Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘I have no idea.’ Maelduin was already moving across the floor to the archways that led to the rest of the Castle. ‘But the sooner we cast it into the dungeons, the better.’

  ‘Through here?’ said Quintus, following him.

  ‘It is somewhere to start.’

  The shadows seemed to reach out as they moved warily out of the moon-washed hall with its strange echoes and its drifting memories. Maelduin trod slowly, waiting for the faint luminosity that still glimmered softly from his skin to show them their way. As he did so, he felt memory slip, and he was again in the Silver Cavern of Tiarna, enduring the fearsome, bone-wrenching agonies that had been a part of the Ritual of the Humanish. He had glanced down at his slender limbs, and seen the faint phosphorescence and had grinned: so there is something that even the Ritual cannot quench …

  Now, standing with the Monk in the dark vastness of the ancient, deserted Castle, there was no luminosity, no faint glimmer of phosphorescence. No light at all. There was no light …

  Then I am closer to the line dividing Humanish from sidh than is safe. Panic brushed him with icy fingers. I am so close to the line that I no longer have the light! And then: perhaps the line has already been crossed …

  He thrust the thought from him, and began to move purposefully along the dark passage, Quintus at his side. They had reached some kind of intersection — Maelduin thought they might be nearing the sculleries which would be lower than the hall for coolness — when a movement from the hall stopped them. Maelduin felt ice form at the pit of his stomach, and there was a moment when he wanted to run away. I could be out of here, I could be astride the horse, and out into the night! I could be inside Tiarna and trying to shed the Humanish cloak, the ivory bones …

  And then he remembered that Tiarna was dying, that it might already be dead, and that he was bound to the world of the

  Humanish for as long as it took to regain the sidh’s ancient music. He struggled for mastery, but within the space of time it had taken the thoughts to tumble through his mind, Quintus had turned and was already running back to the stone hall, towards the source of the sound. Maelduin thought: for all his sinister history, he does not lack courage. He followed the Monk quickly, trying not to notice the dense blackness of the shadows, trying not to remember that once he could have lifted a hand and seen the faint shimmer of elvish light.

  At the centre of the hall, the cloth that Maelduin had used to cover the cage had been thrown back, and the cage itself lay in sticks of gleaming light across the floor. Broken. Discarded.

  ‘Then the creature has escaped,’ said Maelduin very softly, and turned to rake the shadows.

  ‘I am here, sidh Prince …’

  Maelduin stood very still, and felt the cold horror trickling down his spine again, for although the Prince was speaking aloud, and although the speech was comprehensible, although it was ordinary Humanish speech, the words were clumsy and pronounced in a brutal, ugly manner.

  Maelduin saw again the birth-chamber at the Porphyry Palace; the monster-Prince’s flat lips, the gills in its neck, the jaw that was neither quite Humanish nor piscine.

  It was not shaped for Humanish speech …

  He remembered how one of the terrible legends surrounding Coelacanth told how he had had to learn Humanish speech from the necromancers before he could enter the Humanish world.

  And this is Coelacanth’s son …

  ‘You thought to imprison me, Maelduin,’ said the voice, and Maelduin heard more clearly this time how it was struggling to form the words and the syllables; how it was using a method of communication that was unnatural to it. He found himself thinking of Humanish deformities: of cleft palates and roofless mouths and of empty, gaping gullets that could not close properly on the clumsy homespun mechanics of Humanish speech.

  He stayed where he was, Quintus at his side, both of them trying to penetrate the shadows. Maelduin caught a slithering movement near to the stair. Over there? Yes!

  ‘Do not try to touch me,’ said the Prince, and now the slurring had faded a little. It is already learning how to make itself understood, thought Maelduin, and remembered, with horror, that Coelacanth had spent months — perhaps years — in studying Humanish speech. Coelacanth’s spawn was learning it in minutes.

  ‘Do not try to injure me,’ said the Prince again, and as they stood, motionless, it moved from the shadows, and stood in the shifting, thin moonlight, its evil eyes malevolent. Maelduin saw that the membranous fin was spread out behind it, erect; grotesque in one so young.

