Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Rumour’s mind was working furiously.

  She knew that she was hovering perilously on the brink of throwing herself on the Crimson Lady’s mercy, begging her to spare them, certainly begging her to spare Andrew.

  Could I? she thought, watching him being carried to the centre of the room and strapped to the stone couch. There was the cold, cruel snapping of the gyves as the metal slid home. Could I ask the creature’s mercy, promise her some kind of evil pleasure? thought Rumour. Offer my own flesh for her to satisfy her horrid lusts? Her skin crawled at the thought, but she would have done it save for one sure thing: the Crimson Lady would accept her offer, would use her in a dozen warped, twisted ways, and at the end would still slaughter Andrew. She will not give him up, thought Rumour.

  Diarmuit and the others had strapped Andrew to the table they had used for Black Aed, and two of them had moved to Rumour, not chaining her in any way, but twisting her arms behind her back so that she could not move. But she could see that Andrew had been forced to lie amidst the half-dried gore and blood, and the expelled urine from Aed’s body. A deep anger kindled and she thought: I will outwit this one! Somehow I will do it!

  The Lady waited until Andrew was manacled, but there was an impatient glitter in her eyes, and Diarmuit’s people, glancing at her uneasily from the corners of their eyes, worked quickly. The instant they finished, she leapt forward, as quickly and as suddenly as an uncoiled spring, and leaned over the table, her eyes raking Andrew’s body, her fingers curving in a predatory gesture. Her hair was matted from Aed’s blood and her eyes were wild. There was barely any trace of the icily beautiful creature who had confronted them on their arrival, this was the creature beneath the thin veneer of culture, and it was a creature red in tooth and claw.

  The Lady took a razor from one of the Almhuinians, and her movements were slower now, deliberate and studied. She held the razor aloft in her left hand, her eyes glittering, the other hand stroking her white, blood-spattered body in a monstrous, self-indulgent caress.

  Andrew’s dark woollen robe had been torn from him, and Rumour could see that the gyves were cutting cruelly into his wrists and ankles. Tiny bubbles of blood welled to the surface, and at once the Lady bent over, licking them, savouring the taste, her tangled, crusted hair brushing Andrew’s bare skin. Rumour saw him flinch, and remembered with sharp poignancy how the silken swing of a lover’s hair against bare skin was one of the most intimate and joyous sensations of love-making. She felt a cold sickness at seeing this parody of something soft and precious and loving being inflicted on Andrew.

  The Crimson Lady padded silently round the table again, her eyes never leaving Andrew’s body. She is savouring him, thought Rumour, struggling uselessly against her captors, feeling their hard, bony fingers digging into her flesh. She cast a quick look back at the door through which they had entered, listening for the soft footfalls of Chaos’s people. Did I imagine it after all? If they would only come, thought Rumour in anguish; if they would only come pouring down on their Lord’s enemies, I believe we should be able to escape. But although she thought there was a faint stirring of something beyond the double iron framed doors, the shadows remained quiescent, and there was nothing in the chamber with them, save the soft padding of the Lady’s bare feet, and the harsh struggles of Andrew, manacled and chained on the stone.

  At last the Crimson Lady moved to stand over him, her eyes glittering with lust and hunger, her hands still reddened from the blood of Black Aed, her lips slicked and red with Andrew’s own blood. She reached for the great earthenware jug, still spattered with Black Aed’s blood, and positioned it beneath the table, directly under one of the drainholes, lining it up with such absorption and such minute attention to its exact placement that Rumour had to choke back a scream of frustration and anger. As if sensing this, the Lady turned and sent Rumour a thin, hungry smile, with something dreadfully intimate in it, as if she believed that Rumour might understand and enter into this fearsome bloodlust. Rumour looked away, as if bored, and the Lady smiled, and said, very softly, ‘Someone will be quaffed tonight. Oh yes, Amaranth sorceress, I know what they say of me.’

  ‘I suppose,’ re-joined Rumour, sounding as if the matter was of scant interest, ‘that it is better to be known for something — even the quaffing of Humanish blood — rather than not to be known at all.’ She studied the Lady. ‘But for your warped tastes,’ said Rumour, ‘you would probably live in obscurity. Unheard of. Rather sad,’ said Rumour and, looking across at Andrew, said in the coolest of all her cool voices, ‘We should try to be kind to her, Andrew, for this is really the poor soul’s only claim to fame.’

