Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  Fenella said, ‘Shall we defeat CuRoi?’

  ‘We will try.’ He took her hand. ‘Absurd child,’ he said, very gently, and Fenella found that she had to blink back tears very hard. ‘Don’t let me harm you,’ said Nuadu.

  ‘I shan’t,’ said Fenella, and he smiled.

  They moved on, falling silent as the Mountains closed about them. Here and there were solitary buildings; lookout towers of some kind, rearing starkly against the lowering skies, straight columns of harsh dark stone with gaping windows like empty eye sockets or monstrous decaying teeth. The air was cold and thin now, and the red glint was beginning to fade from the sky.

  ‘Nightfall,’ said Nuadu, stopping and turning to look back down the path they had traversed. ‘Or what passes for night here.’

  Nightfall in the Black Realm of the Necromancers … And we are alone up here in the fearsome and desolate Black Mountains, thought Fenella.

  They stopped to rest briefly, although Nuadu said they should not waste any time.

  ‘We must remember that CuRoi seals the Castle of Illusions every night at sunset and that after that it will be impossible to get inside.’ He sent her the slanting look. ‘We should be alone out here,’ he said. ‘Should you be very frightened?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fenella, consideringly. ‘Yes, I should.’

  ‘And yet, still you are here.’ He studied her, as if he found her strange and intriguing.

  Fenella said, ‘Let’s go on. Look, the path is quite easy now.’

  She led the way and then, as they rounded a curve in the road, there directly ahead of them —

  ‘Oh!’ said Fenella softly.

  It had been hidden by the fold of the Mountains, so well and so cunningly, that Fenella had not realised they were so close.

  Directly ahead, surrounded by soft radiance, was a vast, turreted castle, spiralling up into the night sky, pinnacled and spinaretted, adorned with spires and slender, beautiful towers, glittering with pale iridescence, sending splinters of pure light into the dark landscape.

  CuRoi’s Castle of Illusions. The legendary fortress of the great sorcerer, the Master of the Dark Realm, the palace of myth where, according to the Soul Eaters, Ireland’s King lay captive and helpless.

  The Castle was limned sharply against the dark sky. It was a pure, sugar-spun edifice, crystalline and ivory and pearl, gleaming with its own inner radiance, sending out rays of light. Fenella tried to see the colours contained within it, but the Castle glistened with such prismatic brilliance that it was impossible. But she thought there was a pure, soft pink at the outer edges and that the pink was tinged with lilac and azure, deepening as it neared the heart, so that the very centre of the Castle was violet and deepest purple.

  ‘The Castle of Illusions,’ said Nuadu, softly. ‘Referred to in every Book of Necromancy ever written, and in every dark legend ever told, and in every warning ever whispered round a night hearth.’

  Fenella heard her voice say, ‘And you knew the way to it.’

  Nuadu looked down at her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I knew the way, Fenella. Are you thinking I should not have done?’

  ‘You will admit,’ said Fenella, ‘that it was a little — unexpected.’

  Nuadu said, ‘I knew it had to be somewhere in the Black Mountains. Everyone in Ireland knows that. And there was only one mountain road we could take.’ He looked at her. ‘And it is wreathed in evil magic and steeped in sorcery,’ he said. ‘And if we can not get inside before the Dark Sun sinks, then every door and every means of access will be sealed and there will be no way of penetrating it until morning.’

  As the darkness increased, so the Castle shone more brilliantly and sent out its glittering radiance. The pinks and lilacs deepened to crimson and violet and the Dark Sun described a fiery arc across the skies, much faster than either of them were accustomed to, sprinkling its baleful red light as it went. The portcullis was directly ahead of them, gold-tipped and glistening faintly.

  ‘But it is becoming fainter,’ said Fenella suddenly.

  ‘I think it is the enchantment of the Master,’ said Nuadu. ‘I think the sealing is beginning, Fenella. CuRoi is drawing down power from the setting Sun.’ And then, in a much more urgent voice, ‘The turrets are vanishing,’ he said. ‘Dissolving. Do you see?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, we’ll have to hurry,’ said Fenella.

