Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘I should not have let you carry me anyway,’ he said, but his voice was blurred with pain, and sweat poured down his face as he held on to Rumour and slid agonisingly down from the table.

  The Lady jeered and laughed from behind the light spears, hurling curses at them as they went.

  ‘Useless,’ said Rumour to Andrew in a conversational tone designed to reach the creature. ‘Do you know, Andrew, she has no real powers at all?’

  ‘Has she not?’ said Andrew, valiantly joining in the game, suppressing the cries of pain that welled up inside him, certainly suppressing the almost overwhelming need to simply curl into a tight ball of agony and let his mind slip into pain-free oblivion again.

  ‘Nothing but a charlatan,’ said Rumour, in one of her confiding whispers, and sent Andrew a sudden grin.

  Andrew was dizzy, half blinded with pain and shivering with cold, but he managed to say, ‘Then there is little to worry about.’

  ‘Nothing in the world to worry about,’ said Rumour. ‘We are nearly at the door now, and there is a fire laid and a bed of rugs made up for you.’

  ‘Yes?’ Andrew’s consciousness was slipping away again, but they must get away from this dreadful place, they must find a refuge for a few hours where they could consider what to do next. Rumour was showing such extraordinary courage and strength that the least Andrew could do was try to match it. He was grateful for her courage, and he was immeasurably thankful for the wry humour she was managing to dredge up. He found himself reaching for and holding on to her matter-of-fact tone. She had said there was warmth and a bed: he would reach it somehow.

  Between them they managed to cross the stone hall; but they had to stop many times, and by the time they reached the little room, Andrew’s skin had again taken on the frightening grey pallor, and Rumour was trembling and aching in every bone. Andrew staggered and put out a hand to the wall to right himself, and then fell forward, unconscious again. Rumour, sobbing with exhaustion now, bent down and curved her hands under his arms, pulling him across to the makeshift bed. The fire had burned up and the flames were casting leaping shadows on the dingy stone walls. But it is rather cosy, thought Rumour determinedly; it is small and warm and I believe we can be safe here.

  She pulled the unconscious Andrew on to the pallet, and arranged the fur rugs over him, and then, straightening up, took a burning twist of wood from the fire, and reached up to light the wall-torches on each side of the chimney breast. I suppose that is Humanish flesh in the sconces, thought Rumour. But the poor creatures were long since beyond their pain, and they needed light and warmth if they were to survive. This was no time to start being squeamish. But whoever you were, forgive me, she murmured silently.

  Andrew was lying under the pile of cloaks and fur rugs, and Rumour stood looking down at him, seeing that the dreadful pallor had receded a little, hearing that he was breathing evenly and gently. She would go back to the slaughterhouse several times to reinforce the spears of light that held the Crimson Lady captive. She thought they would hold the creature for a few hours — and when we have both rested, we can discuss what to do with her, she thought, her mind already considering several spells of imprisonment. Yes, there would surely be something. But I must have a respite, she thought; if I am to break through the darkness again, I must rest, even for an hour or two. I reached the light earlier, but I think it has drained my strength. She paused, remembering how it had felt to force open that door and feel the light begin to trickle through and despite the dangers, a smile touched her lips.

  But Andrew was maimed and mutilated, and even with Rumour’s help he would be unable to travel for several weeks. She was angrily aware that she knew only the most basic of healing spells. She would try them anyway but she knew that Andrew would be physically unable to cope with the dangers ahead. And Rumour knew that the greatest of all those dangers would certainly be Chaos’s Castle of Infinity.

  She crawled, shivering and exhausted, under the fur rugs beside him, inexpressibly thankful for a brief respite before she need return to the slaughterhouse. But as she slipped over the edges into sleep, she knew that she might very well be forced to continue the journey to Chaos’s castle alone.

  And leave Andrew here in Almhuin.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Deep within the old west wing of the Porphyry Palace, the Amaranths were holding a Council of War.

  They had Sealed the doors, and then they had gone in hasty procession through the great deserted wing, pronouncing the Sealing Enchantment around all of the windows as well. As Great-aunt Fuamnach said, traitors within your midst were nasty things to have, but when those traitors had thrown in their lot with the Almhuinians, you had to be prepared for anything.