  The Lady stared at Rumour, and Rumour felt the icy darkness uncoiling deep in the creature’s mind. At length the Lady said, ‘You will pay very dearly for that remark, Amaranthine,’ and Rumour said at once, ‘But I seldom pay my debts, madame. You should know that I seldom pay for anything.’ And smiled blandly.

  The Crimson Lady looked at Rumour for a moment longer, and Rumour felt a stir of triumph, for she thought she had succeeded in disconcerting the Lady very slightly. If I could somehow throw her off balance, she thought, I believe I could quench the smothering darkness and reach power of some kind. If only Chaos’s spies would come swarming in.

  The Lady was reaching out to caress Andrew’s skin, stroking the inner part of his thigh. Rumour felt fury sweep her mind, because there must surely be some way to defeat this evil creature, there must be something she could do. To summon a dark power would be better than nothing, and here of all places, a dark power would be easy to summon.

  A dark power …

  Of course.

  Rumour did not hesitate. She flung back her head, and in a ringing voice, pronounced the ancient, distorted incantation that she had used in Diarmuit’s tavern cellar.

  As if in answer, the slopping liquid chuckling reverberated around the room, and Rumour knew she had reached him again.

  The Collector.

  *

  He materialised almost at once, the huge black shadow falling half across the chamber, the remembered stench of old blood and ancient evil gusting in their faces. The Almhuinians fell back fearfully, and Rumour twisted from their grasp, laughing in delighted triumph.

  ‘See your victim, Master Collector!’ she cried, pointing to the Crimson Lady. ‘Take whatever you will of her!’ And as the Lady turned, a snarl twisting her beautiful, cruel features, ‘The biter is about to be bitten, madame!’ cried Rumour.

  The Lady fixed her black eyes on the hovering shadowy outline. ‘You are not unknown to me, sir,’ she said, and the Collector gave vent to his terrible laugh again. The torches flared, and although the light did not quite reveal his whole body, it seemed to alight on portions of it in turn, never quite revealing the whole, but almost appearing to say: see, here is one grisly aspect, and here another; showing the great slung belt with the grisly gobbets of flesh and the pieces of his victims’ bodies: phalluses and hanging, sagging breasts … The necklace of eyes and teeth … The bracelets of bloodied hair and the glimpse of his cloak hem, plaited with the glistening, still wet ropes of pale intestines, bowels …

  Rumour shuddered, but the Crimson Lady was moving towards the huge, loping silhouette, her eyes blazing with strong emotion.

  ‘The Collector,’ she said, in a purring, sensual whisper. ‘Bailitheoir …’

  The Collector’s huge head came round, and for an instant the torches flickered, showing a gaping, yawning face, a face stretched into an impossible elongated shape, tallow-pale and the edges indistinct, but with great black chasms where the eyes should have been. In his soft, dark voice, the Collector said, ‘You know my name,’ and there was a different, sharper quality to it now, as if he might be suddenly interested.

  The Crimson Lady had come to kneel before him, her hands upraised with the palms uppermost. ‘Who of my House does not?’ she said. ‘The Collector, whose name in the ancient Gael is Bailitheoir. Th
e one who takes the gleanings of the Humanish bodies. The one who permits corners and fragments of his dark self to be glimpsed, but never the whole.’ With the words, the great shadowy cloak stirred, and Rumour caught the edges of torn-apart lips, dozens upon dozens of them, and wide-open, silently screaming mouths behind.

  The Lady smiled, as if she, also, had seen this and understood it to be a response from the shadowy entity. She said, ‘No living creature has ever beheld you in your entirety, Bailitheoir. And you value your privacy. But you are well come, sir,’ she said.

  Rumour strode forward, her cloak brushing the stone floor angrily. ‘This creature is my servant!’ she cried. ‘Called up by my sorcery and my strength! He will answer to me!’

  ‘But,’ said the Crimson Lady, her eyes still on Bailitheoir, ‘but if he should find himself in accord with one who springs from the same root …’ She paused, and her eyes swivelled to Rumour, mockery in her expression. ‘If he should find himself faced with one who may be kin to him, one who could strike a very profitable bargain with him,’ she said, ‘then his allegiance might very well turn.’ The dark eyes rested on Rumour and the amusement was there again. ‘You did not think of that when you summoned him?’ said the Lady. ‘I see you did not. Well, I had heard you were a gambler, madame, and now I know it to be so.’