  There was no time to be lost. They began to run, heedless of where they trod, covering the ground in great leaping bounds, flying in the direction of the portcullis gate before the Dark Sun should sink altogether and the Castle seal itself with CuRoi’s strong, sunset-linked sorcery.

  The rock bridge curved downwards as it neared the portcullis, so that they found themselves half running and half slithering, dislodging tiny rocks and stones as they went. Fenella could see the gates straight ahead of them, wreathed in dark, swirling mists, dark and sinuous smoky spirals. Could they do it in time? And then: do we want to do it in time? she thought, because, after all, they had no idea of what would be waiting for them within the Castle.

  The last ray of darkness touched the portcullis gates and, as they began to melt and blur, Nuadu took Fenella’s arm and pulled her across the threshold and into CuRoi’s Castle of Illusions.

  Chapter Forty

  The glittering light of the Castle was abruptly shut off.

  Nuadu and Fenella stood very still, just inside the vast door, handlocked, and Fenella thought: I believe I can hear Nuadu’s heart beating. Can I? Or is it my own? And then — and this was a terrible thought — or is it somebody else’s heart altogether, she thought? Is someone, something, standing close beside us, listening and watching? But this was so eerie that she did not let herself think it for more than a breathspace.

  It was very dark. It was so dark that they dared not move. Perhaps, in a very few minutes, their eyes would adjust to the light. People’s eyes always did that. They would wait quite calmly and quite quietly, and presently they would begin to make out shapes, forms, things. Pieces of furniture, said Fenella to herself very firmly. Chairs and tables and cupboards. That would be all.

  It was at that minute that the lights began to alter. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, slivers of radiance appeared on the outer edges of their vision, tiny sparks to begin with, and then increasing, growing, multiplying, until they splintered the darkness, silver and gold and scarlet. On and on they went, pouring and cascading and whirling, until Fenella and Nuadu were standing before a dizzying kaleidoscope, a blinding storm of light that hurt their eyes and which they thought would surely burn out their vision.

  And then, quite suddenly, the quality of the light changed; it became softer, subtler, breathtakingly beautiful; it became tinged with pure, soft pink and lilac and the deep violet of twilight, and Fenella was just thinking that it was beginning to soften, and that they would be able to see properly at last, when there was a movement beneath their feet, as if the Castle’s foundations had shifted and the floor tilted so that Fenella half fell forward and grabbed wildly at a stone pillar.

  Little by little, so slowly that to begin with they could not believe it was happening, the Castle began to move; it began to spin and rotate, so that the walls became rushing, whirling shadows, and they could see the dark, crimson-streaked skies outside spinning past.

  ‘This is the sealing!’ cried Nuadu, pulling Fenella to him and holding her against him. ‘The Castle is sealing! CuRoi is calling down the power of the dying sun and every door is dissolving! Look!’ And without letting her go, he pointed to the great studded door through which they had fallen, and Fenella saw that it was melting into the stonework.

  The spinning increased, until they had to struggle to remain upright and Fenella began to feel sick. Round and round it went, on and on, silently and effortlessly, as swiftly as a mill-stone, as smoothly as a child’s top. The door had disappeared completely now and the windows also. Nuadu, his every sense stretched to the limit, heard beneath the whirling of the Castle a steady rhythm
ic chanting in an unknown tongue, a single, rather melodic voice that rose and fell in an intricate pattern. He had once heard, when a small child, the beautiful, sexless, sacred chanting of the Druids, the paeon of praise to light and the morning and the gods. This was the dark side of that ancient, sacred chant, and Nuadu knew it at once for the terrible Chant of the Necromancer. He knew that he had been right and that, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the Castle, CuRoi was indeed sealing every door and every entrance.

  They were shut into the Castle of Illusions with the most powerful and the most malevolent necromancer Ireland had ever known. They were shut in until dawn, and there would be no possibility of escape.

  The spinning ceased as gradually as it had begun and Nuadu and Fenella heard the strange Chant fade. Fenella put out a cautious foot, but the floor stayed where it was and the Castle was still.

  The stone hall was quiet; the pouring brilliance had vanished. Fenella thought that, with the vanishing of the windows, there ought not to have been any light at all now, but from somewhere a gentle radiance burned, and they could see about them quite clearly.

