Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  At the far end, huge double doors opened on to the furnace room. The doors were partly open, showing the great iron stoves and the furnaces and the immense black pipes that disappeared into the floor. Billowing gusts of heat came from the furnaces and they could see the immense iron hods of wood, waiting to be fed to the furnaces. I hope their spirits are dead, she thought. I hope they are not like the ones we found in the store, still a bit alive.

  Directly in front of them were the treadmills; huge, fearsome, steel and mesh wheel-cages, stretching far above them, at least twelve or fifteen feet high, great roaring, relentless, nightmare machines which rotated on and on. Fenella, horrified, her mind tumbling, saw that the treadmills were like huge fly-wheels, like the sides of giant spinning tops. They gyrated endlessly round and round … Immense grinding, grating, pounding things … On and on, and up and up … And then down again to begin the circle over again. To watch the ceaseless spinning for too long made you feel sick and dizzy and a bit out of step with everything else.

  The noise was dreadful. It was a continual clanking, rotating sound, a whirring rhythmic, steel-against-steel sound that made your teeth wince. Fenella and Caspar staring, saw that huge spindles and cogs and pinions protruded from the dark-packed earth of the ceiling and that the motion of the great wheels caused these to turn and rotate and drive one another into rather horrid, grinding, gobbling motion. The red glow from the furnaces fell across the treadmills, turning the steel mesh to angry crimson, bathing the creatures inside them to eerie, unnatural life, blending and merging them with the machinery, until it was very nearly impossible to tell where the treadmills ended and the human creatures began …

  The human creatures …

  Within each treadmill were two workers; chained and manacled. Affixed horizontally to the inside of the treadmill were stout iron bars for the prisoned workers to grasp. Fenella, who understood in a vague way about mill wheels and how they had to rotate continually to provide power, saw with horror that the slaves inside the steel mesh cages were forced by the motion of the wheels to tread endlessly forward to keep the treadmills revolving. Each of them must tread on and on, a ceaseless, bonegrinding trudge, if they did not want to be taken up and up by the gyrating treadmill into the clanking, turning cogs in the roof and ground to dust between the pinions. They must tread ever forward, regardless of discomfort, heedless of exhaustion.

  Sweat poured from their bodies and they wore only the thinnest of breeches. Their feet were bare and, even from where she stood, Fenella could see the knotting of the leg muscles from the agonising cramp which they must surely suffer almost continuously. In every case, dried blood caked the mesh cages and the thick iron bars which they used for the momentum of walking. A look of hopeless desolation, of almost animal acceptance was in their faces; they had long since passed beyond defiance and hope; their life was bounded by the ceaseless rotating of the treadmills which served the Robemaker’s Looms. Their life had become a never-ending trudge to keep the Looms of the necromancer weaving dreadful enchantments.

  Sparks flew from the mesh cages and Fenella saw that great black iron pipes ran from beneath each wheel, along the wooden floor and out through a massive, carved silver door at the other end of the Workshop. She glanced at Caspar and saw that he was staring at the silver door. Somewhere through that door must be the Chamber of the Looms, the powerhouse of the Workshops, the force field of the necromancer.

  The clanking of the machines was almost deafening, and Fenella wanted to clap her hands to her ears and try to shut it out. But she stayed where she was, her eyes raking the red lit chamber. Presently, she grew a little more adjusted to the noise and she began to make out the details a little more plainly; she could see that the captives were all young men, some of them not much more than boys, but certainly strong and lithe. She thought that not one of them could be more than eighteen or twenty, and she remembered how it had been said that the Robemaker scoured Ireland, taking the sons of the ordinary Irish families to work here.

  And then Caspar, who had been narrowing his eyes and taking stock of everything and everyone, suddenly gripped Fenella’s arm and said, in a voice from which most of the breath had been driven, ‘Fenella — over there.’

  ‘What — ’

  ‘The Prince,’ said Caspar, softly.

  Fenella looked to where he indicated, to the farthest of the treadmills and saw the single creature held captive there, and her heart jumped and missed several beats, and then went on again erratically.

  Nuadu Airgetlam. The Wolfprince.

