Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

Take me for what I am, my love … But that had been poetry, thought Rumour; there had been poetry in his voice and there had been music in his touch. Yes, he was lover and poet and scholar and musician … What of the artisan, the worker and the craftsman? He had told her a little of the strange, enclosed community where he had lived. He had told her of how each man must work with his hands: tilling the land when it was his turn, scrubbing floors, helping with the preparation of food, occasionally brewing wine for their feasts and festivals. And there had been the maintaining of the fabric of the austere, stone-walled building where they all lived; there had been carpentry and stonework and thatching at times …

  ‘I turned my hand to most things,’ he said, dismissively, as if it was of small account.

  And so, thought Rumour — half fascinated, half fearful — the artisan is there as well.

  What had started as an amusing challenge in the safety of the Porphyry Palace; a determination to lure the austere, attractive young monk into her bed, was now something very different indeed. She understood that Andrew had broken some kind of deep and solemn promise, and that it troubled him very deeply. She tried to understand this. But I was born into a world where love and music and wine and laughter hold the greatest sway, she thought wryly. I cannot enter into his mood when he talks of fasting and prayer and scourging. I can listen but I cannot share that. He was violently passionate, as if he had been thirsting for this for most of his life, and must now take it before it slipped from his grasp, and it was this, above everything else, that wound its way into Rumour’s heart and fastened on to her emotions with treacherous sweetness.

  When Andrew talked to her of the unfamiliar religion; the queer, harsh beliefs of his Leader who had died for all men, she felt the passion in him, only now it was in his mind. Can I compete with that? thought Rumour, curled at Andrew’s feet, wearing one of Aillen mac Midha’s extravagant robes, listening and trying to understand.

  To begin with, she had tried to hide her poor shaved head from Andrew, believing it to be ugly and feeling it to be repulsive. But he had hardly seemed to notice. When he had taken her in his arms, and when he had lain with her that first night, there had been such fierce longing and such blind, helpless need, that Coelacanth’s maiming and Coelacanth’s brutality had ceased to matter. There had been a soaring satisfaction, and he had taken her again and again, she forcing him on, neither of them able to hold back the relentless passion that swept through them.

  When Rumour said, very softly, ‘I think this has been a long time in the making, my love,’ Andrew said, ‘All of my life, I think,’ and took her face between his hands and stared into it, as if he was trying to learn her, as if he believed that one day soon they would be parted forever.

  And when that happens, my dear forbidden love, I must have your beloved face for ever imprinted on my mind, so that I can store it in the groves of memory, and call it up from my heart, and look on it, and say: ah yes, of course, that was the time when I knew true happiness …

  *

  It had been soon after that that Rumour had raided the Elven King’s storeroom of gowns and robes and headdresses, selecting the most beautiful, folding them inside a large cloak which could be carried easily and lightly when they left Tiarna.

  ‘Vanity, of course,’ she said to Andrew, partly serious, partly inviting him to laugh at her. ‘I am known as wanton and extravagant, and I should like to continue to be so known. The slant-eyed grin slid out. ‘If we are to take on the Dark Lords and reach Theodora,’ said Rumour, demurely, ‘I would like to do so properly dressed for it. I shall go into the necromancers’ Realm dressed as they will expect me to be dressed, or I shall not go at all. A fanfare of trumpets to announce my entrance would help,’ she said thoughtfully, amusement and self-mockery dancing in her eyes. ‘The sorceress Reflection never made an entrance to her Court without one. But perhaps it would be impractical.’ She grinned. ‘And in the meantime, it will be rather fun to try out Aillen mac Midha’s things.’ Rumour did not see why she should not extract what fun she could from the situation. The stories told of how, when Aillen mac Midha walked in the world of Men, he always did so garbed in shining robes and iridescent cloaks, occasionally with jewel-studded headdresses: silver and gold helmets, tiaras with great cabochon rubies and pearls, exotic pearl and ivory creations. Rumour, plundering his store, discovered shimmering satins; silken gowns woven in the magical Caves of Seiricia, where no Human had ever penetrated; robes and cloaks veined with silver, helmets with lapis-lazuli and firegems and chalcedony and turquoise. Beautiful. Yes, she would dazzle the Dark Lords with these. A tiny, treacherous voice, deep within her, whispered that she might also dazzle Chaos: Chaos with his evil, cruel smile and his dark sinister eyes … The cruel Lord of the Black Ireland, with his beautiful, seductive voice that almost certainly owed its allure to the ancient Enchantment of the necromancer Medoc, but that had beckoned to her and evoked that swift, shameful response … Dangerous! thought Rumour. And then: but when did danger ever deter me?

