Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  There was something dark and ageless and hungering about the jagged-toothed turrets and the black crouching bulk. Rumour thought: this is a place of pain, a Citadel of agony … A torture house, seen through a darkling glass, silhouetted against crimson-streaked skies.

  It was immense. Between the huge, rearing turrets with the narrow slitted windows was a long, low, central portion, which Andrew thought might have once been a keep, but which Rumour identified as being probably the ceremonious halls and banqueting chambers.

  The Almhuinians had paused and, on the still air, the two captives heard the sound of the drawbridge being lowered, followed by the unmistakable winching up of the portcullis gates, with a slow, and rather dreadful inexorability.

  The Crimson Lady’s gates opening to let us in …

  The drawbridge stretched before them, bridging the deep chasm that surrounded the castle, and the portcullis was raised to its highest point. Black Aed looked down at his prisoners, and said in a voice of satisfaction, ‘Almhuin. The Fortress of the Lady.’

  ‘It is not quite what I expected,’ said Andrew in a thoughtful tone, and Rumour at once said:

  ‘It is certainly not what I am accustomed to.’ And regarded Black Aed haughtily.

  Black Aed grinned, and in the darkness his teeth showed white and feral, but Diarmuit who had been watching the sky nervously, pointed suddenly upwards. ‘Harpies,’ he said. ‘See? Over to the west.’

  ‘Yes.’ Black Aed followed Diarmuit’s pointing finger. ‘And the sound of more WarMongers,’ he said, and Andrew and Rumour both thought he looked very slightly fearful. But he turned back, and said, ‘Chaos and his people were ever watchful. We’d best get these two inside.’ He stood for a moment longer, scanning the dark mountainside, and Rumour, half lying against the cart’s sides, caught the flicker of a movement deep within the creeping shadows. WarMongers? No! thought Rumour, her senses alerted. Something much stealthier.

  She looked up sharply, trying to see, trying to feel, aware of a new menace. Chaos’s people? Spies? The Almhuinians appeared to have heard nothing other than the thudding hoofbeats, and Rumour guessed that they did not possess sufficient perception. They could see and hear things that were intended to be seen and heard, but they were unaware of sly, creeping darknesses. But I feel them, and I see them. And then: could we turn this to our advantage? she thought. Does Andrew feel them? And sent him a quick glance from beneath her lashes, and knew that for all Andrew’s truly remarkable perception and for all his sensitivity, he had not heard anything. Then it is up to me, thought Rumour, and hard on the heels of that thought came another: am I beginning to depend on him? Or is it that his strength is simply increasing?

  The Almhuinians were pulling the cart on to the drawbridge which was extended across the deep, dark moat. Directly ahead, the gateway at the centre of the Castle-keep yawned, the iron grille of the portcullis raised to its highest point.

  And we must pass under that portcullis … We must enter the Castle of the Crimson Lady, the pain-filled Citadel of the Beithioch. It reeks of old dark necromancy, and it is soaked in the agony of its victims, thought Rumour. And we are being taken into its bowels.

  The cart bumped and jolted forward, its wheels reverberating hollowly on the wooden planks of the drawbridge. Rumour looked back, but there was only the dark mountain, and the stretch of drawbridge they had already covered. There was no sound, save the trundling of the cart’s wheels, and the firm, light tread of their captors. Nothing stirred in the darkness.

  But as they were pulled towards the waiting portcullis, into the shadow of the immense Fortress, she caught the sound she had heard earlier. Soft light, furtive footsteps creeping towards the Castle behind them … Something — perhaps several somethings — stealing along behind them.

  Chaos’s spies following them into the grisly lair of the BeastWoman of the Mountains … ?

  The iron grille of the portcullis was ahead of them, huge and black and menacing; as the cart passed into the clotted darkness beneath the drawbridge, Rumour felt the suffocating, smothering darkness of Almhuin descend over her head, so that for a moment she could hardly breathe.

  Behind them the drawbridge was lifted, clanking upwards on its immense iron chains and crashing home, and the portcullis was lowered.

  And so we are shut in … We are shut in with one of the most evil necromancers ever known, thought Rumour, sick with horror and fear. We are shut inside the Castle of Almhuin.

  But if I am right, she thought, trying to see about her, if I am right we are not entirely alone. There is another enemy here with us. I feel that there is.