  To begin with, they thought that the Robemaker had injured him in some unimaginable way, for the crimson mask still had him in its grip and in the flickering light, it looked for a moment as if the lower part of his face was covered in blood. Fenella gasped and then thrust her clenched fist into her mouth, because she would not, she emphatically would not give way to foolish emotion. But she moved at once and stood below the pounding clanking mesh wheel, looking up. She saw him look down at her and saw that his skin was raw and flayed in places; the arm of flesh and blood was scraped and scorched and the silver arm on the other side was reflecting the tremendous heat, so that it was copper coloured and glinting and must be causing him immense pain. But his eyes still held the old mockery and the remembered cynicism.

  So you have sought me out, Human Child …

  Fenella, hardly daring to speak, but knowing she must raise her voice above the treadmills, said, ‘Where is — ’ And saw his eyes smile, as if to say: he is not here for the moment. For the moment, you are safe. And then there was a warning flare and Nuadu’s eyes moved in the direction of the shadowed comers.

  Fenella followed his eyes and at once said, ‘Sentry Spells,’ and there was a gleam of acknowledgement above the glinting mask.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fenella, looking up at Nuadu. ‘Yes, I understand. And we will be wary.’ And wondered, in the same moment, how they could possibly hope to cheat the Sentry Spells.

  Caspar had crossed the room to stand at her side and he said, ‘Sire — ’ And stopped in some confusion, because he had known Nuadu at once — he thought every person in Ireland would recognise him, for the wolfblood was unmistakable, and everyone knew the story of the Queen’s bastard wolfson and the fierce quarrels that had taken place between her and the King when Nuadu was born. He understood, as well, why Fenella had been so chary of telling the entire truth. Because I suppose I must have appeared a bit untrustworthy, thought Caspar, what with working for the Gruagach and everything. I suppose I can’t blame her or Floy for being wary, he thought, rather sadly.

  But he was a bit flummoxed at the reality of Nuadu, because nobody had ever told him how to address a bastard of the Ireland’s Royal House. However, it would be better to err on the side of too much courtesy, and so, ‘Sire,’ he said firmly, ‘if there is a way to get you out, we will find it.’

  Nuadu’s eyes went to the other captives and Fenella at once said, ‘Yes, of course, all of you. If only there is a way — ’ And stopped, because Nuadu’s eyes had gone to the silver door.

  ‘In there? Do you mean — ’ Fenella stopped, trying to read the meaning in the dark eyes above the dreadful mask. ‘Do you mean there is a — is there a spell we could use? Oh, but — ’ And stopped and felt, with remembered delight, the shower of golden needle lights as his thoughts poured into her mind.

  It is the only way, Human Child … The only thing that will release us is the thing that imprisoned us. Magic, Fenella. And in there is the Robemaker’s cache of enchantments …

  The stockroom of spells … The necromancer’s treasure-house.

  But beware the Melanisms, Fenella. They are the Robemaker’s sentinels, the effluence of necromancy, and you must be very very wary indeed of them.

  The Melanisms … Fenella stayed where she was for a moment, still staring up at the imprisoned Nuadu. The Melanisms … With the words had come the fleeting impression of dark, sinuous creatures who could slither out of the shadows and
wind their cold, serpentine fingers about you, so that you were trapped, who could twine about your entire body, so that you were smothered and suffocating from the cold embrace …

  ‘But there isn’t really any choice,’ said Fenella, firmly, and turned to the ornate silver door at the far end of the room.

  Fenella had expected the silver door to feel cool and silvery and solid and was surprised when it actually felt extremely hot.

  ‘Yes, that’ll be the Looms,’ said Caspar. ‘This will be an ante-chamber, mark my words. It’ll be very hot because of being so near to the Looms themselves. We wouldn’t get near to the Looms, of course. Well, very likely we won’t get near to the store house, either. We’ll very likely be burned to a crisp the minute we get in there. Still, it’s all one to me. As well be fried and roasted on that side of the door, as turned to something very nasty by the Robemaker and fed into the furnaces. I don’t care,’ said Caspar.