  They were standing in a vast, dome-ceilinged hall, with an immense stairway leading directly upwards in front of them to a great galleried landing. Deep velvet-blue light poured in from overhead and there were thick swathes and folds of cobwebs everywhere. Dust motes danced in and out of the light-beams and there was a faint drift of woodsmoke, which was unexpectedly pleasant. For some reason, the blue twilight and the woodsmoke and the dust made Fenella feel better, because there was something so normal about woodsmoke and dust, that CuRoi’s Castle seemed to be not quite so ensorcelled.

  Nuadu was prowling round the great hall and Fenella said, ‘I think we must explore a little, don’t you?’ because it would be a good idea to appear unafraid and inquisitive. She was pleased to hear that her voice sounded quite ordinary.

  ‘Certainly we should.’ Nuadu’s eyes went to a door deepset below an arch on the galleried landing and something glinted in his eyes. Fenella thought: I believe he knows what is inside there. Or if he does not know, then he suspects.

  ‘It’s extremely dirty in here,’ she began severely, and then added in a practical tone, ‘where ought we to begin?’ At once a deep echoing chuckling reverberated all about them. Fenella started and turned back to scan the shadowy staircase, but Nuadu, who had been waiting for CuRoi to make some move, stayed where he was. The chuckling seemed to begin somewhere deep in the bowels of the Castle and end high above their heads. It was so gloating that they both flinched.

  ‘Dissatisfied with my abode, Human Child and Wolfprince!’ cried an echoing voice. ‘Well, that is something that is easily cured!’

  Before the voice had quite finished speaking, a flurry of movement had started up at the centre of the hall and, as they stood, transfixed, it whirled into a spinning cloud of activity. The grey and white column of smoke, shot here and there with red and gold sparks, slowed its gyrations so that they could see that it was a pillar of every cleaning implement ever seen; it was brooms and brushes and dusters and mops, all tumbling and falling into line, rather as if someone had rapped out a command.

  ‘CuRoi,’ said Nuadu softly. ‘They say he has a certain sense of humour.’

  The voice came again, on a note of command this time, but in a language Fenella could not recognise. But at the words, Nuadu stiffened and looked up, as if the words had meant something to him, and the voice chuckled again.

  ‘So you know a little of the Ancient Tongue, Wolf-prince?’ it said. ‘Now, that I find exceedingly interesting. I wonder where you learnt that, Nuadu Airgetlam? But I think you do not know enough to match me. Certainly you did not know enough to free yourself from my friend the Robemaker. It was the Human Child who did that, Wolfprince, or have you forgotten?’ The deep chuckling came again. ‘But now a little entertainment for your Lady, who finds my Palace not to her liking,’ said CuRoi. ‘Watch now!’ And again there was the odd-sounding five-syllabled word, and then there was a torrent of words, and before the words had finished, the brooms and the mops and dusters whirled about and, without the smallest warning, swept into a frenzy of activity, cleaning and polishing and sweeping and scrubbing. A great duststorm began to gather, and polish and soapsuds and beeswax and lavender flew in all directions, so that Fenella and Nuadu backed into a comer, coughing from the dust.

  ‘But,’ said Fenella in a whisper, ‘they are actually rather amusing, don’t you think?’ and at once, as if they heard this, the brooms and the mops all arranged themselves in a straight row, and embarked on a kind of dance, with the feather dusters fluttering at each end, and the polish tubs going off into a stately little march by themselves. The scrubbing brushes up-ended themselves and joined in with gusto and, at this, everyone seemed to jostle for pride of place and a mumbling, grumbling sort of quarrel seemed to take place between the mops and the brooms as to who ought to stand at the head; the feather dusters tripped up the scrubbing brushes, and the dusters tied themselves in decorative bows on the brooms, making them look as if they had large, floppy yellow feet.

  Fenella started to laugh. ‘It’s an entertainment,’ she said. ‘A comic entertainment for children! How absurd!’

  The brooms had finished sweeping by now, and there was the pleasant drift of lavender polish and beeswax. The great hall was gleaming and the floors were shining, and the copper pans hanging by the fire at the far end were bright. The mops tidied themselves away into their buckets and the dusters folded into neat squares and everything was quiet again.

