and then we will summon the god himself.”

  Crom Croich, who eats the living hearts of its victims …

  “And then,” said Medoc, “when I have appeased the god with the hearts of the Crown Princess and the Wolfprince; when their hearts have been torn from their bodies and their souls taken to the Prison of Hostages, then my rule will be absolute. The Conablaiche will once again walk abroad, scouring the countryside for prey; the first-born boys of every family in the land will be taken for sacrifice, and the great religion of Crom Croich will once more hold all Ireland in its grip.” He moved from the central carved portion of the Sun Chamber’s floor, and came to stand over them again. “Tara is finished, Wolfprince,” said Medoc, speaking directly to Erin. “Once Crom Croich is in the world, Tara will fall and its light will be quenched, and the land will seethe with evil and the skies will darken and the rivers will run with blood.”