Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  The creatures paid Maelduin no heed, and he thought that they would be accustomed to seeing new victims flung down here from time to time. Probably they would simply wait for him to find his place with them: presumably soon I shall be expected to toil and labour and drudge alongside them. This was a truly terrible thought, but alongside it ran a far worse one: before long, I may be grateful for the companionship even of these creatures, and I may be thankful to have a task to work at, no matter how pointless.

  He was forming in his mind words of greeting to them, knowing that he must make an approach, trying to decide the best way to do it, when a voice, quite close to him, said, ‘I would not bid you well come, sir, but I would acknowledge your presence here. You are come to a harsh and unforgiving world.’

  Maelduin turned sharply, and saw, seated on a rock near to him, a tall, thin Humanish, clad in a dark robe of some kind, with a hood which was pulled up, shadowing his face. Maelduin received the impression of thin, ravaged features and dark, ragged hair, and of eyes of a burning intensity. He tilted his head, trying to see more, listening for the essence of this unexpected being. He thought: he is certainly Humanish, but there is something clinging to him that is not in the least Humanish. Something that he was not born with, but that he has acquired and that he is trying to slough off; a skin not of scale, but of darkness, is it? He half closed his eyes, and felt, with those extra senses, the shell and the crust of evil which this unexpected figure wore. It is cracked in places, and in places he has managed to shed it, thought Maelduin. But it is still there. This is a strange one. This is something I have never before encountered.

  But he seated himself cross-legged on the ground and regarded the robed man with his brilliant turquoise eyes, and said, very courteously, ‘I am grateful for your words, sir.’ He studied the other covertly, seeing that there was little outward sign that the dry, acrid heat was affecting him so far, seeing that he had still the pale, soft, Humanish skin, and that the eyes had not yet been made bulbous, but were deeply set and intensely black. Then he has not been here for so very long, thought Maelduin.

  The robed figure seemed to sense Maelduin’s thoughts; he said, ‘You are right; I have been here for a short time as time is measured here. The heat has not yet begun its devilish work on me.’ He held out his hand, and Maelduin saw that, although it was dry-looking and slightly puckered with the heat, it had not taken on the hard, gristly fibrousness of the others.

  He said, ‘It is — generous of you to speak to me.’ And waited, his every sense stretched to learn as much as he could.

  The robed Humanish said, ‘I am glad to have a fellow being to speak with, for I have nothing to say to these other creatures, nor they to me.’ And then, as Maelduin made to speak, he said at once, ‘I see, of course, that you are not a Human, but I think you are close to being a Human. And I have been without Human companionship for a very long time.’

  ‘Yes?’ Maelduin’s interest was caught, but he was wary. He said, ‘These Gristlen-creatures are not Human at all, I think?’

  ‘Many of them are what are called mongrels; partly Human, but also partly necromancer or beast.’ The man’s eyes flickered over the Gristlens. ‘In the world I once lived in, it would be said that they have the worst of their mixed ancestry, and nothing of the best of it. I think that several possess Giantish blood or snake blood. It is possible, here and there, to tell the ancestry. You see that they are not completely alike.’ He pointed to one wrapped in a leaden cloak who had a brutish, snout-like face, the nubs of horns protruding from its skull and a dry membranous tail. That one I would guess to be a descendant of the Harpies,’ he said. ‘Perhaps an alliance between a Harpy and an Almhuinian Rodent-mutant.’ He indicated one of the hod-carriers. ‘And that one has the flat fish-eyes and the rudimentary gills of one of the nimfeach, although there is a trace of Humanish blood.’

  ‘The ancestry is clearer in some than in others,’ said Maelduin, as if there was nothing other than this on his mind.

  ‘The Pit eventually douses all individuality,’ said the man. ‘When the transformation is complete, it is difficult to tell one from another. Do you see there?’ Again he pointed, and Maelduin saw that, seated a little apart from the rest, were four or five creatures who were so devoid of Humanish or any other trait that it was impossible to tell what they might once have been. They were completely encased in the terrible scaly hides formed by the Pit’s constant heat. Only their eyes showed in their distorted, snout-like faces, pale and so bulbous that Maelduin saw that the eye-stalks behind had become visible. They had the huge-jointed knuckles and hulking shoulders he remembered, and they sat by themselves, their legs drawn up, the knees on a level with their shoulders. They had not the patient acceptance of the creatures who toiled at the meaningless quarrying work, but there was a sly furtiveness about them, as if they might be engaged in some mean intrigue. Maelduin felt a shudder of repulsion laced with apprehension at the sight of them.