  Something followed us, and something stole stealthily along the drawbridge after us, and slipped under the portcullis. And now that something is inside the Castle with us …

  They were shut inside the Citadel of the Crimson Lady of Almhuin. And it seemed likely that, shut in with them, were the dark, evil servants of the Lord of Chaos.

  *

  The portcullis did not open into a courtyard or a quadrangle as they had expected, but into the central portion of the Castle itself. They were in a stone chamber, with narrow windows set high up, criss-crossed with thin strips of lead. Slivers of crimson-tinged twilight lay across the uneven stone floor, and dust motes danced in and out of it, showing up the decaying interior of the Castle.

  Great swathes of dark red velvet drapes covered sections of the walls, but the velvet was worn and rubbed, and in places it hung in threads. There was a dry, musty smell, and the smothering feeling of stale air and dirt, and as the tilt cart was pushed forward, there was the pattering of mice scuttling away beneath the hangings.

  The Almhuinians moved purposefully about the stone hall, lighting branched candle-holders and setting them in front of several oval mirrors with damp-spotted silver surfaces and tarnished rims. But each candle was reflected in the mirrors a dozen times over, so that the hall was illuminated to a great flickering cavern filled with tiny, glowing flames. The shadows receded and Rumour thought with a start of surprise: this is a place of decay and dust, but once it must have been very beautiful.

  Immense silken tapestries hung between the mouldering velvet, all of them dimmed with extreme age, damp stains obscuring most of the depicted stories. But in some of them it was possible to make out crouching Beast-Humans bending over the mutilated remains of prey, their jowls blood-smeared, fangs jutting down from curled-back lips.

  Beneath the tapestries were long oak tables and settles, black with age, the cushions on the settles crumbling, the silver plate and the gold chalices and platters on the tables tarnished and dull. The wall-hangings stirred with the entrance of so many people, and a dry, fetid breath of air gusted outwards.

  Black Aed and three of the others pulled the two prisoners out of the cart, tipping them on to the uneven stone floor and untying their ankles.

  ‘No tricks,’ said Black Aed. ‘No attempts to escape.’

  ‘They won’t escape,’ said Diarmuit. ‘We’ve left their wrists bound. And even if they do try, they’ll be caught and brought back.’

  Rumour and Andrew, both conscious of slow agony in their ankles as the blood began to flow again, stood up and looked round, trying to take in as much as they could. Rumour thought: yes, it once was extremely lovely here. But something came in and tainted it. She could smell the smothering stench of decay and age, but stronger by far was the sour taint of Complex Evil, of a strength and a quality Rumour had never encountered. She thought: was it the Crimson Lady’s evil that tainted this place? Or is it simply that it has seen centuries of agony?

  At the far end of the hall was a small raised area, set with a high-backed chair draped in black velvet. Rumour saw that woven into the velvet was the ancient and terrible symbol of the Northern sorcerers: the race of malevolent necromancers whose beginnings were so old that no one knew now whence they had sprung.

  Behind the dais was an immense, almost intact tapestry depicting a long table set for some kind of meal. At
the centre, seated in a high-backed chair, was a slender, dark-haired man with a cruel, beautiful mouth and high flaring cheekbones. Twelve guests sat with him, ranged along the table, most of them apparently engaged in eating and drinking, but all of them clearly subservient to the cruelly beautiful man. At the table’s centre was a platter of what Andrew recognised as unleavened bread, and he saw that the dark man was holding up a golden chalice brimming with blood. Over his head was twisted a symbol of crimson and gold and ebony, and black rays, irradiating outwards, had been woven into the fabric about his head.

  Rumour said, very softly, The Last Feast of the Casca Dubh. Medoc holding the Revel of the Twelve Necromancers on the night before he entered the True Ireland and was slain.’

  At her side, Andrew said, ‘Dubh is darkness or blackness, I think. But what is Casca?’

  ‘The Passing Over,’ said Rumour, her eyes on the beautiful, cruel creature who presided over the sinister revelry. ‘That is the Dark Passing Over, Andrew. The terrible underside of the Banishment Ritual you heard in the Porphyry Palace.’