  There would not be very much time. They both knew this. Fenella could feel the shadows stirring already; she could feel a dark, slimy something uncoiling somewhere close by. The Melanisms, the Robemaker’s Sentry Spells, torpid and stagnant for most of the time … ? Sleeping in the darkness until some creature, some reckless, heedless Human should try to penetrate the ancient secrets of their Master … ?

  They are waking, thought Fenella, struggling with the elaborate handle of the silver door, then standing back to give way to Caspar who seemed to understand the mechanism.

  The shadows moved; they seemed to darken and to creep nearer, and long, groping fingers of blackness stretched across the floor.

  As they began to turn the silver handle with the strange, serpent-like beasts engraved deeply into it, Fenella felt the Melanisms creep nearer. They are only shadows, she said firmly to herself. Not solid things at all. Effluence.

  But the Melanisms did not feel like only shadows. They did not move like shadows; they did not shift and blur. They crept, developing rudimentary arms with nasty, elongated fingers as they went, groping across the floor towards the two intruders, as if they might not be able to see, but might be able to feel or smell their way to Caspar and Fenella. They were blind, seeking things, reaching out, feeling their way closer with every minute. It was unspeakably horrid to know that a great, slithering, inchoate mass of effluence was crawling and creeping and smelling its way towards you.

  Fenella said, a bit impatiently, ‘Oh, do hurry up, Caspar! Shan’t we be able to open it? Isn’t it just an ordinary door?’

  ‘Of course it isn’t,’ said Caspar, crossly. ‘It’s a silver door, guarding something that’s strongly magical. I’ve seen the same kind of thing in the Sorcery Chambers at Tara. You have to keep turning until there’s a kind of silken click.’

  Fenella was standing with her back to the silver door, watching the Melanisms. They were oozing closer, no doubt about it. I suppose, thought Fenella, that I was rather innocent to think that we could get in so easily, or that the Robemaker would not in some way guard his secrets.

  ‘Almost there,’ gasped Caspar. ‘I think we’re — ’ He broke off abruptly as Fenella let out a cry of purest revulsion and looked down to see the Melanisms at their feet, surging thickly upwards.

  Fenella had managed to not quite scream. She had thought she had been keeping watch on the creeping grey-streaked matter, but it had moved suddenly, the embryonic fingers clutching the ground, pulling the oozing, mucousy river forward until it was bubbling over her feet.

  She would not scream and she would not panic. She tried to back away and, at once, the Melanisms seemed to wriggle and chuckle, to slop forward with a dreadful, glutinous, squelching sound. Fenella, clinging to self-control, thought that it was a gobbling, lip-smacking sound, as if the soupy fluid was savouring her, as if it was going to enjoy bubbling upwards until it had engulfed her entire body …

  She sent a frantic look to where Caspar was now standing and saw that the Melanisms had reached him as well now; his legs and knees were already covered.

  This is dreadful, thought Fenella, struggling against the thick, cold viscosity. This is certainly the worst thing that has happened to me ever. Am I going to be able to get out? Am I going to be able to pull free?

  As if in answer, the Melanisms tightened their hold, sucking and gobbling, the half-formed arms twining themselves about her thighs, tendrils of grey-streaked black curling upwards to her waist. The heaving fluid was not cold, as it had looked, but slightly warm, as if somewhere at the centre there might be a heart, and veins, and lungs to breathe with …

  To reach down and try to free her legs would be disastrous. The minute she sunk her hands into the glutinous fluid, her hands would be trapped as well. She had the dreadful thought that once her hands plunged into the foul greasiness, she would feel reaching, grasping hands under the surface, clutching at her, pulling her down until she was drowning.

  Drowning in the effluence of necromancy … Suffocating and smothering in the gelatinous mucous …

  Fenella was using every ounce of her strength to climb free, but the Melanisms were tenacious and strong. They held on, tightening their grip, and Fenella felt herself being sucked in. She thought: but I can't simply stand here and be drowned by this horrid stuff! I can’t just do nothing! And looked up at Nuadu, encased in the terrible cage of the treadmill, and saw black, bitter fury in his eyes. Because she was being slowly smothered by the Melanisms? Or simply because they had come so close to rescuing him? I won’t think about that yet, said Fenella, silently.