  ‘And don’t you think,’ said Bodb Decht, ‘that we ought to post look-outs? Just in case?’

  Cerball thought this very sensible, and detailed Cecht and the twins to keep watch. You could not be too careful.

  The younger Amaranths would have quite liked to explore this disused part of the Palace, because nobody in living memory (which was quite a long time for people such as the Mugains) had ever been here. But, as the Mugain himself said, they really had not the time to be going off on expeditions. They had to discuss this matter of the Almhuinians and the Black HeartStealers trying to take over the Palace, and they had to think what they were going to do about it.

  Cecht had found a small pantry, with a few casks of wine which was excellent news, and somebody else had discovered sacks of flour and wheat and some jars of honey and dried fruit which they might be glad of, but the Mugain said they could not be giving their minds over to eating and drinking just now. Not but what they mightn’t be very glad of the stuff presently, of course, and come to think of it, there was no reason not to fetch in the wine.

  Herself said she might dredge up a bit of a Scullery Spell to fire the ovens, always supposing that there were ovens. They’d be glad of a bite to eat, said Herself, at which several people, to whom it had not occurred that the sojourn in the west wing would need to be other than a couple of hours, or an afternoon at most, looked startled.

  The Mugain unbunged the wine-casks on the grounds that you needed a bit of sustenance when there was a battle to be fought, and directed everyone to assemble in the long, rather dusty gallery at the centre of the wing.

  It was very dusty indeed. Great-aunt Fuamnach tutted with disapproval, and fetched over a length of curtain to sweep the dirt, because you could not summon proper sorcery in such a disarray.

  But there was a long oak table, with chairs drawn up to it, and there was room for them all to sit down; even the twins, who were fetched up from their posts as look-outs, and who had not until now been considered far enough into their apprenticeships to be included in family conferences. As Cerball said, this was no time to be excluding the younger ones; even the rawest of them might have an idea to contribute. And if they couldn’t trust their own Seals to keep out the Fer Caille for a half-hour, then they were none of them fit to hold any rank in the Academy at all! said Cerball, looking quite fierce. The twins, round-eyed at being in such important company, sat very quietly in case anyone remembered that they had only reached the degree of Artisan, and made them leave.

  Cerball took the chair at the head of the table — ‘But the Mugain has taken the one at the foot,’ said Calatin, grinning.

  Cerball was not thinking about authority or about being at the head of the table. He was wrestling with himself over what they should do. He thought that the only way in which they could overpower the Fer Caille and the Black HeartStealers was to summon something ancient and powerful, and something that they could be very sure would defeat the Fer Caille.

  But something that might be beyond their power to control once they had summoned it …

  Bodb Decht was talking about the NightMare Spell, and saying wasn’t it the only way to drive back the Armies? He looked round the table, his thin scholarly face unusually brighteyed, and Cerball saw the others react w
ith mingled doubt and excitement.

  Cecht said, ‘But do we know the NightMare Spell?’

  ‘Yes, nobody’s pronounced it for — well, a very long time,’ said Herself, who did not hold with NightMares, nasty unpredictable things: and further along the table, Great-aunt Fuamnach nodded in agreement. You did not want NightMares rampaging about all over the place and getting out of control.

  ‘And surely,’ put in the Mugain, ‘we’d need the NightCloak to invoke the Spell fully. Wouldn’t we?’ He looked at the others for confirmation of this.

  ‘I always heard that only a pure bred Human could wear the NightCloak anyway,’ said Herself.

  ‘Well it doesn’t matter because we haven’t got the NightCloak.’

  ‘It was lost to the High Kings — oh, centuries ago.’

  ‘Like a lot of other things,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach sourly.

  Cerball cleared his throat nervously, and everyone turned to look at him.

  ‘Yes?’ said the Mugain. ‘Have you got an idea?’

  ‘Out with it if you have,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach. ‘Battles have been lost before now by folks dithering.’

  Cerball said, ‘The NightCloak is certainly in the hands of the Black Ireland, but it is possible that we — that we might be able to invoke one of the other great enchantments. Something that might turn back the Fer Caille once and for all.’ He relapsed into silence, chewing worriedly at his lower lip, and everyone stared at him.

