Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  You do not need to try to match me, Lady …

  ‘I know that,’ said Fenella aloud. ‘Mustn’t we be nearing dawn now? Do necromancers lose a little of their power with the coming of the morning?’

  ‘Truly I have no idea,’ said Nuadu. ‘But it is possible there is no dawn here as we know it. And CuRoi may be playing some kind of subtle game with us.’

  ‘I know,’ said Fenella, who had not stopped listening for soft footfalls, or looking for slanting peering eyes.

  The fourth room held the heads of the necromancer’s victims, but both Fenella and Nuadu found that their senses were still reeling from the tiny dead foetuses in the second room and from the terrible Blood Reservoir in the third. Fenella began to have the feeling that nothing could hold any terror for them any more.

  The skulls were stacked against the wall, several dozen of them, each with its rags of neck skin streaming, each with its sightless eyes open and staring. Fenella shuddered,

  The fifth room contained a jumble of golden, blood-crusted vessels; chalices and platters and bowls and etched into the floor were strange symbols and curious markings.

  ‘The language of necromancy,’ said Nuadu, studying it. ‘Or at least, a few words of it. I wish there was time to study it more closely.’ He glanced behind him. ‘I wish we felt safe enough to study it more closely,’ he said.

  The sixth room was empty. ‘But,’ said Fenella, wrapping her arms about her body, to stop the sudden uncontrollable shivering, ‘but there is something here.’

  There was something in the sixth room that was cold and evil and merciless. They both recoiled and Nuadu closed the door tightly.

  ‘Stored spells that we cannot see, perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Nuadu. ‘CuRoi is called the Master and it may be that he can cover his real secrets with the Cloak of Invisibility. That is a fairly simple invocation, but it is extremely difficult to maintain for any length of time.’ He looked at her, and Fenella said, ‘One room left.’ One room left …

  ‘Yes. The seventh chamber, Lady. The seventh secret of the necromancer. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ said Fenella, and they moved to the room at the far end of the stone passage. Nuadu pushed the door wider and they entered the chamber.

  The room was of a more normal size than any of the others; it was long and rather narrow, but it was about the same size as the hall where they had dined earlier. It was not as dark as the other rooms, but Fenella thought that the light was of a different quality, less evil. They stood very still, waiting for their eyes to adjust, beginning to make out bare floorboards, the shadowy shapes of furniture.

  Dark blue light poured in from somewhere over their heads, showing up great swathes of cobwebs. They stirred as Nuadu moved, and touched Fenella’s face eerily. She brushed them away impatiently and tried to search the shadows, because there was something here, something huge and incomprehensible and all-seeing.

  Fenella followed Nuadu, treading cautiously, as if she was testing each step, and felt the shadows move with them.

  At the far corner, standing by itself, was a massive carved chair, its back so high that it stretched above them, the arms and feet intricately carved and adorned with strange symbols. Light fell across the great chair, so that they could see the beautiful graining of the dark polished wood, and the gentle patina that only extreme age brings.

  Nuadu stopped short, and an arrested look came over his face.

  ‘What is it? Nuadu, what is it?’

  ‘I am not sure,’ said Nuadu, very softly, ‘but I believe we are looking on one of the great symbolic treasures of Ireland.’

  ‘A chair,’ said Fenella, slowly, questioningly, her eyes still on the outline before them, seeing, now, that wolves were carved into the wood, and that here and there were other creatures … panthers, swans, deer …

  ‘A throne, Lady,’ said Nuadu, his eyes still on the dark glossy chair. ‘And made of the black silky wood of the first Trees that grew in the Wolfwood at the beginning of Tara’s history. Ebonywood.’ He looked down at her, his eyes brilliant and alive, and Fenella saw that the wolflook had completely vanished now. ‘There is a legend in Ireland,’ said Nuadu, ‘a long-held belief that — ’

  ‘That only Ireland’s true King may sit in the chair and that all others who dare to do so will perish in extreme agony,’ said a soft voice behind them.