  At his side, the robed man said softly, ‘You do right to feel fear, friend. They are the rulers down here.’ His eyes rested on them. ‘There is little order here,’ he said. ‘But what there is is ordered by those.’

  ‘Elders,’ said Maelduin, half to himself.

  ‘Yes.’ The man shot him an approving look. ‘In every community there will be those who serve and those who rule.’

  Maelduin said, ‘You are very knowledgeable about this place.’ He looked at the other one, and the man said, as if in response, ‘I am what you could call a pure Human. And there is little else to do here, unless I wish to carry the meaningless loads of rock or pointlessly quarry the endless stones. Or enter into the sly plots of those creatures who set themselves apart.’ He glanced at Maelduin, and Maelduin said, half to himself:

  ‘So it is a part of their punishment to have no proper work.’ The man studied Maelduin thoughtfully. ‘It is perceptive of you to have understood.’ He paused, and then said, ‘Have you also seen that some wear steel muzzles over the lower part of their faces? And that others must carry on their shoulders cloaks fashioned from iron sheets?’

  ‘I have seen it,’ said Maelduin. ‘The muzzles are to prevent speech, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, those are the ones who betrayed the Dark Lords by speech. The cloaks are for those who allowed Human prisoners to escape from the dungeons of the Black Citadels.’

  ‘To remind them of restriction,’ said Maelduin softly. ‘Yes, I see.’

  The man sent Maelduin another of his sidelong glances. ‘There are other impositions which are not instantly apparent,’ he said. ‘Some of them have had hands struck off or noses cut out. Several have been deprived of their sexual organs for daring to vent their lusts on Chaos’s harem women.’

  ‘Yes?’ Maelduin stayed where he was, sensing the man’s need to talk, but watching the slowly moving Gristlens, seeing more vividly than ever now the chains and leaden cloaks; seeing as well that several of them wore spiked iron helmets clamped about their heads, and that dark, old blood was caked about the rims.

  ‘Those are the most damned of all,’ said the other, following Maelduin’s line of vision. ‘For they are the ones who offended against the Dark Lords in thought.’

  ‘The Samhailt?’ said Maelduin, startled.

  ‘Its dark side. In the True Ireland it is known as the Stroicim Inchinn.’ He looked to Maelduin to make sure that Maelduin understood, and Maelduin said, softly, ‘Yes, I know of it.’

  ‘The Dark Lords ruled that their servants might not summon it, but many risked this Pit to do so. In the eyes of the necromancers, the acquiring of the Stroicim Inchinn by those unworthy of it — that is, unworthy in their eyes, you understand — is one of the gravest offences of them all. The prisoners are forced to wear the spiked helmets about their skulls so that their thinking shall be restricted.’ He fell silent, and Maelduin waited. Presently, the man said, ‘And now you are wondering about my own transgression.’

  ‘If you wish to talk about it, then I shou
ld listen; it is not a part of my beliefs that I should pry,’ said Maelduin, and the man smiled rather wryly.

  ‘A good creed,’ he said. And then, ‘Perhaps I can tell you.’ He frowned, and Maelduin did not move. Presently the man said, ‘I am here because I once served the Dark Lord of Chaos as a Guardian of one of the Gates between the Black Realm and the True Ireland.’ He paused, and Maelduin said, ‘You have dwelled in the True Ireland? The Ireland of Tara and of ordinary Men and Women?’ And waited, because no true servant of the Dark Lords would ever genuinely acknowledge the True Ireland.

  ‘I was once a part of it,’ said the man, and there was a deep, aching sadness in his voice. ‘I was part of the True Ireland, although I was never inside Tara, and I only once saw the High King.’ He stopped, and Maelduin relaxed very slightly, for he had heard the wistfulness in the man’s voice, and he knew that one who was still in thrall to the Dark Lords would not have spoken thus.

  ‘I lived there,’ said the man, ‘and I served a far better Lord there than any who ever ruled in the Black Domain.’ He lifted his head and the deep hood fell back a little. Maelduin saw his thin face was ravaged and marked with some inner suffering.