  Andrew was watching her. He said, ‘You will dazzle me, also,’ and Rumour forgot about darkly dangerous seductions, and remembered that it was sweet and warm and safe to be loved. Of course she would not succumb to Chaos’s dark romance. She tried on all the gowns, and the headdresses, using the crystal walls of the Silver Throne room for mirrors, half serious, half amused at herself, because surely there was scant room for this kind of vanity in their quest.

  They left Tiarna after several days, taking what little food they could, taking the maps that Andrew had found, which would lead them towards the hinterlands of the Dark Realm.

  As they walked, they could hear the faint lapping of water somewhere, as if there might be hidden shores and unseen coasts, against which the oceans constantly washed. At times the tunnels widened into great, echoing caverns, where the waterfalls had created pale icicle pillars and immense, sweeping walls of glistening, frosted water. Above their heads were arched roofs, veined with the silver and ivory and pearl of Tiarna’s kingdom, almost unbearably lovely and exquisitely shaped.

  ‘Shall we actually see the borderlands?’ asked Andrew as they walked warily through these great, echoing caverns. ‘Or shall we simply pass from Tiarna into the Dark Realm without knowing it?’

  ‘I have no idea. I am not sure if we shall see the borderlands, or how they will look to us if we do see them.’ She frowned. There are only a very few ways in which one may pass from the True Ireland into the Dark One.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Rumour said, ‘The best known is by using one of the existing Gateways. That is how the Fomoire came into the Cadence Tower, and how we passed into Tiarna. The Cadence Tower and the Well of Segais are both …’ Again the frown. ‘I think you would say, flaws in the weave,’ said Rumour. ‘Breaks in the pattern. There are a few here and there in Ireland. There is a very ancient one in the Cruachan Cavern of the Soul Eaters, although that is many days’ journey from here. And there is another deep in the heart of the Wolfwood, but that is difficult to find. An even older legend tells of a third Gateway somewhere in the Cliffs of Moher on Ireland’s western coast, although most people give that scant credence.

  ‘But just as a door is a break in a wall, a break that allows people to pass through the wall, so those breaks, those flaws in the fabric between the two worlds, will allow people to pass through the worlds.’ She glanced at him. ‘For those people brave enough or foolhardy enough to go into the Dark Realm, those are the Gateways that are nearly always used. But very few people have attempted it, because it is fraught with appalling dangers.’

  ‘I understand. But here we are using a — you called it an interface,’ said Andrew, questioningly.

  ‘Yes. Tiarna is neither quite of the True Ireland, nor the Dark Realm, but is between the two. A buffer world. Nechtan and the Amaranth Scholars taught how it was diamond-shaped, multifaceted, and how several of its facets impinged on the other worlds.’

  She paused and Andrew said, ‘Your
voice changes when you speak of Nechtan.’

  ‘Does it?’ Rumour looked up and smiled. ‘He was good to me, that incorrigible old man. When I was an apprentice sorcerer, he taught me many things that are not normally taught to sorceresses.’ Mischief shone in her eyes. ‘We are generally believed inferior to the men,’ she said. ‘And generally we are inferior. I do not like to say it, but it is true. We have not the power.’ She paused.

  ‘But Nechtan believed that some females could be stronger than the men,’ she said. ‘He saw no reason to — to make differences. When I asked to study for higher levels than are normally permitted to sorceresses, he fought for me. That is why I hold much higher degrees than most of the others.’ The mischief showed again. ‘That is why many of them dislike me,’ she said.

  ‘And,’ said Andrew, gently, ‘that is why you are here now. Because Nechtan would have believed you could succeed.’

