Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  Snizort and Snodgrass had not said very much, but they were standing silently, watching. The salamanders had fallen back a little, but they were close by, a constant warm presence. If we really needed to, thought Fenella, we could be astride them again and off into the tunnels; we could be pouring like a cascade of molten gold deep into the Honeycomb Caverns again. We could run away from the things that are held captive beneath the water’s surface.

  The things that are held captive …

  At first, Fenella thought they were simply tiny winking lights, pinpoints of red that danced and glittered and caught the soft phosphorescence from the cave’s ceiling. But then, as they drew nearer, she saw that they were not reflections at all, but hundreds of eyes that peered and moved, and came and went beneath the dark slow-moving River.

  The soul-less victims of the terrible Soul Eaters of the Cruachan Cavern …

  Chiron had moved ahead to where wide, shallow, nearly flat crafts were moored and Snodgrass’s salamander was helping him to unfasten the rafts and nose them into place before the four travellers.

  ‘Fortuitous?’ wondered Snodgrass, who believed in keeping a firm sight of reality, but Charybdis said in her soft voice, ‘No. For those who wish to cross the River, a means is always at hand.’

  Chiron pushed the rafts into place, and Charybdis stood back and waited for Floy to take the first step.

  ‘As your people’s leader,’ she said, ‘you must go first.’

  Chiron turned to Fenella and, in the dark, rippling water-light, his face was solemn and his eyes serious and filled with wisdom.

  ‘This will be a difficult journey for you, Mortal,’ he said. ‘For you will see, beneath the waters of the River, the soul-less ones, the victims of the Soul Eaters. They are hideous pitiful things, for the River that imprisons them is wreaking a terrible mutation on them. But we cannot help them. You must remember that we cannot help them.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fenella, staring back at the beautiful slanting eyes. ‘Yes. I understand.’ Chiron studied her for a moment, and then nodded slightly, his mane swirling like smoke as he did so, and Fenella stepped cautiously onto the waiting raft.

  There was a brief turbulence beneath the River as the salamanders pushed the rafts away from the banks and out into the centre of the River, and Fenella and Floy both saw darting fishlike movements in the water, as if there were creatures down there — beings not quite fish but not quite human, moving back and forth in the cloudy depths. The gentle radiance from the salamanders’ glossy flanks spilled into the dark tunnel and, as the light touched the water, hundreds of watchful eyes glinted redly below the surface.

  ‘And yet there is a stench of bad fish,’ thought Fenella, who did not much like fish or anything to do with fish.

  Chiron was guiding the raft and they were nearly at the centre of the River now. The salamanders stood at the prow of the frail shallow crafts, one to each, looking intently ahead, their eyes serious and absorbed. They might have been statues, graven gold figures, had it not been for the continual rippling of their manes and the faint liquidity of their shapes. Against the dark River tunnel, Chiron’s outline was slightly blurred, as if at any minute he might melt and dissolve and re-form into something quite different. As Fenella felt the thought take substance in her mind, Chiron turned his head slightly and sent her a winged smile, as if to say: all is well,

  Mortal, and Fenella felt better.

  The punting of the rafts made a rather cold, slightly muffled sound in the enclosed tunnel and, mingling with it, was the steady lapping of the River. Fenella thought it might have been better if there had been some sound from somewhere, and then thought that perhaps it might have been worse.

  It seemed a very long time before Floy said, very quietly, ‘I can see the far bank,’ and his words echoed rather eerily and Fenella knew he was trying not to make too much noise in case the owners of the glinting eyes were alerted.

  The salamanders had not spoken, although Fenella thought that they had looked at each other, as if they were sharing their thoughts. Once Charybdis tossed her head, and once Chiron seemed to look up as if something had caught his attention. But there was nothing, and the rafts moved cautiously forward.