  ‘Young only in Humanish time,’ said the Prince, and Maelduin heard with a shudder how it could not quite manage the y of young, how its flat mouth and jawless face did not close properly over the m in time.

  The creature moved forward across the stone floor with its slithering gait, and as Quintus stepped towards it, it rounded on him, the gills in its neck opening and closing.

  ‘Do not approach me, Monk,’ it said, hissing faintly. ‘Do not approach me, or I shall call down the chains that bound you to the Dark Lords.’ It studied Quintus, and the evil amusement bubbled from its tone. ‘Shall I call them down, Monk?’ it said. ‘It would amuse me to do so, I think.’

  Maelduin thought: it has still not quite mastered it. It still cannot quite reproduce Humanish speech.

  ‘But I am learning, sidh, I am learning,’ said the slurred deformed voice. ‘I shall learn a little each day. I shall learn as my father did, until I can walk unchallenged amongst the Humanish.’ Its eyes slewed back to Quintus. ‘But while I am learning,’ said the Fisher Prince, ‘I must be served.’ It fixed Quintus with its baleful glare.

  Quintus backed away, and Maelduin caught the swift movement as the monk threw up a hand to deflect the creature’s icy malevolence.

  ‘You are accustomed to serving,’ said the Prince, and now its voice dripped with a horrid, phlegmy note. Maelduin, sickened, thought: it is striving for the pitch of Humanish.

  ‘You are accustomed to serving,’ said the Prince again. ‘That will suit me very well.’ It moved again, and Maelduin saw it lift its webbed hands upwards. Almost before it had completed the gesture, great heavy black chains, immense manacles and gyves, had formed from the clustering shadows and slithered across the floor to Quintus.

  The Monk fell back, his face distorted, but the chains coiled about his ankles, and so heavy and so cruelly thick were they that he sank to his knees, unable to stand for the dragging weight. There was the hiss of metal, and tiny spirals of smoke rose from the iron where the chains had fused.

  ‘Chained,’ said the Prince, its thick, slurry voice licking the word with pleasure. ‘Chained by the ancient forgings of the nimfeach to do my pleasure. A good spell.’ It pointed to the doors through which they had entered, its webbed hands making a flapping sound. ‘Out to the stables, Monk, and make ready the trappings of your servitude.’

  ‘My servitude …’ Quintus’s face was drained of every vestige of colour and his eyes were deep black pits.

  The Fisher Prince said, ‘I shall need victims to feed on. Prey. Humanish prey. Warm fresh blood and tender young flesh to devour. Whole, unspoiled bodies.’ Its monstrous, lipless fishmouth stretched open, and the flat eyes gleamed. ‘You will become adept again,’ said the Prince. ‘You served the Lord of Chaos and the Lady of Almhuin, and now you will serve me.’ It moved closer to Quintus. ‘And my appetites are large, Monk,’ it said in a slimy, insinuating whisper, the sibilants hissing again.

  Quintus said in a low voice, ‘I will never serve you, filth.’

  The Prince did not move, but the repulsive mouth opened again in a gulping, swallowing motion. The gills in its neck gaped, revealing slimy white under-flesh.

  ‘Your Teacher,’ hissed the Prince, ‘the upstart Nazarene, whom you revere so highly, knew of many lessons and many punishments. And amongst the meaningless writings of his people, is recorded a punishment used many times by the old gods.’ The creature paused and Maelduin heard how it was curling its
loathsome tongue more agilely about the unfamiliar cadences of speech now.

  With the thought, the knowledge of the real Cadence slipped into his mind, and he sought for the gentle silver radiance. But even as he did so, the remembrance of how his own inner radiance had dimmed in the dark passages flooded his mind, and he thought: I cannot! The light has dimmed!

  The Prince was still studying Quintus. ‘You know the pronouncement, perhaps?’ it said. ‘It is one that my father used against those whom he wished to snare into serving him. It bound even the nimfeach themselves at one time.’ And then, as Quintus stared unflinchingly back, the creature whispered in its clotted voice, the words of the old and terrible malediction.