  ‘It was something I could do in repayment,’ said Rumour seriously. ‘In gratitude for the way he fought on my behalf; the way he forced the Academy of Sorcerers to permit me to study for the advanced levels of enchantry. For the time and the patience he expended on me — hours and hours, Andrew.’ She paused and then said, ‘In the way I believe he was tutoring Theodora.’

  ‘Yes. I understand that.’

  ‘She must be saved,’ said Rumour. ‘Or everything I have ever believed in — everything Nechtan believed in — will have been for nothing.’ And then, directing her mind to what was ahead of them, said, ‘The maps you found will be invaluable to us. I think we are nearing the borderlands of the Dark Realm now.’

  ‘Yes.’ Andrew had traced their journey carefully. ‘I think we shall be faced with mountains which form a natural barricade to the eastern boundaries,’ he said now.

  ‘Yes, they would be the Sliabh Ciardhubh, which means the Black Mountains. Fearsome. Within them is the Crimson Lady’s grim fortress at Almhuin, and within the mountains prowl her creatures.’ She looked up. ‘If the Black Monk is still within the necromancers’ realm, it is very likely he will be there, Andrew.’

  ‘In thrall to the Crimson Lady?’

  Rumour paused, and then said, carefully, ‘The Crimson Lady is known to have a voracious appetite for the unspoilt bodies of young men. If the Black Monk strayed into her realm, and if he was comely —’

  ‘Of that I have no idea,’ said Andrew.

  ‘Well, she may somehow have captured him and forced him to work for her. But if that is so, it will be a harsh fight to release him,’ said Rumour, frowning. ‘She is said to be immensely powerful.’’

  ‘We have overcome immense darknesses already,’ said Andrew.

  ‘And we may have to overcome others.’ Rumour half unconsciously touched her head with the concealing silver helmet. ‘Coelacanth and the nimfeach may have taken some of my strength,’ she said, and her voice was suddenly uncertain. Andrew thought: she is afraid.

  Rumour said, ‘There is an ancient belief that much of the strength of sorcery exists in the hair.’

  Her brilliant eyes rested on him, and Andrew said, slowly, ‘My own people once held a similar belief. That to shear a man of his hair was to take his strength.’ He looked at her. ‘But you do not believe it?’ he said. ‘Not truly?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Rumour at once, but her expression was thoughtful.

  Andrew said, ‘Since Coelacanth attacked you, you have attempted no sorcery of any kind.’

  ‘So you have noticed.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Andrew, softly, ‘I have noticed, Lady.’ He reached out to trace the lines of her face. ‘But the strength is not gone. I think it will be there for you when you need it.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  The journey through the tunnels was much shorter than either of them had envisaged. Because the beautiful tragic city of the sidh was even closer to the Dark Realm than they had realised? Perhaps. Andrew, following the charts carefully, finding it surprisingly easy to choose a left-hand fork or a right, or to take the road directly ahead, thought that it was simply that Rumour’s description of the interface between the worlds had been a true one: they had travelled through the surface of Tiarna that abutted on to the fearsome Dark Realm of the necromancers, and now they were reaching the interface itself. Light was seeping into the tunnels, and it was no longer the soft water-light, the rippling gentle sea-light that had cast eerie green shadows and turned Rumour’s eyes to emerald.

  It was a thick, smeary light; sluggish and heavy and brooding.

  And then the rippling water-light receded, and the tunnel widened, and they came out into the hinterlands of the Dark Realm.

  *

  Rumour caught her breath and reached for Andrew’s hand, and they stood silently together, the caves behind them, knowing that finally and at last they were in sight of their goal.

  The Black Domain of the necromancers … The Dark Realm of the Evil Lords of Ancient Magic. The terrible mirror-image, the underside of everything that was good and true and strong, and where all was warped and twisted and soaked with the black sorcery of ages and the vicious corruption of countless centuries.

  The Other Ireland.

  It was directly ahead of them; perhaps it was a walk of three miles across a flat expanse of pale, barren land that darkened as it neared the borderlands of the necromancers’ empire.

  The Black Realm, the Domain of the Lord of Chaos and the Crimson Lady; the necromancers’ world … From where Andrew and Rumour stood, it spanned the entire horizon, spreading out in front of them like a dark, glowing tapestry, a grim crimson and black vista of mountains and turrets and wide flat plains and dark oily lakes, wreathed in shadows, shrouded in darkness.

