Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  Manannan mac Lir had followed his brother, but he seemed to be more interested in studying the female Amaranths rather than thinking about reassuring anybody about anything. In fact, so far from making them all feel safer, there was a glint in Manannan mac Lir’s cool, clear eyes that made Cerball a bit uneasy. He remembered that the younger gods had sometimes rather carnal appetites, and hoped there was not going to be one of those awkward situations where their guests invoked some kind of godlike privilege which might place everybody in an embarrassing situation.

  Great-aunt Fuamnach said in a loud whisper, ‘Cerball — the Welcoming Speech of Erin,’ and Cerball, who had by this time realised that the Welcoming Speech of Erin was the correct protocol, but who could not remember how it started, turned round to glare.

  Neit appeared not to notice any of this. He was looking down at him — Cerball thought he must be quite seven feet tall, although he was not in the least bit Giantish — and smiling. It was probably coincidence that he had positioned himself directly under the central torchlights, so that the glow fell across his sculpted hair and made it shine like newly minted coins.

  Manannan mac Lir had moved to where Cecht and the twins were watching, huge-eyed, and was inspecting them with deep interest.

  Neit said in a rich, strong voice, ‘Well, Amaranths? You called to us to rout the Dark Armies. And we have come in answer to your call. We are here.’

  ‘And Neit’s presence makes everything all right,’ said Manannan mac Lir, and his voice was low and faintly mocking. He sounded as if he might be rather enjoying himself. He sounded, in fact, as if he enjoyed most things. He said, ‘Neit has only to arrive, and all will be put right. He will tell you so himself, I daresay.’

  ‘We — welcome you both,’ said Cerball at length, having abandoned any attempt to remember the Welcoming Speech of Erin. The Mugain, standing next to him, said, ‘Indeed we do, and are grateful to you for answering our call,’ because Cerball was not going to have all the glory when it came to welcoming a pair of gods. If the Mugain had been able to recall the Welcoming Speech he would certainly have delivered it, and in proper oratorial style, too! As it was, he added his welcome to Cerball’s, and sent a covert glance to Manannan mac Lir. They might have to have a word with Cecht, who was blushing and lowering her eyes. And those twins — saucy baggages! — were giggling in a way which suggested they had more in common with their Aunt Rumour than had been hitherto suspected. The Mugain remembered that that branch of the family had never been noted for its high moral tone.

  Neit said, ‘May we be seated?’ and without waiting for an answer, strode to the long oak table, his head flung back as if he were breasting a great ocean. Manannan mac Lir followed, looking amused. They sat down, Neit using smooth, fluid movements, and arranging his bronzed limbs gracefully, Manannan mac Lir simply curling carelessly into the nearest chair.

  Neit said, ‘This is perhaps a little overbearing of us, to sit before we are invited, but —’

  ‘But gods have no manners,’ said Manannan mac Lir.

  ‘We have simply walked into your Palace — although not uninvited, of course — and taken over,’ said Neit. ‘Ah, we know better than to do that, I should hope.’

  ‘Even though we have been quite appallingly brought up, we have a modicum of good manners,’ said Manannan mac Lir.

  ‘Manannan was appallingly brought up because he was the youngest of us all, and the youngest of any family is always spoiled,’ said Neit in an indulgent voice. ‘Do not concern yourselves; I shall not allow him to offend you.’

  ‘I’m not spoiled,’ said Manannan at once.

  ‘Nonsense, Dian Cecht spoiled you from the time you entered the world. Not that it mattered to me,’ said Neit, laughing slightly as if such an idea was absurd.

  ‘Dian Cecht might have spoiled me just the smallest bit, but Brigit certainly spoiled you,’ said Manannan at once.

  ‘Can I help it if I am the sort of god that people like to write poetry to? My sister Brigit is the Goddess of Poetry,’ he added in an aside to Cerball, who said, ‘Um, so I understand.’

  Neit repositioned himself, and it suddenly struck Cerball that he was in fact arranging his pose so that they should be presented with his profile. He glanced at the young man and thought: well, I daresay he is alarmingly handsome.

  ‘I am the beauty of the gods,’ said Neit, at once very grave. ‘It is a great responsibility. I take it very seriously.’