  They were a little over half-way across the River now and they could all see quite clearly the malevolent eyes glaring at them from the green turgid depths. Floy made out pale man-sized fish creatures darting to and fro in the water, and barely Human things skulking fathoms below the rafts. He knelt down to see better and realised with disgusted pity that the creatures’ eternal captivity in the River of the Dead had turned them into repulsive soul-less water creatures: their bodies had changed and adapted to their surroundings; their necks were disappearing and their heads were becoming rounded and hairless. Most of them already had bulging lidless eyes and flat wide, slashlike mouths, and although some of them were still partly possessed of bony and spined human skeletons, others were quite plainly already spineless and virtually boneless and could only squirm towards the rafts.

  But the soul-less creatures were purblind from the green murky light of the River; they could sense the intruders, but they could not see them. Fenella thought: we are safe. They cannot attack us. And was instantly ashamed at being so concerned with her own safety when she remembered these doomed creatures’ endless captivity.

  As they neared the far banks, Fenella and Floy felt their thoughts raked by the creatures’ pitiful pleadings. Their cries for help rose up out of the River and lay on the air in a thick dark miasma of suffering.

  Whoever you are, take us away from here on your boats, and up into the world again …

  Help us to escape from the endless waters of the River … Help us to return to the world we once knew … Help us recapture our souls …

  Fenella made an involuntary movement and, at once, Chiron said, sharply, ‘Remember, Mortals, that you cannot help them.’

  ‘Are they condemned to this for ever?’ whispered Fenella, staring into the River’s depths in horror. And Charybdis said, softly and pityingly, ‘They cannot be killed, for with their souls’ loss they are condemned to immortality. But it is a terrible immortality. They are truly the damned ones of the world, for they are doomed to always dwell beneath the River’s surface, until their world ends for all time. Then perhaps there will be release for them.’

  ‘I see,’ said Fenella, who only partly saw, but thought it would be impolite to admit to this, and Chiron turned his head to regard her.

  ‘You feel pity for them, and that is admirable,’ he said. ‘But you must remember that if you had tried to rescue them, they would almost certainly have dragged you beneath the waters to share their terrible fate. You would have become one of the thousands of lost creatures doomed to dwell in the half-light until the world’s end.’

  ‘How terrible,’ said Fenella, softly.

  ‘You should know these things, Mortals, since if you are to sojourn in this world, you may encounter the soulless ones again.’ And then, the golden eyes suddenly brilliant, ‘But ahead of us now is the far bank,’ Chiron said. ‘And beyond that is the world to which my Master is sending you.’

  ‘The world he is sending us to?’ said Floy looking up sharply, and Chiron smiled.

  ‘The Ireland of the Wolfkings,’ he said.

  The Ireland of the Wolfkings …

  As they stepped off the rafts and walked cautiously along the last stretch of tunnel, the River safely behind them, Fenella and Floy saw that the light was beginning to change.

  ‘Purple-tinged,’ said Floy.

  ‘Turquoise,’ said Fenella. And then, ‘Dark blue.’

  ‘It is what was once called the Purple Hour,’ said Chiron, who was still leading them. ‘That is, the hour when it is neither quite day any longer, but nor is it yet night.’ He looked at them. ‘I think you have not seen such a thing before?’

  ‘We have something we call twilight,’ said Floy. ‘But it is not so laden with scents and sounds and feelings.’
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br />   ‘But this is a world where magic is abroad,’ said Charybdis, her voice perfectly serious. ‘And in this world, twilight, the Purple Hour, is thought to be the time when spells walk and enchantments lie on the air.’

  ‘But,’ said Fenella, wanting to believe this, but not quite daring to, ‘but surely that is all just an ancient superstition?’

  ‘Is it?’ said Chiron softly.

  ‘Wait and see, Mortals,’ said Charybdis.

  The light was pouring in to the tunnel now, dusky blue and turquoise, dust motes dancing in and out of it, with stirrings and rustlings deep within it and faint, far-off scents of sweet night air and ancient trees and dry, crunchy bracken.

  ‘Twilight,’ said Chiron, standing still and listening. ‘Hear it, Mortals. Feel it. There are spells abroad tonight.’ Floy started to say something and then stopped, because they could all feel it now, the strange, heavy drowsiness, the sense that just beyond vision and just outside of consciousness, there were creatures from other worlds, and there were powers and forces and things which had certainly been unknown on Renascia.