  The skies were black and lowering, veined here and there with pulsating magenta light. To their left, in what Andrew assumed was the west, they could see the silhouettes of the terrible fortresses of the necromancers; turrets and citadels and ancient strongholds, all of them soaked in old, old evil. They would have harboured immense wickedness, those turrets and strongholds; their windowless dungeons would have witnessed centuries of torture at the hands of the Dark Lords’ servants. Chaos’s henchmen would be there somewhere now: Anarchy, Murder and Misrule. And others … Rumour remembered, and wished she had not, the sinister tales of the Flesh-eating Trolls of the Red Caves … the Manhunts of the Rodent Armies who pursued Humans for sport across the NightFields … And I suppose those are the NightFields we can see to the east, thought Rumour. Flat, endless plains, blackened and charred and streaked with crimson, scattered here and there with mounds — what looked like burial heaps or barrows. Above them hovered screeching, crowlike shapes, swooping and diving and fighting. Carrion creatures and Harpies, voracious and pitiless.

  The sky was low and menacing; Andrew thought it was so low that it was almost as if a massive black lid had been clapped over the landscape, shutting off the air. If they stood on tiptoe and stretched their hands up, they would be able to touch it, that stifling black lid. There was a stale dryness to the air, as if this was a place where fresh breezes never blew, or clean white clouds never scudded, or where rain never fell.

  Away to their right, limned clearly against the lowering skies, were the crouching outlines of a vast jagged mountain range.

  Rumour, looking towards them, said in a low voice, ‘Sliabh Ciardhubh. The Black Mountains. The Jagged Tors of Necromancy. Soaked in evil and imbued with every dark power ever known. They are the western bastions of the Dark Realm.’ She paused. ‘And in their heart is Almhuin itself. We cannot see it from here, but it is there.’ She fell silent, her eyes on the terrible menacing mountains, and Andrew thought: yes, she is right. I can feel that it is there. The Crimson Lady, the Beast of Almhuin …

  He remembered that Rumour had said that Almhuin’s Lady had a voracious appetite for comely young men. Had the Black Monk been comely? Am I drawing nearer to him now than at any other time? he thought. He studied the jagged mountains thoughtfully, and said, ‘It looks to be a danger
ous path to take.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Rumour was watching the mountains intently.

  ‘But,’ said Andrew, gently, ‘even if we must pass by Almhuin itself, I cannot see that there is any other path for us to take.’

  ‘No.’ Rumour had feared that they would have to pass through Almhuin all along, and now, faced with the terrible landscape, she saw her fears were founded. They dare not go straight into the City itself, and although the NightFields would be easy to cross on foot, they were sentinelled by the screeching carrion birds. The creatures would dart and swoop on them and tear them apart before they had gone more than a dozen steps.

  Andrew said, as if he was thinking aloud, ‘If we go quietly and stealthily through the Mountains, perhaps we can be unnoticed.’ He took her hand and they walked warily towards the foothills of the Mountains, the terrain becoming clearer as they neared it. Beneath their feet, the silvery sand of Tiarna’s borderlands thinned and melted, and Tiarna itself became no more than a blur behind them. The ground was harsh and rough and there was a dry heat to it now, as if an immense fire might lately have blazed across the land.

  The western horizon had a damaged look to it as they drew closer. The dark skyline of the citadels and the fortresses was ravaged, split, here and there crumbling. There were gaps, great jagged holes where towers had collapsed, or turrets torn away. To the extreme west, on what Andrew thought must surely be the furthermost City boundary, was a great elaborate edifice with onion spires and domes and battlements. But it was gutted and torn open; the domes were pitted and ruined, as if a giant hand had come down and crushed it.

  Rumour, puzzled, thought: it is as if the castles and the citadels have been attacked. As if they have been ravaged. What could have done that? What power has attacked the castles, and was so great that the necromancers could not defeat it?

  They had kept the NightFields to their left as they walked, skirting them carefully, wary of the screeching birds. And although they were making for the scree of the Black Mountains, they were sufficiently close to the NightFields to see across their desolate face. And they are not simply black, they are burned, thought Andrew. They are smoking ruins. I think they are not even cooled yet.