  Nuadu and Fenella turned at once to see, framed in the half-open door, CuRoi watching them. And at his side the sinister, cloaked form of the Robemaker.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Fenella was at once aware of a difference about CuRoi. She thought at first that it was simply that the light was casting odd shadows in here, and then she thought that perhaps it was just seeing him next to the thin, stooping figure of the Robemaker. And then she knew that neither of these had been right: it was that they were seeing CuRoi as he really was. The mask had been discarded, put aside, and this was the true evil creature, the legendary necromancer who ruled the Dark Ireland and who called down the force of the setting sun each evening and sealed the vast Castle of Illusions and had, at his beck, armies of Dark Servants …

  He was taller and darker than he had been at supper; the swarthy look had gone from his skin and in its place was a pale, polished look, like ivory, like skinned bone. Translucent, the look of one who is not entirely Human … His eyes still had the faint slant to them, giving him a faintly exotic look, so that Nuadu, who had sometimes met and talked with travellers and pilgrims, remembered the stories and descriptions of Eastern princes.

  As if to underline this, CuRoi was wearing a robe of scarlet silk, and his slender white hands were adorned with jewels. He moved, and at once the Robemaker moved with him, like a shadow.

  Fenella felt Nuadu become very still and felt, as well, that he had tensed to spring.

  ‘I really should not do so, Nuadu,’ said CuRoi at once and, with the words, the Robemaker made a brief gesture with one hand, and the crimson rope-lights shot out and snaked about Nuadu’s wrists, pinioning them.

  Nuadu struggled, but the rope-lights held and Fenella could see that they bit deeply into his skin. The Robemaker glanced at CuRoi and, with a second quick movement of his hand, sent out a second shower of crimson, and Fenella found her own wrists as tightly bound.

  ‘So,’ said CuRoi, moving forward, and studying them both, ‘so you have found your way to the Ebony Throne, have you, Wolfprince?’

  ‘As you intended,’ said Nuadu.

  ‘Yes. Yes, that is perceptive of you. But do you know,’ said CuRoi thoughtfully, ‘I did not expect you to walk into my little trap quite so easily.’

  ‘Let us say,’ said Nuadu, ‘that it suited me to appear to fall in with your little ploy.’

  ‘Indeed? Well, the Wolves were never noted for their judgement,’ said CuRoi, rather dismissively. ‘But I confess that it pleases me to have succeeded. Did you enjoy my series of locked rooms, my dear?’ he said to Fenella. ‘A rather childish ploy, but one that pleases me. Each one worse than the last, until you see through the device and then, of course, the rooms become relatively harmless. Store-rooms for chalices and salvers and the occasional discarded enchantment.’ He smiled and then turned back to Nuadu. ‘But I admit that I wished you to confront the Ebony Throne, Nuadu Airgetlam.’ He regarded Nuadu. ‘That was the reason for luring your lady down here. Of course you would follow her.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Nuadu, equably. ‘I see that you acknowledge the existence of chivalry, even though you do not practise it.’

  CuRoi smiled and shook his head. ‘Tsk, tsk,’ he said. ‘A bitter tongue. Do you know what happens to bitter tongues?’ And he moved one hand in a curious, somehow inverted, gesture, and produced, from the long loose sleeve of his gown, a pink, wet Human tongue.

  ‘You see?’ said CuRoi, turning it this way and that. ‘Unharmed until it utters displeasing sentiments. And then we simply — ’ Another of the quick, light gestures, ‘We simply make it c
loven,’ he said and, as he spoke, the tongue parted and split and blood and saliva oozed out.

  ‘A cloven tongue,’ said CuRoi, showing them the two separate pieces, and then throwing them into the air and watching them vanish. ‘A particularly unpleasant fate. But one I should enjoy inflicting on you, Wolfprince.’ His eyes grew cold and hard suddenly. ‘You know the legend of the Ebony Throne,’ he said.

  ‘The ancient Throne of ebonywood that will only accept Ireland’s true King,’ said Nuadu, rather offhandedly, as if the grotesque illusionist’s trick had barely touched his mind. ‘Yes, it is one of the earliest beliefs, that. Although I think that to most people it is simply a symbolic thing. And there are many such beliefs that surround all ancient Royal lines,’ he said. ‘There are many rituals attached to the crowning of kings. Stones that shriek aloud, swords that must be drawn from solid rock. It pleases the people to believe these things,’ he said, as if the subject did not interest him very much, but Fenella saw that his eyes went to the immense, gleaming dark throne as he said this.