  ‘He does not like to offend his thousands of worshippers,’ said Manannan, in a voice so devoid of expression that every person present knew that Manannan was baiting his brother. ‘It would never do for them to hear that he had been splashed by the mud of a carriage for instance. Or become bedraggled by rain …’

  ‘There is not a soul who has ever seen me mud-splashed or bedraggled,’ said Neit, smiling in a rather superior fashion. ‘I cannot bear dirt in any form.’

  ‘Even when we ducked you in the fishpond? I remember —’

  ‘Manannan will have his little joke,’ said Neit very crossly indeed. ‘And we waste time.’ He turned back to the Amaranths, who were listening round-eyed to this interchange, and he smiled so dazzlingly that even Great-aunt Fuamnach, who liked to tell people that she had never been one to be misled by a fair face and well-formed body, blinked.

  Cerball, who felt that the situation was slipping out of his control, asked if they might discuss the matter of their attackers.

  ‘Ah!’ said Neit, richly, sitting up and eyeing them all with a flashing look, ‘A war council, is it? I was about to suggest such a thing myself.’

  ‘My brother is very good at war councils,’ murmured Manannan.

  ‘I am even better at fighting wars,’ said Neit instantly. ‘Now, what is your battle?’ he said in a businesslike voice, and the Amaranths had the impression that he might be shuffling papers together and thumbing through a sheaf of possible strategies.

  Manannan said, ‘Oh really, Neit, anyone with half an eye can see that there are traitors in this rather fetching Palace.’ He leaned back in his chair and looked round him with approval. ‘Very nice,’ he said, and then, to the twins, ‘I expect you’ll show me over the rest of it, will you? I like Palaces.’

  The Mugain, who felt that some kind of explanation was called for, said that they were in fact fighting their own kith and kin, and it was to the shame and the disgrace of them all.

  ‘Oh, every family has the odd rogue gene,’ said Manannan mac Lir, and grinned mischievously round the table. ‘I could tell you —’

  The Mugain felt it was time to intervene. He did not altogether trust Manannan mac Lir (in fact now that he came to think about it, he recalled hearing a few rather colourful stories about him) and so he said firmly that oughtn’t they all to be concentrating on the situation. ‘Aren’t those black-hearted traitors away downstairs plotting up fresh evil?’ he demanded.

  ‘Are they?’ said Manannan. ‘Dear me, I suppose they are. Shall I find out what they have in mind for you?’

  ‘I don’t think it … How?’ demanded Cerball.

  ‘Easy,’ said Manannan, standing up and grinning. There was a brief spurt of light, and the impression of a great swirling wave of grey-green ocean and Manannan vanished.

  Neit said, pettishly, ‘He only does that for effect.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Our father used to punish him when he was small to try to stop him from showing off all the time.’

  ‘Yes?’ Nobody dared to ask what form the Dagda’s punishment might have taken, although everybody would have liked to know.

  ‘It did absolutely no good at all,’ said Neit. ‘And of course my sisters thoroughly spoiled him.’ He glanced towards the door, and said, ‘And d’you see he’s back with us already,’ and as the words were said, Manannan mac Lir reappeared inside the door and walked thoughtfully back to his seat at the table.

  ‘Well?’ said Cerball, leaning forward anxiously.

  ‘Well,’ said Manannan m
ac Lir, ‘your adversaries are below.’

  ‘Dear me, anyone could have told that!’ said Neit scornfully.

  ‘Anyone with any sense would not be sitting up here studying maps and drawing up strategies,’ retorted Manannan. ‘It’ll be the Battle against the King of the Marshes again if you aren’t careful.’

  There was a rather nasty silence. Then Neit said, very haughtily indeed, ‘I suppose I may be allowed one single small failure in a lifetime.’ And then, to the Amaranths, ‘I was betrayed by a lady,’ he said. ‘It is something that can happen to anyone, and I assure you that it is the only time I have ever —’

  The Mugain and Great-aunt Fuamnach both said in a single voice, ‘What is happening below?’ and Manannan eyed them both thoughtfully.

  ‘I am afraid they are invoking a very great force to send against us.’