  He said, ‘Tell me how you are called. For if we are to be —’ he glanced about them — ‘if we are to be companions here, we should know one another’s names.’ This was something the Humanish did, this exchanging of names. It was one of their small rituals and important to them. And I do not know that I disagree with it, thought Maelduin. There is comfort, the sense of touching another’s mind, and of greeting in the giving and receiving of a name.

  The robed man said, ‘In the world I come from, and within the community where I lived, I was known as Brother Quintus.’

  ‘Yes?’

  The dark eyes looked at Maelduin, and something so pain-filled showed there that Maelduin felt a wrenching in his own vitals.

  ‘But inside the Dark Domain,’ said the man, ‘I was called the Black Monk of Torach.’

  *

  The Black Monk of Torach. The dark and menacing figure who had served the Lord of Chaos and the Crimson Lady of Almhuin. Who had prowled the hinterlands between the True Ireland and the Dark Realm, trawling for victims for the evil ones whom he served.

  Even in their underwater caves and in the secret heart of Tiarna, the sidh had heard of the Black Monk. It was told how, if you approached one of the Gateways — perhaps the magical hidden one in the heart of the Wolfwood, or the most ancient of them all deep within the Cruachan Caves — you would feel the dense black shadow of the hooded and cowled figure fall about you, and then, before you could slip through and find yourself in the Dark Realm, the thick blackness would fall about you, smothering you, choking you, so that you could feel the stifling evil driving the breath from your body. You would die before you could get through the Gateway and reach the necromancers’ lairs, and it would be a slow and painful death.

  Here is here with me, thought Maelduin, staring. This is the Black Monk himself. But why is he here? What has his offence been?

  Quintus seemed to hear this. He said, ‘I came to the Dark Realm because of lust and greed. It is as simple as that. I served evil masters and I performed many terrible tasks for them. All to satisfy my own needs.’ He studied Maelduin, his head on one side, and Maelduin said, carefully, ‘I think that lust and greed are not unusual traits.’

  ‘They were forbidden by my creed,’ said Quintus. ‘The One I served permitted neither lust nor greed.’

  ‘That is surely a harsh Master.’

  A light kindled in Quintus’s eyes. ‘It is a new creed,’ he said. ‘But it is the Truth which I, with my brethren, had sworn to bring from England so that all would see the Light.’

  He regarded Maelduin from out of his deeply set eyes, and Maelduin said, ‘Light and Truth are always good things to follow.’

  ‘Oh yes. And in the beginning — in the days when I first came to Ireland, it was the message I preached. Love and hope and redemption.’ The sunken eyes shone with unexpected ardency, and then Quintus’s eyes flickered to Maelduin, as if looking to see how this would be taken.

  Maelduin thought: he would have me believe he has repented of his sojourn in the Dark Realm, and returned to those beliefs. I think perhaps he may even have done so. But I am not entirely sure. And I certainly do not trust him. Aloud he said, ‘What happened?’

  Quintus said, ‘I preached fervently and determinedly in every town I came to, and in every settlement and every cluster of cottages I found. Perhaps I was a little too insistent, a little too forceful. Perhaps I was even arrogant. “This is what you must believe.” Yes, I said that to the wild, pagan Irish.’

  He glanced at Maelduin again, and Maelduin said, softly, ‘They will always listen to a good story, the Irish. They will always tell one, as well. But their beliefs are very deep-rooted. Your task would not have been an easy one.’

  ‘You are very courteous,’ said Quintus, eyeing Maelduin. ‘Perhaps it was a little like that.’ He paused. ‘At length my preaching came to the ears of the Dark Lords.’

  ‘And they sent out … something to stop you? Something to prevent you spreading the new religion? Yes, of course they would,’ said Maelduin, thoughtfully. ‘They would have been very quick to destroy anything that was tinged with light and hope.’ He looked at Quintus. ‘What did they do?’

  ‘They sent the highest of their dark evil Order,’ said Quintus, bitterly. ‘They sent the Lord of Chaos himself.’

  There was a brief silence. Then Maelduin said, ‘They must have accounted you a very serious threat. They must have been afraid that your beliefs would spread and take root. And so Chaos confronted you?’