  Caspar was shouting to her not to struggle, because it would only mean she would sink quicker, but Fenella was struggling fiercely, because she could not just give in. She was feeling rather sick at the thought of drowning in the creeping, sucking mess. It was exactly like standing in a cauldron of lukewarm soup and feeling it inch its way up your body. There were nameless jellylike things within the Melanisms now; eel-like creatures that brushed against her skin and which felt boneless and yet gristly.

  She managed to make a half turn so that she could see the silver door, because perhaps she could reach out and reach over and grasp the elaborate handle and somehow pull herself out. As she did so, Caspar turned with her, and Fenella knew he had had the same idea. They were both straining to reach, leaning forward as far as they could, agonisingly aware that the door and its ring handle that might have given them some leverage were out of their reach, when another sound fell on their ears.

  They both turned back instantly, scanning the shadows, and Fenella saw Nuadu look up, sudden hope in his eyes.

  From the other side of the room, from the shadows of the wood-store where they had entered, something was dragging itself across the floor towards them …

  There was nothing any of them could do. Whatever was creeping towards them through the half-open door would have them completely at its mercy. Fenella and Caspar were both held fast by the wet gumminess of the Melanisms and Nuadu and the Robemaker’s slaves were chained and manacled inside the treadmills.

  The sounds came nearer; dragging, crawling sounds, as if not one but several creatures were struggling across the floor. Fenella, her heart thudding frantically, kept her eyes fixed on the door and a fearful hope began to unfurl.

  Through the half-open door, into the dry, shrivelling heat of the great, evil-smelling room, there appeared branchlike shapes and then a fall of blood-stained, leaf-like hair.

  Caspar said, very softly, ‘The Trees. Fenella, the Trees.’

  The wounded Tree Spirits that the Robemaker had hacked and mutilated were coming to the aid of the two Humans who would free the Wolfprince.

  Fenella felt ridiculous tears sting her eyes and brushed them away impatiently because this was no time to be emotional.

  The Trees were moving slowly and painfully and it was terrible and marvellous to see them. But will they reach us before this horrid stuff covers us? thought Fenella, frantically. Can they reach us?

  There looked to be three or perhaps four of the Tree Spirits.
They were twisted and butchered and maimed and it was difficult to see if they had been Oaks or Beeches or Elms or what. But there was a glint of green and gold still in them, and their eyes were pain-filled, but determined.

  The Tree Spirits were clinging to the black iron pipes that ran along the sides of the floor, using them as levers and pulleys to help them across the floor.

  At Fenella’s side, Caspar said softly, ‘They are unable to stand, poor things,’ and Fenella felt the pity of it hit hard at the base of her throat.

  The Trees had crossed half of the floor now and the nearest one — Fenella could see now that it had been a Larch, elegant and slender-was already inching its way across the slimy black pool of the Melanisms, creating a kind of bridge. As it did so, the other two Tree Spirits did the same, the branches of the Larch reaching forward, until Fenella could lean over and grasp them.

  She thought she gasped, ‘Oh, thank you!’ and she felt the Larch incline its head in acknowledgement. And then she was holding on to the branches, feeling where the Robemaker had hacked and sawn at them, knowing she must be hurting the Larch even more, and trying to be as gentle as possible.

  The surface of the Melanisms heaved and panted, and Fenella felt the suction about her waist increase. The Robemaker’s sentries were not letting go easily …

  ‘Pull harder!’ cried Caspar. ‘Fenella, you must break free!’

  ‘Yes,’ gasped Fenella. ‘Yes, of course.’

  And then the Larch moved back, and Fenella clung to its poor tom branches and the sticky evil effluence melted back, and there was a horrid oozing clutching feeling, and then she was pulled across the floor, and she was free.

  The fact that they were both half covered with the slimy grey Melanism-fluid did not have to matter. Fenella and Caspar both knelt down, taking a gentle hold of the Tree Spirits’ maimed branches, searching for the right words to convey their gratitude.