  The Amaranths looked at him and waited.

  Neit tossed his head back and said, ‘Oh, we can deal with very great forces, you know. I shall fling them to the jackals.’

  Manannan said in an expressionless voice, ‘The Fer Caille has in his possession one of the most fearsome weapons ever to come into Ireland. And I am afraid he plans to use it against you.’

  Cerball started to say, ‘What is it?’ but knew, in the same moment, what Manannan mac Lir was about to say.

  Manannan said, ‘They have the NightCloak of the first High Queen of Ireland. And they are going to summon the NightMares and the WarMongers.’

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Maelduin lay at the bottom of the Tanning Pit of the necromancers, the grisly light from the Human torches above casting its eerie red glow, his senses blurred and his mind tumbling.

  His perceptions were still hazy, but his mind was clearing. He lay where he had fallen, every bone bruised, every muscle wracked, stinging with the pain of a dozen lacerations. He thought he might be bleeding, but he was not sure, and then he remembered that in any case he did not know what it felt like to bleed.

  I escaped the Trolls, he thought. I outwitted them and they are dead.

  But I am on the floor of the gaping abyss, the terrible Pit of the necromancers. And in every tale ever told, in every legend ever recounted, no creature has ever escaped from the Pit.

  He felt black despair threaten, and then a tiny, silvery voice deep within him said: the Gristlen escaped.

  A small shoot of hope unfolded, and he thought: yes, of course. The Fisher King was here, Coelacanth was cast into the Pit by the Dark Lords, and he escaped; he dragged his foul body down to Tiarna and stole the music of the sidh.

  If Coelacanth could escape, so can I.

  He sat up cautiously, looking about him, seeing that he had fallen on the edges of the Pit’s floor, half against one of the steep, baked-rock walls. He could feel the heat, dreadful dry waves of it glowing somewhere beneath him, so that when he stood up, a bit shakily, finding it necessary to put out a hand to the rock wall for support, he felt the burning heat penetrating the soles of his boots. The cold silvery sidh-blood that still ran deep in his veins flinched in pain, and Maelduin thought: I don’t think I can bear this. And remembered that it had to be borne.

  The grisly torches, thrust into the ground above him, burned strongly, lighting the Pit to vivid, terrible life. Maelduin stayed where he was, his senses clearing, aware that he was not badly hurt, simply bruised and jolted and scraped.

  The Pit was larger than he had expected. He had no knowledge of the Humanish’s methods of judging size or distance or a room’s dimensions, but he thought that the Pit was much larger than the great banqueting hall in the Porphyry Palace, and it was certainly larger even than Tiarna’s massive Silver Cavern.

  At the far side, almost directly opposite him, was an expanse of boiling heat, a bubbling, oily, crimson-streaked lake that surged and eddied angrily. Its shores were crusted with black embers, glowing coals vomited by the molten fires.

  Maelduin stared at it, and into his mind slid the ancient sidh Chaunt.

  The vast unbottom’d pit

  The flaming furnace and the parched pavements;

  The beds of fire and the flames of revenge.

  The brimstone sea of boiling fire where blows the dragons’ breath and the ogres’ delight;

  Where the Dark Lords’ wrath burns for ever.

  Where the Gristlens have their nest

  And spawn their kind.

  The sidh had sung the Chaunt mischievously to the Humanish they had hunted, for although it was not one of their Hunting Songs, they had sometimes used it to taunt the fleeing Humanish victims. And now I am in the unbottom’d Pit itself, though Maelduin. Now I am in the Gristlens’ nest, and I can see no way of escaping.

  The Gristlens’ nest … The dark and foul abyss where all must eventually acquire the repulsive hides and the warped features and the deformed, fibrous muscles …

  Maelduin looked down at the slender limbs and the ivory-pale skin with the faint sheen to it. Humanish cloak …

  Fleeces of fur and silken skin Ivory bones for living in …

  I fought against it, he thought; I fought against it but in the end I endured it. Now I think I do not want to be shrivelled and darkened by the Pit’s fearsome heat, and I do not want to be warped and deformed.