  ‘“They shall be accursed, and they shall be afflicted with a terrible burning in their privily parts, so that they shall be forced to douse them in the cooling bodies of women … but there will be no relief for them … And sores and buboes shall fester them so that all shall shrink from them … Cancers and blisters shall festoon their bodies … And they shall crawl the earth like the lowest, laidliest worms …’

  Before the Prince had finished speaking, the black chains coiled like thick black snakes, dragging Quintus down to the cold stone of the floor, so that he was lying on his front. Maelduin, horrified, saw sudden pain twist his face, and something very like despair flood his dark eyes.

  ‘A burning, Monk,’ said the Prince, its face distorted with evil glee. ‘Does it hurt? Does it burn and itch? Do you ache for the embrace of women? But what of the rest of the curse? What of the final, subtle, exquisite agony?’

  In the thin light that still silvered the floor, Quintus’s pale skin began to bubble and split as if a great heat was bursting it open. Thick fluid oozed out, and then ceased, and instantly the split skin began to dry and to crust over with ugly scabs, leprous and so utterly repulsive that Maelduin, who had thought himself armoured against most things, felt his stomach churn with nausea He watched, helplessly, as Quintus tried to stand.

  They shall crawl the earth like laidly worms …

  Laidly worms, thought Maelduin, staring at the squirming, struggling thing that was Quintus. The Prince has made of him a repulsive worm, and he will be forced to crawl like this, he will be forced to endure those evil, suppurating sores, and the terrible burning desires until the creature chooses to release him.

  ‘That is to ensure you do not cheat me,’ hissed the Prince. ‘To ensure that, even if you try to despoil the creatures you snare for me, they will recoil from you. And now go out and find the trappings of your servitude, Monk. Go out and make your bed where you may, and find, if you will, creatures who will not shudder from you, even in the darkest night. Satiate your hungers where you can.’ The short squat figure seemed to tower above them suddenly. ‘But bring me Humanish victims!’ screeched the Prince, its slurry voice out of control now, spittle flying from the flat, piscine jaw. ‘Bring me the beasts of the ocean so that I may satiate my lusts! Bring me creatures that I may devour slowly. Creatures whose juices I can suck and in whose blood I can wallow.’ The gulping mouth opened and closed again, but the webbed hand moved impatiently, indicating the oaken doors. ‘Begone from my sight, foul thing, and be about my work!’ it cried and, as it did so, Quintus gathered the great black chains up, and half crawled, half scuttled across the moon-washed stone flags, and into the dark night outside.

  *

  There was a long silence. Maelduin’s eyes were fixed on the Prince and his mind was churning.

  The Prince was grinning, the fish-eyes resting on Maelduin with piercing malignancy. Maelduin knew at once that it possessed the Stroicim Inchinn, the forbidden dark underside of the Samhailt, which enabled the possessor to claw into the mind of an enemy, to tear out deeply buried thoughts and emotions, and to plant alien thoughts and emotions in their stead. The Prince had not needed to acquire it slowly and painfully as most of the Dark Lords did; he had been born knowing it, he would have inherited the knowledge from his terrible sire.

  He lowered his eyes at once, but it was too late; he could already feel the cold pincers of the Stroicim Inchinn probing deep into his mind, searching out his weaknesses …

  Your will is mine, sidh Prince … Your will must bend to mine, son of the Elven King …

  Maelduin struggled against the dark, overwhelming tide of the creature’s mind. It was like plunging breast-deep into an icy cold river, it was like falling fathoms down into a dark, bottomless well, it was every dark, desolate thing ever felt or sensed or feared …

  Old, evil darkness, creeping from its hole …

  I am drowning in the creature’s darkness, thought Maelduin, fighting desperately, clawing upwards for a shred of light, a sliver of moonglow, a thin, tenuous thread of the Cadence.

  … ancient, terrible blackness stealing over its prey …

  Through the dark mist that was obscuring his vision, Maelduin was aware that the great fish maw was gaping again, stretching impossibly wide, gusting the sickening stench of rotting fish and decaying flesh into his nostrils. It loomed nearer and nearer, and he thought: he is eating my mind! He is leaving my body, but he is eating my mind …

  He was aware of his mind, his being, the tiny core that was ineluctably himself, being drawn nearer and nearer into that thick, lipless mouth, and he clutched desperately at the Cadence.