  Quintus leaned back against the harsh rock face, his eyes suddenly distant. He said, ‘Yes. He brought me to the Moher Cliffs.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The wildest, most desolate place in all Ireland,’ said Quintus. ‘A wilderness, but a beautiful wilderness. Chaos faced me here. At first he tried to mock my faith, saying that if the One I worshipped was so strong, then I should cast myself from the cliffs and into the raging seas below and see if He would protect me.’ Again the pause. ‘When I declined to put my God to such a ridiculous test, Chaos changed his attack. He turned about, and stood with his back to the raging oceans and the sea-lashed cliffs. It was twilight,’ said Quintus, his eyes far away. The blue-tinted dusk was stealing over everything, but the sun had not quite set. It was a remarkable sight …

  ‘He indicated the land before us,’ said Quintus after a moment. ‘He gestured to the rolling fields and the mountains and the dark, misty forests. I remember how the blue and green twilight lay everywhere, so that it was as if all Ireland were at our feet, and it was as if all Ireland were shrouded in ancient magic and pagan myth. He said — and I believe I can repeat the words exactly — he said, “Look on the beauty of Ireland, Monk. Look on the power and the glory. All of that is yours if you will leave your God and swear your allegiance to me.’” Quintus stopped abruptly, and Maelduin had the feeling that the monk was not only repeating words said to him by Chaos, but words that had been said to someone else a very long time ago.

  But that time the offer was turned down …

  As if in response, Quintus said, ‘I had not the strength of mind to turn it down. So beautiful. All Ireland … I had lived in the austere, celibate world of an English monastery. You cannot know what it meant …’

  Maelduin said, ‘I understand a little. And so you fell under the thrall of the Lord of Chaos, as many others before you have done, and doubtless many after will do.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Quintus. ‘And he was so dark and yet so beautiful … Surely one of the most powerful necromancers ever known. Yes, I accepted. He appointed me as his Gatekeeper; he vouchsafed to me the Enchantment he had taken from the ancient Isle of Torach so that I could use it in his service. A dark, coiled thing it was. But so powerful. He taught me how to use it, and I used it cruelly. For many years I lived in great si
n.’

  ‘Yes?’ ‘Sin’ was not a very familiar word to Maelduin, but he understood Quintus’s meaning.

  ‘I served Chaos faithfully in the beginning,’ said Quintus, the burnt-out eyes staring straight ahead, so that despite the dry heat of the Pit, Maelduin shivered at the fierce pain in them. ‘I kept faith with him. Every Human creature who tried to penetrate the Dark Realm, I caught and offered up to him for his terrible work.’

  ‘Necromantic race-breeding,’ said Maelduin, half to himself, remembering the Trolls’ story.

  ‘Yes. Yes, that was his quest,’ said Quintus. ‘But there came a time when I turned my back on Chaos.’

  ‘The rewards he had promised you turned out to be empty?’

  ‘Yes. I cannot even plead that I sickened of what I did. Chaos had promised such gratification; every sense to be satisfied. I had practised the celibacy required by my Order for so long … But there was no satisfaction and no gratification,’ said Quintus. ‘The bodies of the women he flung to me gave me no pleasure. He had cheated me.’

  ‘It is the way of all necromancers,’ said Maelduin, softly.

  ‘I began to barter with the other necromancers,’ said Quintus. ‘If Chaos would not give me what he had promised, I vowed I would serve those who would. And because I had lived in the Dark Realm for many years by then, I was deemed a valuable servant. There was no dearth of necromancers prepared to take me into their dark citadels. But because I had lived alongside the blood-lusts of Chaos and his people, those blood-lusts were burning within me and I craved true gratification.’ He sent Maelduin another of his sideways looks. ‘The sweet, sensuous pleasures of warm, fresh blood,’ he said, very softly. ‘The taking of life, the feeling when the life-force gushes out … ‘

  He stopped, and Maelduin said, ‘And so you decided that, of them all, you would serve the BeastWoman of Almhuin.’

  ‘Yes.

  ‘The Enchantment found on the Isle of Torach was a subtle one,’ said Quintus. ‘It smothered and stifled, but it left the victim’s blood warm and pulsing,’ he said, and Maelduin heard the sudden lick of prurience in the Monk’s voice. Quintus said, ‘Warm and fresh. Living blood. And the Lady of Almhuin Castle was ever greedy for fresh, warm blood. And I was greedy for it, also. And so for a time, I served both Chaos and the Crimson Lady.’