  And then the tunnel widened unexpectedly and they were walking out into a forest clearing and the dusk was all about them. The trees were lacing their branches overhead and beyond them they could see the deep velvet blue of a night sky spattered with stars. The salamanders had stopped and were standing watching them.

  Fenella turned and started to say, ‘But you cannot leave us — ’ and saw Chiron shake his beautiful head, so that the silken strands of his mane flew about his face.

  ‘We shall meet again, Mortal,’ he said. ‘For my Master is ever abroad in the world of Men.’

  Floy had started to speak, but the salamanders had moved back into the tunnel, only it was difficult to see if it was a tunnel, or only a bracken-covered cave now, because the purple-tinged twilight seemed to be falling all about them like a curtain. The fiery golden light was dimming, until there were only threads of it on the air, and then it was gone completely, and they were alone in the darkling forest.

  Chapter Ten

  The Halls of Tara were ringing with noise and the discordant laughter of the Gruagach and the even more discordant music of the Gruagach’s musicians. Caspar, who liked to think he had a bit of an ear for good music, sighed, and hoped they would not start up the really dreadful Fidchell Dance, which had quite the grisliest undertones to any music Caspar had ever heard. It made you think of captured people (Humans?) being stalked and pounced on, and it made you remember that the Fidchell squares were being set out upstairs, and that the spikes would certainly be already in place, and the selected portions of the floor would be having the white-hot heat raised in them by the Gruagach’s kitchens, where the Fidchell was considered the best entertainment ever devised.

  It had not been possible to let the three Humans held in the dungeons go, simply because Goibniu, sly old fox that he was, had insisted on accompanying Caspar to the dungeons. ‘In case,’ he had said, grinning from ear to ear, ‘you need any assistance, Master Procurer.’

  Caspar did not need any assistance at all, but it had been quite obvious that Goibniu did not trust him to deliver the Humans up to the Sun Chamber. But he had managed to look grateful for the offer, because it was actually very generous of Goibniu, who was the King’s High Chancellor, to stoop to such a mundane task, never mind that it was only that he did not want the Humans to be let to escape.

  Three Humans were not really enough for a proper Fidchell. Caspar had heard the most dreadful tales of how, before the giants had come to Tara, they had played the Fidchell in the City of Gruagach, using Human travellers who had lost their way in the northern wastes of Gruagach; saving them up until there were at least a dozen; every one of them impaled on spikes held aloft by the footmen, each of them knowing that with the turn of the dice, they might be moved onto the white-hot squares, where they would slowly roast, until a throw of the dice sent them to another square.

  ‘A little cooking in advance,’ was what the Gruagach said, but Caspar thought it would be far worse to be partly cooked, and then taken down to the sculleries to be finished off, than to be thrown into a cauldron of boiling gravy and have done.

  It was rather unsettling to descend to the dungeons like this, in company with Goibniu. Goibniu kept looking down at Caspar, as if he might be considering using Caspar in the Fidchell. As they were crossing the great echoing landing, where the very nearly legendary Chair of Erin had been put, Caspar was quite certain he licked his lips.

  Inchbad was enjoying his evening. He had not expected to, because he did not altogether approve of the Fidchell, but it was remarkable how you could discover entertainment where you had not previously thought entertainment to exist. He had raised a doubt as to whether they ought to be celebrating the Fidchell at all but Goibniu had said, in a surprised voice, ‘But it is traditional when the Feargach Grian is seen, sire,’ and Inchbad had said, ‘Oh well, if it’s traditional — ’ and Goibniu had gone off somewhere to see about something and the scullions and the spit-boys had come running in to the Sun Chamber to set up the Fidchell squares. The Court musicians had begun tuning up for the good old Gruagach music, which was always played at such a time, and some of the younger giants had asked some of the giantesses to dance.

  Inchbad nodded and tapped his feet in time to the music, and remembered about the Feargach Grian heralding the beginning of a Golden Age, and felt that everything was turning out very well for them in Tara.