  I am the Crown Prince … You will never send me into the darkness …

  But the light was far from him now; it was beyond his reach, behind the spiked darkness of the Fisher Prince’s evil powers.

  There was a final wrenching, a moment of such complete agony at the core of his being, that he heard himself cry out.

  The darkness closed about him and awareness drained away.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The Amaranths thought it was just as well that they had found wine and provisions in the west wing, because their sojourn there was beginning to seem as if it might be much longer than any of them had anticipated.

  They had marshalled their forces in readiness for the attack by the Fer Caille and the Black HeartStealers seriously and efficiently. They had held a hasty discussion, with everyone seated round the long table in the west wing, because it was as well to be prepared for every eventuality, and it was as well to have some kind of battle plan. They had all looked expectantly at Neit and Manannan mac Lir, because wasn’t this the whole point of having them there. As Cerball said, they could probably have worked out a plan on their own account, but they did not want to be impolite to their important guests.

  Herself of Mugain said that, if their important guests could find a way to defeat the NightCloak, it would be the first time in Ireland’s history, and they were all wasting their time, but nobody paid this much attention. As Great-aunt Fuamnach pointed out, they could not just sit up here in the west wing — nasty dusty place — with their hands folded, with black evil rampaging about below. She glared at Herself as she said this, and demanded of Cerball what was to be done. Cerball, who was beginning to feel beleaguered on all sides, said it behoved them all to put up a show of bravery, and the Mugain tucked in his chins and looked wise and said to his way of thinking, they’d be needing to put up a bit of a fight for themselves, what did Bodb Decht and Cerball think?

  ‘Well, our two guests do not appear to be contributing a very great deal,’ said Bodb Decht cautiously.

  ‘They aren’t contributing at all,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach.

  ‘It’s a difficult situation,’ put in Cerball.

  ‘Very.’

  None of them quite liked to say that the two gods were being of no help at all, and that the invoking of the ancient and precious Ritual of the Key had been pretty much of a useless exercise.

  The Mugain had remembered a spell to call up the Four Winds. ‘See now, couldn’t we try that? That would cause some havoc.’

  ‘If only we had the Cadence,’ groaned Cerball.

  ‘Well, we haven’t. We’ll make do with our own knowledge. Let’s think now, do we
need the Incantation of the Storm, or is it the Tempest Runes?’

  Calatin and the younger cousins were planning on a concerted rush! ‘Off down the stairs and lay about them with our swords,’ said Calatin, brandishing his own sword by way of illustration, but doing it a bit awkwardly because of his injured arm.

  ‘There will be time for that when we have turned back the NightMares,’ said Neit, smiling at Calatin rather indulgently. ‘When you are a little better versed in these things, you will understand about wars. First things first, young sir,’ he added, and Calatin, who had been all ready to accord Neit a wholly uncritical admiration, turned bright red and stared at the floor.

  And then Cecht, who had been standing near to the door, held up a hand and said, ‘Listen.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I can’t hear anything. What’s going on …’

  ‘Oh do hush, Cecht thinks something’s starting to happen.’

  ‘Well, tell those noisy cousins of Calatin to stop chanting battle cries.’

  Great-aunt Fuamnach thumped the floor with her stick to stop the younger cousins from chanting things like, ‘Death to the invaders’ and ‘Drown them in boiling oil’ and ‘Ireland for the Amaranths’. Calatin had even remembered an old battle song of some long-ago warrior called CuChulainn, and was rehearsing it with the twins. You could go very valiantly into a battle with a good rousing war song.

  But they all fell silent, and Bodb Decht, going quickly to where Cecht stood still listening intently, said, in a low voice, ‘There’s something creeping up the stairs.’

  *

  Something creeping up the stairs. Something slithery and slimy, and something that flopped wetly and squirmed and then sniffed at the door into the gallery. But something that had rattling claws as well, and was scratching at the closed and Sealed door leading into the gallery. The Amaranths held their breath, and waited.

  Calatin said, very softly, ‘If it’s an ordinary mortal force we can kill it,’ and at his side, the Mugain said, ‘And if it’s a nasty spell of some kind, we can blast it with lightning bolts.’