  ‘It is not symbolic, Wolfprince,’ said the Robemaker, and Fenella and Nuadu both repressed a shudder, because they had forgotten the whispery, diseased voice. ‘It is very real and very powerful,’ said the Robemaker. ‘It was created from the first trees in the Wolfwood and the first sorcerers wove into it one of the most powerful enchantments ever known.’

  Nuadu said softly, ‘An enchantment so that it would accept Ireland’s rightful King and no other.’

  ‘So you do believe,’ said CuRoi thoughtfully. ‘I thought you did.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You would care to try it, bastard prince?’ said CuRoi, his eyes gleaming.

  ‘I think not,’ said Nuadu politely.

  ‘I thought you would not wish to.’ CuRoi smiled. ‘It is a vastly unpleasant death, to call down the Ebony Throne’s power. You have perhaps felt in the air the agonies of those who have been sufficiently arrogant to challenge me and whom I have flung to the Throne? They linger on, of course, as do all strong emotions.’

  ‘I have felt them,’ said Nuadu in a level voice.

  CuRoi laughed and Fenella saw the shower of silver and red amusement cascade through the air and fall to the floor at their feet. ‘We are in no danger from your puny threats, Nuadu of the Silver Arm,’ said CuRoi.

  ‘We have never been in danger from you,’ said the Robemaker.

  Nuadu regarded them, his head on one side. ‘But I have still teeth, CuRoi,’ he said softly. ‘I have still the ability to kill you.’ He regarded the necromancer. ‘I should take great pleasure in tearing your flesh, crunching your bones,’ he said thoughtfully, and CuRoi laughed again and again the sparks of malicious amusement touched the air.

  Nuadu regarded them both, his head on one side consideringly. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, and Fenella caught the reckless note in his voice, and knew he might very well gamble on a sudden spring on either one of these two, ‘what do you intend now? Are we to be given the chance to find my brother? Let us be open with one another, at least.’

  ‘The Wolfkings are an accursed line,’ said the Robemaker. ‘Between us we have almost ended their reign.’

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘There is still you,’ said CuRoi.

  ‘But I am not a threat,’ said Nuadu. ‘Come now, we all know that I have no right to Ireland’s Throne.’

  ‘That is true.’ CuRoi walked to where Nuadu still stood, and appeared to consider him. ‘But supposing, Nuadu, that you were the last Wolfprince in Ireland, no matter your — ah — irregular birth. Might it not occur to some of your faithful Beastline creatures to propose you as a Monarch?’

  ‘You have still the wolfblood,’ said the Robemaker.

  ‘And,’ said CuRoi, ‘to some, it might seem that any creature with a trickle of the ancient wolfblood could be enthroned at Tara.’

  He waited, and Nuadu said at once, ‘The creatures of the Beastline would take the Throne for themselves rather than see me on it,’ and CuRoi nodded, as if this was the answer he had expected.

  The Robemaker said, ‘All creatures are venal, no matter their ancestry.’

  ‘Also necromancers,’ said Nuadu with extreme politeness, and CuRoi’s dark features twisted in a frown.

  ‘You see,’ said CuRoi, moving back to stand behind the blackened silky-smooth chair, ‘you see, Nuadu, we do not care to risk having you out in the world — either in this Ireland or the other one — where you might be the target for some kind of ridiculous act of what your world calls chivalry.’ He studied Nuadu. ‘We can permit no pretenders, no bastard princes,’ he said.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘And so we shall kill you.’

  ‘As you have killed the King?’

  ‘Oh, the King,’ said CuRoi, and a cold smile touched his lips now. ‘Perhaps he is dead and perhaps he is not.’

  ‘Perhaps he is condemned to wander this Dark Realm, with the leaden Cloak of Ignorance about his shoulders,’ hissed the Robemaker.

  ‘A cruel torment which would be worthy of you,’ said Nuadu, as if in agreement. ‘Is that the fate you have reserved for me? The Lady can be let go, of course,’ he said, rather off-handedly, as if Fenella’s fate did not matter very much to him. ‘She has served her purpose.’ Fenella stared at the floor, because it was important not to let the two terrible beings before them guess at her thoughts, and she knew that Nuadu was trying to ensure her escape.