  There was an acrid stench of old evil and ancient, heavy sorcery, and, overlaying it all, were the terrible, warm-meat scents of the burning gobbets of Humanish flesh at the Pit’s edges.

  The light from the torches burned strongly, the dull red glow sending leaping, prowling silhouettes across the baked rock-face, so that he could see everything plainly.

  Red-tinted waves formed on the lake’s surface, washing angrily against the ash-crusted shores, dashing their glinting moisture on to the blackened banks. Maelduin thought: so that is the brimstone sea, that is the boiling lake of legend, and here, all around me, are the parched pavements and the beds of fire …

  Blown on by dragon’s breath …

  The floor of the Pit was not entirely flat. It undulated and sloped sharply, and there were mounds and rocks and protruding crags. The grisly light cast weird shadows so that, for a moment, Maelduin saw not boulders and crags, but crouching beasts, the silent guards of the necromancers, glowing red eyes within the crags, lips parted in grinning greed …

  And then the light waned slightly, and after all they were only rocks, formations of the crags.

  At the foot of the crags were gashes in the floor, gaping chasms, as if someone had been digging down into the rock. Maelduin studied this, trying to understand their purpose.

  Someone had been digging … Why? Who?

  He could see the Pit’s occupants quite plainly now. In the flickering red light he could see them with cruel clarity: dreadful creatures; warped, distorted beings that toiled endlessly to and fro, their misshapen heads bowed in patient acceptance of their terrible existence, their great, unnaturally developed muscles lifting and carrying and hammering as they laboured ceaselessly at the tasks assigned to them by the Dark Lords they had offended.

  The damn’d ones who incurred the wrath of the necromancers …

  The Black Abyss, where accursed slaves drudge for infinity …

  The Dark Lords had dungeons deep within their evil fortresses; dank cells and underground stone chambers where they imprisoned their victims and satisfied their dark lusts.

  But the dungeons were for the Humanish. The Pit was for the creatures of the Dark Realm itself.

  Maelduin thought: and so I am here with the Black Domain’s traitors and with its outcasts. Murderers and child-eaters and creatures so foul that they have even been dishonoured by their own kind. And almost certainly some of them will have been necromancers who transgressed the laws of the Black Ireland.

  He could see that there were at least twenty of the creatures here with him. They were all in different stages of transformation, but they were all acquiring the unmistakable carapace of Gristlens. Their skins were becoming blackened and dried, leathery from the harsh, en
dless heat. Several of them still had ordinary, pale, Humanish flesh, but others were already completely covered by the dark fibrous skin that Maelduin remembered. It had crept over them, inch by dreadful inch, until it had covered them entirely. They were chained and manacled; they dragged their chains as they worked, huge, clanking iron and steel gyves protruding from cruel bracelets clamped about their feet and wrists. They could walk and they could wield the hammers and the axes and chisels, but they could take only short, shambling steps, and when they swung the great axes over their heads, the manacles about their wrists kept their hands closely and painfully together.

  Their faces had all acquired the repulsive ugliness of their kind. The skin had shrivelled and dried around their lips, contracting so that the lips were pulled back in a snarl, giving them long-toothed, sneering grins. Their eyes bulged and Maelduin thought: the heat is drawing their eyes from the sockets, and heating the jellylike mass until it is nearly boiling. Sick repulsion closed about him; his own eyes already felt sore and gritty from endless dry warmth. He blinked and felt for the second time Humanish tears, salty and stinging.

  Each one toiled at what Maelduin thought must be a set task; most of them wielded instruments which were unfamiliar to Maelduin, but which he recognised as being for Humanish quarrying and pit-labour. There were great heavy-headed, T-shaped weapons, which the prisoners swung above their heads, and then buried deep in the Pit’s floor, chipping away doggedly at the rock face.

  Several of the Gristlens wheeled tiny, box-shaped carts which ran on minuscule wheels, and which were piled with the rough, unhewn rocks. They trudged to and fro, tipping the boulders into careful piles at the other end of the Pit, returning to refill their carts. It seemed to Maelduin rather pointless; and then he realised with a sick pity that there was indeed no aim and no purpose in what they did: this was part of the Dark Lords’ fiendish plan, that the creatures should toil endlessly and meaninglessly.