  ‘What did you have in mind?’ said the Mugain.

  ‘Well,’ said Cerball, beginning to wish he had not spoken, but going on doggedly. ‘Well, for instance the — the opening of the Temple of the Dagda.’

  There was a rather startled silence. Cerball thought: well, I’ve said it. I can’t unsay it. I suppose they all think I’m a bit unhinged. Laigne’s death and Echbel’s capture by the Fomoire, and Theodora being taken by the Lord of Chaos. It’s enough to unhinge anyone. But he eyed them and said, ‘If we could open up the Temple, we should bring the gods down into Ireland.’

  ‘Which would certainly drive back those miserable wretches below,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach.

  ‘Yes, but to open the Temple of the Dagda,’ said Bodb Decht, ‘would require the Key.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it’s lost,’ said Bodb Decht, staring at Cerball.

  ‘Would opening the Temple really bring the Dagda storming out?’ demanded Calatin, hopefully.

  ‘Well that’s what they say,’ said the Mugain, sounding doubtful.

  ‘Out from the Temple of Eternal Fire? And the — what do they call them? — the Men of Art as well? The lesser gods?’

  ‘Danaan the Mother-god …’ began someone.

  ‘Brigit the Poetess …’ put in somebody else.

  ‘Neit the God of Battle and Manannan mac Lir the Pilot …’

  ‘Ruad Rofessa, the Lord of Great Knowledge …’

  ‘Ruad’s another name for the Dagda: he isn’t a separate god.’

  ‘Are you sure? I thought —’

  ‘Look here,’ said the Mugain, who felt that matters were getting out of hand. ‘Look here, this is all speculation. We haven’t got the Key any more than we’ve got the NightCloak. We can’t possibly force open the Temple.’

  ‘We could try,’ said Calatin hopefully.

  ‘No, no, it’s impossible. We’d be shrivelled in an instant — well, we’d very likely be shrivelled anyway, even if we had the Key, which we haven’t.’

  ‘The Key was stolen by the Dark Lords,’ said Herself of Mugain, in a surprised, doesn’t-everybody-know-that voice. ‘During Grainne’s rule, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I heard it was Erin’s.’

  ‘No, that isn’t right, it was much earlier, because —’

  Cerball cleared his throat again and they all looked up. Cerball said, ‘The Key isn’t lost.’ And, as they turned to stare at him, ‘We’ve got it,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It’s here with us. In the west wing.’

  *

  It had been one of the secrets that Nechtan had preserved jealously and had only disclosed to Cerball on his deathbed.

  ‘And I’m only telling you now because there ought to be two of you knowing about it,’ he had said, glaring at Cerball from under his bushy brows.

  ‘Two of us?’

  ‘That minx Rumour coaxed the story out of me,’ Nechtan had said irritably.

  ‘Yes, she’d coax anything out of anybody,’ Cerball had said, half to himself, and Nechtan had at once reared up and said that Rumour was worth a dozen of any of them.

  ‘She’ll surprise all of you one day,’ Nechtan had added, and Cerball forbore to tell Nechtan that Rumour had surprised them already; she had surprised them all very much. The thought that Rumour might have gone into the Dark Ireland as much for Nechtan’s sake as for Theodora’s crossed his mind.

  But now, seated at the long dusty oak table in the deserted west wing, Cerball looked round at the assembled Amaranths and thought: well, we have lost nearly everything that matters. Nechtan is dead, and Laigne. Echbel and Theodora are somewhere inside the Dark Realm. And, so far as we can know, the young monk and Rumour are in there with them. I wonder if Rumour did do it for Nechtan, he thought again.

  But there was no time to spare for speculation; if the Fer Caille and his people took the Palace, the Amaranths would be truly exiled. We shall have lost everything, thought Cerball. I’m not the selected head — I don’t want to be. But somebody’s got to make these decisions and, since it has to be me, I’ll probably be the one to get blamed if the Black HeartStealers take the Palace. I’ll go down in history as the Amaranth sorcerer who lost his people everything, thought Cerball glumly. Well there’s nothing else for it; it’ll have to be the Key. Oh dear. We’ll have to try to open the Dagda’s Temple. He found himself remembering all of the things ever told or written about the great Father-god who was believed to be the Lord of life and death. Fearsome and all-powerful. Able to deal out death with one end of his staff and restore life with the other. Oh dear, thought Cerball, again.