  CuRoi said in a gloating voice, ‘We shall find uses for the Lady,’ and the Robemaker chuckled with a wet bubbling sound that made Fenella think of his eaten-away throat.

  ‘She will be put into service in my Workshops,’ he said, and lifted his head so that Fenella caught a glimpse of gleaming white bone and a great gaping cavern where the nose should have been, and caught, as well, the stench of ulcerous skin and leprous flesh. ‘To replace the creatures she so foolishly set free,’ said the Robemaker. ‘A fitting fate, my dear.’

  Nuadu pulled briefly against the crimson ropes and CuRoi laughed. ‘You should know, wolf creature, that the Robemaker’s ropes of light are not to be dissolved.’

  Only to the Human's hand … The words touched Fenella’s mind as lightly and as delicately as a batswing brush and at once something in her mind sprang to attention.

  Open, locks, to the Human's hand … Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys …

  Of course, thought Fenella, still staring at the floor, because these two creatures would almost certainly listen to her thoughts if they wanted to. Of course. The spell from the Robemaker’s own Workshops. The Robe of Human Hands and the chanted spell that freed Nuadu and the others. We have not the Robe, but we might have the chant. That’s if I can remember it. Can I remember it? thought Fenella frantically. Oh dear heaven, can I? And then: but will it work without the Robe of Human Hands? What happened to that? Did we leave it in the Workshops. Yes, of course we did. Will the spell work without the Robe?

  CuRoi was moving forward and the Robemaker with him. They stood on each side of Nuadu.

  ‘We shall tie you to the chair,’ said CuRoi, and he said it gently and reasonably.

  ‘Why?’

  A smile twisted the cruel lips again. ‘Oh, let us say, that it will be a fitting end for you.’ The dark eyes glittered. ‘Let us perhaps rather say that we shall feed you to it,’ he added.

  ‘It is an unusual way to die,’ said the Robemaker.

  ‘But a fitting one for a bastard Wolfprince, I think? And you possess more than your share of arrogance, Nuadu Airgetlam.’

  ‘He is an arrogant wolf creature,’ said the Robemaker. ‘He defied me and escaped me in the outside world. His concubine let loose my slaves. To see the Ebony Chair devour him will be a fitting recompense.’ There was the suggestion of a terrible smile within the deep hood.

  ‘But slowly,’ said the Robemaker, and there was a lick of relish in his voice now. ‘I shall draw him to it slowly, so that he has plenty of time to visualise what is in store f
or him.’

  Nuadu said in a conversational tone, ‘I see, Robemaker, that you still suffer the Curse of Eternal Disease, the Draoicht Tinneas Siorai. Do you still have to feed captured souls to the Soul Eaters?’ He moved closer, his eyes reckless and shining. ‘Have you not yet seen that they will take all you give and still not release you?’ said Nuadu and the Robemaker drew back with a malevolent hiss and flung the crimson light again, so that it twisted about Nuadu’s face and formed itself into the hateful mask once more.

  ‘Accursed wolf-creature,’ whispered the Robemaker. ‘I do not have to listen to your poison! But you may be sure that your soul will go to the Lords of the Cruachan Cavern and be set on the Silver Scales, where it will weigh against my debt. And my debt is almost paid.’ He raised his hand again, and began to draw Nuadu to the waiting chair.

  ‘An interesting death, this one,’ said CuRoi, and then, glancing at Fenella, ‘and then, my dear, once your protector is gone, and his soul given to the Soul Eaters, we shall turn our attention to you.’ He smiled, and moved to stand before her, inspecting her. ‘Lovely,’ he said at last, his voice thick and clotted with lust now. ‘But then the Wolfprinces ever had good taste in women.’

  Women … As if she was a concubine, a harlot. How dare this revolting creature treat them like this. Fenella put up her chin and regarded CuRoi haughtily and managed to keep her eyes from quite meeting his and sought furiously in her mind for the words to the enchantment that would dissolve the horrid crimson ropes.

  Open, locks, to the Human's hand … If I cannot remember, I shall have failed and Nuadu will die … Open, locks, to the Human's hand … Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys …

  CuRoi and the Robemaker had moved back to stand behind the throne and the Robemaker was lifting his hand again and Nuadu was snarling and struggling and, at any minute, the Robemaker would pull on the crimson ropes and Nuadu would be drawn forward …