  ‘The Summoning was clear!’ cried Rumour angrily. ‘He is answerable to me!’ She whirled around to the dim outline of Bailitheoir. ‘Tear this creature’s head from her shoulders and wear it for a trophy!’ she cried. ‘I command you to do it! By every ancient law of sorcery and by every Chronicle of Enchantry you are bound to obey me!’ She stopped, breathing hard, and from behind caught a movement, as Andrew struggled helplessly against the iron gyves of the table. If Andrew could somehow be freed, together they might flee from this dreadful place …

  The Crimson Lady was reaching out to stroke the Collector’s swirling, indistinct cloak. ‘I could give you so much, Bailitheoir,’ she said, her voice heavy with sexual promise. ‘We could share in the pain and the blood. Join me at my banquets, and take what I do not need. Rule at my side.’

  The Collector appeared to be sunk in thought. He dipped his great head to Rumour, and said, ‘You summoned me, madame,’ and the courtliness that Rumour remembered was in his voice.

  ‘I summoned you, and by the ancient law of sorcery you must obey me,’ said Rumour again. ‘Tear that creature into collops!’

  Unexpectedly the Lady laughed. ‘A terrible choice!’ she cried. ‘You are caught between the law and the promise of far more than that puny Amaranth can give!’ She moved to the shadowy outline again, and lifted one slender arm almost negligently. ‘Serve me,’ she said, softly. The Collector turned his great head, and Rumour saw, as clearly as any manifesting curse, the Dark Beckoning, the seductive lure of necromancy spin outwards and curl about the Collector’s head.

  ‘Ride with me against the Lord of Chaos,’ said the Crimson Lady in a soft voice. ‘Join with me in battle against him, and together we will vanquish him and rule unchallenged.’ She paused, and the tip of her tongue came out to lick her full red lips. The Collector remained silent and motionless, but Rumour felt him listening.

  ‘And then it would be all ours, Bailitheoir,’ said the Lady, and now the rising note of sexual hunger was in her voice. ‘The NightFields with their bloody harvests and the sprawling piles of rotting carcasses. The gore-soaked Crimson Lakes, and the Black Pits of Ireland’s ancient, fire-drenched Hell: Ifreann itself.’

  The Collector said in a quiet, breathy whisper, ‘But you have a servant, madame. All the Dark Realm knows of your servant,’ and the Crimson Lady made a quick, dismissive gesture.

  ‘There was a fool who served me,’ she said. ‘A Human who fell for a time into my vassalage. He was weak and gullible.’

  ‘And?’ Rumour, watching carefully, saw that the Collector was listening with absorption. Across the room, Andrew turned his head.

  ‘He betrayed me as Humans always betray in the end. I discovered that he was prepared to sell his services to any in the Dark Realm who would gratify his needs. He was serving Chaos at the same time as he was pretending to serve me. And no man in this Realm can serve two masters,’ she said, her brow drawn down.

  ‘Or two mistresses,’ said Bailitheoir softly. ‘So you cast him out, madame,’ he said, and the Crimson Lady smiled, remembering.

  ‘I cast him out,’ she said. ‘Into the howling night of the Dark Realm, where Humans are constantly at the mercy of the Harpies and the Crones and the roaming WarMongers. I have had many pleasurable nights imagining what his fate was.’ She looked up at the towering shadow standing over her. ‘That was when I issued the ancient challenge of War to Chaos, who had tried to steal one of my people.’

  Rumour drew in a quick breath of understanding, because after all it was not Theodora who had caused this War of Necromancy, but simply the revenge of Almhuin’s Lady. Her eyes met Andrew’s, and she saw that he also had understood.

  ‘What became of the Human?’ said the Collector, and Rumour saw Andrew’s eyes fixed with intensity on the Crimson Lady.

  But she said, ‘I have no idea. If he survived out there, he may have fallen into the thrall of some lesser necromancer. He may even have managed to reach the Castle of Infinity. But he is of no account. Once I discovered his disloyalty, I had no further use for him.’ She fixed her great black eyes on the Collector. ‘So you see,’ she said in a soft, purring voice, ‘you see, Bailitheoir, apart from the rat-mutants, I am alone. And to those who give me their loyalty, I am generous. Since the Wars there are many rich gleanings for such as you.’