  ‘Yes. Beautiful. Then this is the Passing Over, not of the Darkness but of the Light,’ said Andrew, softly, and behind them, Diarmuit said, The plea that the Light will not cross the threshold of the necromancers.’

  ‘A good plea,’ put in Black Aed, chuckling hoarsely.

  ‘The reverse side of our Ritual,’ said Rumour, and Andrew, staring at the darkly beautiful revelry said, almost to himself, The Dark Passover. The evil mirror image of the Paschal Supper. The old wine that has been in the cask for so many centuries that it can never be completely drained.’

  ‘Medoc is lifting the chalice of blood so that his Twelve Lords may drink it in memory of him,’ said Rumour. The legend is that he knew at that feast he would be vanquished on the morrow.’

  ‘And that he wanted to leave his House a Ritual that would ensure that his work and his word would live on,’ said Aed.

  ‘We still celebrate that Ritual today,’ said Diarmuit, and a soft voice from behind them said,

  ‘“Take ye and drink, for this is my blood”.’

  Rumour and Andrew wheeled sharply round.

  The Crimson Lady stood watching them from the doorway.

  *

  She was smaller than either of them had been visualising, and far more beautiful than they had expected. Andrew, staring, thought they had been expecting a towering, menacing being, and he found himself taken aback by this slender, graceful creature. She wore a dark cloak with a hood, but the hood was thrown back, and as the light from the flickering torches fell across her face, he saw that she was pale-skinned, and that her face was a perfect oval.

  ‘Of course I am beautiful, Human,’ said the Lady, moving to stand before him. ‘It is the blood and the juice and the sap of Humans that makes me so.’ She smiled, and it was a smile of such perfection that Andrew blinked.

  Her skin was as smooth as ivory. Andrew thought it was like pale, pure alabaster, or soft, polished silk. But it is made so by bathing in Human blood and Human juices, he thought, sickened. Beneath that truly remarkable beauty is a loathsome, evil thing. As the Lady moved to stand before him and reached out to touch his face, he felt his skin shrivel with the coldness of her hand. The sleeve of her robe had fallen back, revealing a velvety white arm, with a wrist so fragile and so delicate that Andrew almost believed he could reach out and snap it in two between his hands.

  She had black silken hair coiled into a jewelled snood, so that her features stood out sharply, a pure, clear cameo. There was a high, pale forehead — and there is learning there, thought Andrew, staring. There is scholarship. This is no untutored peasant.

  ‘You are perceptive,’ said the Crimson Lady to Rumour. ‘You have recognised not only the emblem on my Throne, but also the famous depiction of Medoc’s Last Feast.’

  ‘Who would not recognise it?’ said Rumour at once. ‘The legend is well known. And your evil House is also well known, madame.’ She looked straight at the Crimson Lady. ‘The Northern necromancers, who swore a vow to destroy Ireland and possess Tara. But none of you have ever been able to make good that vow,’ said Rumour.

  ‘You think that, do you?’

  ‘You are still here,’ said Rumour. ‘And Tara and the Porphyry Palace of the Amaranths are still in the hands of their rightful owners.’

  ‘But not for very much longer,’ said the Lady. She studied Rumour. ‘But you recognise my House correctly,’ she said. ‘I am a daughter of that old and powerful House.’

  ‘I believe you to be the last of your line, madame,’ said Rumour, and Andrew realised that she was according the creature the courtesy of one sorceress addressing another.

  The Crimson Lady said, ‘I am the descendant of the Erl-King of ancient days, and as such the head of my House. I am the descendant of Medoc, the dark, evil, beautiful Medoc who so nearly gained Tara, but who was vanquished by a Human.’ She looked at Andrew suddenly. ‘For that I have a deep and abiding hatred for Humans,’ she said. ‘I have vowed to rid my Realm of all Humans.’ There was a lick of pleasure in her voice now, and Andrew and Rumour both felt icy fingers of fear touch them.

  She looked back at Andrew, her eyes holding his, and Andrew felt as if he had been plunged, neck-deep, into an icy lake of dark, evil water. ‘I am versed in many arts, Human,’ said the Crimson Lady, softly. ‘We shall shortly explore some of them, together.’ Her eyes held his and Andrew, unable to look away, felt himself drowning, smothered … With an immense effort, he dragged his eyes away.