  ‘And now,’ said the voice, ‘perhaps my Castle is fit for you to occupy for a time, Human Child?’ And Fenella forgot about being amused by the mops and the brooms and remembered where they were and what they had to do and about CuRoi being one of the great Lords of the Dark Realm.

  At her side, Nuadu, said, ‘Look. Over there. At the top of the stairs.’ Fenella saw that at the head of the stairs, directly in front of the deepset shadow-wreathed door, a blurred outline was forming into the shape of a man.

  CuRoi.

  He was rather short of stature and dark and swarthy-complexioned. He wore a dark cloak with a scarlet silk lining, black boots of some shiny substance, and a starched collar with a cravat. In his left hand was a whip. He was just a little plump and there was an unexpectedly soft, pale look to him, as if he might, under certain circumstances, be very nearly effeminate.

  Nuadu had not moved from Fenella’s side but, as the necromancer stood regarding them, he felt a shiver of horror and he knew that they stood in the presence of extreme evil. He felt a brief puzzlement ruffle the surface of Fenella’s mind and understood that she had been expecting to encounter someone sinister-looking and evil and cruel, another Robemaker. Nuadu had been aware, ever since they had entered the Castle, that Fenella had been tense and taut and wound up, ready to meet horror and power and leering menace. She had seen the Robemaker and she had seen what happened to his prisoners, and she had not been expecting this genially visaged, plump-faced gentleman who could whip up brooms and mops into an amusing display, and who looked as if he might wear scent and enjoy concocting dainty little dishes for his guests to partake of.

  But Nuadu had absorbed the tales and the myths of the Dark Ireland and he had heard almost every snippet and tag-end of legend and lore ever encountered. CuRoi was called the Master of Illusions and Nuadu knew at once that they were being presented with a seamless, almost flawless illusion now. He is giving us the image of a good-humoured land-owner, thought Nuadu, studying CuRoi covertly. A genial gentleman, a soft-living dilettante, who dabbles in a little magic purely for the fun of it.

  But with CuRoi’s appearance, Nuadu had felt his skin prickle with fear. It was as if a cold, greasy hand had stroked the back of his neck and the finely honed instincts, inherited from his long-ago ancestors, the Wolves of Tara, were alert and alive, warning him to beware. He watched CuRoi descend the great curving stair and cross the hall towards them and he knew that
here before them was one of the most powerful entities ever to dwell in the Dark Realm.

  He summoned every ounce of resolve he possessed and braced his mental muscles to meet any attack that might come. There was Fenella to be thought of. Fenella, so straight and so completely without duplicity, would certainly be dreadfully vulnerable. Nuadu knew a great many stories about CuRoi, and he thought that he would tear out the necromancer’s throat if he played any of his cruel cat-and-mouse games with Fenella.

  But CuRoi was smiling and holding out a plump, well-kept hand to them. He said, ‘You are well come indeed, my friends,’ and it was the pleasant, happy tone of one who is delighted to discover unexpected guests on his doorstep.

  Fenella smiled back, but Nuadu noticed that she somehow managed to ignore the outstretched hand and that she did so quite naturally and easily. So she is not so much dazzled by CuRoi’s neat little illusion that she will trust him sufficiently far to touch him! thought Nuadu. And she is not so guileless that she cannot put up a pretence.

  CuRoi looked at them both and chuckled. It was a roguish chuckle, the chuckle of someone who sees very well that there is a joke against him, and is more than prepared to join in that joke.

  ‘Oh, dear me,’ said CuRoi, ‘dear, dear me, I can see that you have heard some very nasty stories about me. Well, they do love a gossip hereabouts, of course, but I promise you I am not really evil. It is only that I do enjoy a joke.’ He regarded them, beaming, his head to one side. ‘Did you enjoy my little bit of nonsense with the brooms and the mops?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I can see you did.’

  He sketched a bow in Fenella’s direction, and Fenella said, as if she found the subject rather interesting, ‘It was a little like the puppets we had in a country I once lived in and the comic entertainments we arranged for the children, with music to heighten it all. Apparently quite simple, but actually extremely complex.’ She regarded him thoughtfully. ‘But amusing,’ she said. ‘Yes, I did enjoy it.’