  Bailitheoir said, thoughtfully, ‘The corpses of battle.’

  ‘Yes. Chaos’s people.’

  ‘You are able to overpower him in battle?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said the Crimson Lady. ‘Our Armies have met and fought several times now. The famous Battle of the NightFields was my greatest victory. But the War is not yet entirely won.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Chaos still lives,’ she said, coldly. ‘And so there must be many more battles. A quarter of all the prisoners we take could be yours.’

  The Collector’s teeth gleamed with sudden predatory hunger. ‘Not enough, madame. Half.’

  The Crimson Lady hesitated, and then said, ‘As you will. Half. You drive a hard bargain, Master Collector. But to have you with me will be worth it.’

  The Collector bowed his head again. ‘It is my pleasure, madame,’ he said. And then, turning to where Andrew lay, ‘Shall we attend to the first of our shared victims?’ he said, and the Crimson Lady laughed, throwing back her head.

  *

  The Almhuinians had again sprung to Rumour’s side, holding her captive. She struggled and raked her mind for a means of escape, but they held her firmly, their hands digging into her like tiny claws.

  The Crimson Lady stood behind the stone table, the blurred figure of Bailitheoir with her. She looked directly at Rumour, malevolent triumph gleaming in her eyes, and Rumour glared. When the Lady spoke, her voice was a silken purr. ‘You gambled on summoning and controlling a dark power, Madame Amaranth,’ she said. ‘And in the manner of all gamblers, you must occasionally lose.’ She looked down at the helpless Andrew and smiled. ‘You have lost, madame. He is mine.’

  Rumour looked up furiously at the towering figure beside her, and it seemed to her that the two of them conferred, Bailitheoir’s massive blurred head bending over, his outline so blurred that at times it seemed that the Lady slid inside the dark shadow of his body. The two of them looking down at Andrew, touching, stroking … Rumour saw the Lady’s hand slide insinuatingly between Andrew’s thighs, and bit her lip in rage.

  Then the Collector spoke, and it was the courteous, cultured tones that Rumour remembered. ‘I shall remove his legs,’ he said. ‘That will be of immense interest to me, for with a little dark sorcery, I may then walk with the tread of the Humanish. I may prowl the world of Men at will, in search of furt
her prey.’

  The Crimson Lady silently held up the razor, but there was a curdling of the shadows as Bailitheoir declined it.

  ‘Of knives and razors and Humanish weapons I have no need,’ he said, and turned to the table.

  Rumour saw Andrew’s shiver, and she saw the shadows surrounding Bailitheoir thicken, and the sudden silver glint of dozens of tiny, vicious teeth.

  The Lady flung herself beneath the table, writhing in an ecstasy of anticipation; and as the Collector raised his head, Rumour glimpsed the stretched wide mouth now, the rows of teeth smothered in blood. And then he descended on Andrew’s helpless body, a great smothering cloud of evil, and for a brief instant, Rumour saw the outline of his face again, and saw how the black glistening hair swung outwards, framing his head in a black aureole.

  The Collector buried his face in Andrew’s flesh, and Rumour thought: he is biting through Andrew’s leg … He is eating it!

  She knew the exact moment when the eerie core of teeth tore into Andrew. She was concentrating so furiously that she thought she almost felt the pain in her own flesh: a tearing, a wrenching, agony of unbelievable intensity …

  Andrew’s skin had taken on a waxen quality, and Rumour knew that he must be held in a vice of mind-shattering agony. Blood poured from his leg, and when Bailitheoir raised his head, the barely glimpsed jowls blood-smeared, she saw deep within the gaping wound the white glint of bone. A groan broke from Andrew and he writhed against the gyves, his head threshing from side to side. The Collector moved again, this time shaking his head from side to side as a dog shakes a rat to subdue it. Rumour fought down the rising nausea, because she would not be sick, she would not be so weak … And very soon it will be me on that couch! she thought, her eyes huge with fear.

  ‘Humanish blood,’ cried the Lady. ‘Humanish blood, pure and clear arid undiluted.’ She smeared the dripping blood into her skin a further time, her eyes half closed with dreadful delight.