  But I am right, he thought. The power is there. The eyes have it. They were huge swirling pools of blackness, twin lakes of evil, of pitch, of charred jet. A man might drown in those eyes and know himself suffocated by foul, ancient darkness.

  O, but I shall smother you with other things first, Human creature …

  Andrew looked up, startled, and saw that the Crimson Lady was smiling, a terrible smile, hungry and brutal and filled with greedy anticipation.

  For someone will be quaffed tonight …

  Her lips were wide and sensuous, dark red and livid against the whiteness of her skin. Andrew thought inconsequentially: I wonder, does she paint them, or are they naturally that colour? The smile was that of a predator, scenting and sighting its prey, hungering for blood. Tiny, even white teeth, razor sharp, gleamed in the dimness. How would it feel to be bitten by them … ? Incredibly Andrew felt a stirring of hard, crude desire. He beat it down at once, horrified and repelled, and drawing his eyes away with an immense effort, he said quite coolly, ‘We are interested in your Castle, madame.’ And heard, with relief, that his voice was calm and unruffled.

  ‘There are more interesting parts of the Castle than this,’ said the Lady. She studied Andrew with the detached air of one who studies a strange beast or an insect recently caught and caged. ‘All of them are now imbued with Complex Evil at its strongest,’ she said, and then, to Rumour, ‘I think you have already felt that.’

  ‘Yes. But then,’ said Rumour, her tone as bland as buttermilk, ‘but then, madame, I hold an extremely high degree in the Theory of Sorcery. I could not possibly miss or mistake the level of Complex Evil that encloses this Castle. I could not mistake the density of Profane Evil at the outer edges.’

  The Crimson Lady said, very sharply, ‘That is either the statement of a fool or a very clever sorceress,’ and for answer, Rumour said:

  ‘The level of Complex Evil is Demonolatrous and the density is Vulpicide. It is well beyond the Magenta Boundary of Slaughterous, close to the Cannibalistic Vortex at the centre.

  ‘As for the Profane Evil, that is Tyrannical, which I should expect of you. But there is an outer crust of Abyss-Mal.’ She paused, and Andrew heard that she gave the last word a rather strange emphasis. Abyss-Mal: an evil from the Abyss …

  Rumour said, as if bored with the entire subject now, ‘And there is a layer of Eclectic Evil to the degree of Virulence, which, as you know, is not quite so high as Vulpicide, but still ver
y high indeed.’ She regarded their captor. ‘Shall I continue?’

  The Crimson Lady said, ‘In my Realm, we would call that boasting, Madame Amaranth.’

  ‘Oh, in mine also.’ Rumour smiled contemptuously. ‘But then in my world, I am already known to be boastful and extravagant and immodest. I see no reason to change simply because I am visiting your world, madame.’

  The Lady turned back to Andrew. ‘For a monk, you keep strange company,’ she said.

  ‘So I understand,’ said Andrew in a tranquil, that-is-my-business tone.

  The Lady shrugged. ‘Your absurd word-games will not save either of you, of course,’ she said. ‘And presently, I shall enjoy showing you my Castle. The slaughterhouses and the sheds. The dungeons deep beneath the Castle-keep …’ The hungry smile touched her red lips again. ‘After all,’ said the Lady, ‘you are within my world, and you are in my power. There is no escape, you know.’ She studied them. ‘Once a prisoner is shut away in those deep dungeons, he would be for ever lost to the world.’ She leaned closer. ‘Shall I shut you both away? In a windowless, lightless cell? There are many such here. There are many halls in my Fortress …’

  And many mansions in my Father’s House …

  Andrew thought: I must maintain a calm exterior. I must preserve a feeling of disdain. Rumour is treating the creature with such contempt, and I must match that. Above all, I must not let either of them guess that her voice — beautiful, sensual — rakes at deeply buried senses, and at longings so secret, I had not known, until now, that I possessed them …

  How would it feel to lie with this beautiful, evil creature, and feel her teeth and taste the blood …

  The Lady had moved away a little, the silken skirts of her cloak brushing the floor in a whisper of sound. ‘You will see it all, Human Monk and Amaranth Sorceress,’ she said, and the dark eyes flickered back to Rumour. ‘I believe you know some of the legends, madame,’ said the Crimson Lady politely.