  Nechtan had been dying when he had passed on the secret to Cerball, but he had not been incoherent or astray in his wits.

  ‘I schemed and plotted for many years to regain the Key for the Wolfkings,’ he had said to Cerball in the flickering candlelight of the deathchamber. ‘And when I finally got it out of the Dark Realm, I hid it away.’ He had glared at Cerball. ‘And now I’ll have to pass the secret on to you for safe-keeping,’ he had said, rather grudgingly.

  ‘I schemed and plotted,’ Nechtan had said again, and a dry, papery chuckle had broken from him. Cerball had thought: yes, and enjoyed doing it! and Nechtan had at once said, ‘Of course I enjoyed it. Meat and drink and the breath of life, dear boy, and don’t be forgetting it!’

  Cerball had known vaguely the history of the legendary Key to the Dagda’s Temple, of course. It was one of the most strongly magical possessions in Ireland, ranking alongside the NightCloak itself.

  The legend told how the Keys had been given by the sorcerers to the first High Queen of all, in the days when Tara, the Bright Palace, the Shining Citadel of Ireland’s Royal House, had been raised from the rock.

  ‘Our ancestors,’ said Nechtan, grinning unexpectedly. ‘The first Royal sorcerers. They presented the Key of the Dagda’s Temple to the Royal House. There was a very famous set of injunctions given with it, although of course the exact words have long since been lost.’

  Cerball said, ‘Something about building the House of Ireland on a rock, was it?’

  Nechtan shot him a piercing look from beneath his bushy brows. ‘So you did pay attention to some things, after all, did you? Yes. The High Queen was commanded to build Tara as the seat of Ireland’s rulers, and to preserve it as the rock for the True Ireland, so that the Gates of the Dark Realm should never prevail against it.

  ‘But of course,’ continued Nechtan, ‘the Wolfkings lost Key. Well, they’re good rulers on the who
le, the Wolfkings, but now and then you get a rogue, a strug. I mention no names,’ said Nechtan so virtuously that Cerball thought you might easily be pardoned for forgetting that the rascally old sinner had been responsible for spreading some of the juiciest scandals about the Wolfkings for nearly an entire century.

  ‘I mention no names, but the High King Erin had a cousin,’ said Nechtan darkly.

  ‘What did —’

  ‘Never mind the details,’ said Nechtan, so hurriedly that Cerball suspected him of having forgotten most of them. ‘We’ll just say the Key was lost,’ he said. ‘It got into the hands of the necromancers and the Dark Lords — well, it would, of course. Aren’t they for ever on the prowl for the best and the strongest of our treasures? Shocking state of affairs.’ He coughed and turned a bit white, and Cerball remembered that, rascally old sinner though Nechtan might be, he was on his deathbed; so he poured a chaliceful of wine, which Nechtan supped gratefully.

  ‘I got the Key back,’ said Nechtan, grinning reminiscently. ‘I got it back, but I —’ He shot a suspicious look at Cerball, as if wondering how far to trust him. ‘I kept it,’ he finished baldly.

  ‘You kept it?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘The most ancient heirloom of Tara? You didn’t return it to the High King?’

  ‘I don’t know why I have to be interrogated as if I was no more than a pup apprentice sorcerer,’ said Nechtan, crossly. ‘Nobody ever knew I got it back — it was a commission from the High King Erin. He called me to Tara, and asked me to regain it, and so I did. Eventually.’ He chuckled the dry chuckle again. ‘My word, it took some scheming and some intrigue, and a great many years of spell-spinning. And by the time I finally got it out of the Dark Realm, Erin had long since gone to the Place Beneath the Ocean Roof. So I thought: why hand it back? Nobody at Tara knew I had been working to regain it. And by that time there were sons and grandsons of that cousin skulking around the High Throne,’ said Nechtan virtuously. ‘People you wouldn’t trust from here to that window. And I didn’t want the Key getting back into the hands of the necromancers.’ He eyed Cerball beadily. ‘I knew if it was kept here, in the Porphyry Palace, it’d be safe. On hand if it were ever wanted …’