  Really, you could almost begin to think that the Frost Giants and the Geimhreadh had done them all a favour in taking over Gruagach. You could almost believe that Goibniu had been right when he had held those rather lengthy discussions with the Robemaker, most of which Inchbad had not really followed. In fact, he had nodded off before they were finished. Not that Goibniu would have entered into any unwise arrangement with the Robemaker or anyone else, of course. The Gruagach did not do things like that. They might have ousted the High King and sent him and his sons into exile, but they did not allow themselves to be made use of. By the beards of their fathers, they did not! Inchbad would like to see the creature, Human or otherwise, who tried to use the Gruagach as pawns and puppets!

  It was at times like this, with a bit of a celebration going on, that Inchbad ought to have a Queen, a Consort. It was something that Goibniu was seeing to, because the King of the Gruagach could not be allowed to marry with just anybody and they wanted to make a proper diplomatic alliance. There had been a suggestion of making an approach to the Geimhreadh herself, but Inchbad had squashed this idea before it could take a hold of anybody’s fancy. He had heard all the stories about the Geimhreadh, and he did not especially favour the idea of having all his manhood juices sucked out of him drop by drop, which was what most people seemed to think she did. He would be perfectly satisfied with a plain ordinary princess of some kind, said Inchbad, and he would not baulk at a drain of nice Human blood, either. You could get some very pretty Humans. Well, you could get some extremely beautiful ones, actually. He began to rather like the idea of a pretty little Human for his Queen.

  Goibniu, in his usual helpful way, had suggested several likely candidates, but most of them seemed to be in some way related to the necromancers of the Dark Ireland, and Inchbad, who could be firm if he had to, had said, quite severely, that if they were to take on any of that lot, he might as well have surrendered his manhood to the Frost Giantess and have done.

  You did not really know when you could trust a necromancer, said Inchbad; they were apt to be out for all they could get, and none too scrupulous about the means they employed to get it. They did not want any of the nasty magic coming in to Ireland. Inchbad harboured one or two lingering suspicions about Goibniu’s discussions with the Robemaker, and was now wishing he had stayed awake a bit more.

  They would just have a nice ordinary princess at Tara, he said, and Goibniu had said ‘As Your Majesty wishes,’ and Inchbad had said, ‘I do wish,’ and then had relented, and asked were
there not any pretty young daughters of quite ordinary sorcerers they might approach. Goibniu had said, thoughtfully, ‘Well, there is Reflection’s daughter, sire. But they say her father was Fael-Inis, and he’s a very tricky one. You might not quite care for that sort of blood in a Consort, Sire?’

  ‘It might be worth asking,’ Inchbad had said, because he did not really mind what sort of blood his Consort had so long as she was sufficiently pretty and rich, and he was, in fact, rather pleased at the way in which he had worked the discussion round to where he wanted it. Goibniu had gone away to consider whether they could send envoys of some kind to Reflection to see if she would sell Flame to Inchbad.

  Inchbad thought if he had to marry anybody, he would quite like it to be somebody like Flame, who was reputed to be quite outrageously beautiful, and would probably be inheriting Reflection’s money as well. There were rumours that Reflection was over her ears in debt, but Inchbad did not believe this, because he had never yet met a sorcerer or a sorceress who was not extremely rich.

  The younger ones were dancing quite strenuously now, and the musicians were beginning to look flushed and shiny-faced. It might be better if they took a rest, because Caspar and Goibniu would be bringing up the caged Humans at any minute. The scullions had already dragged in the great iron squares, half black and half red, and were arranging them at the centre of the Sun Chamber.

  The point of the game was to heat only some of the squares, and thus prolong the outcome, and Inchbad had made his selection earlier, frowning over which squares to order heated. It was an important matter, and it would not do to get it wrong. While the squares were being set out, one of the musicians asked permission to sing a song he had written about the Feargach Grian, and two of Inchbad’s most loyal Courtiers said what a remarkable sight it had been to see it.