Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  Andrew smiled, but said, very seriously, ‘Can we use our knowledge of the Fomoire to defeat them?’

  ‘Goblins were always believed to harbour a strong and bitter hatred for Humans,’ said Rumour, frowning. ‘No one ever knew why, for they possessed a dark, strong magic of their own, and they were many times victorious in battles with Humans.’

  ‘But the Cruithin drove them back.’

  ‘Yes, the Cruithin drove them back.’ Rumour frowned.

  ‘That must mean the Cruithin found something — a weakness —’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rumour. ‘But I cannot think what it would be.’ She frowned and began to say something, when Andrew turned sharply at a sound from the mouth of the cave.

  Footsteps, light and darting and leaping.

  The Fomoire were coming for them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Fomoire approached the cages with a sly, sideways walk, as if they were pretending to creep up on their victims, even though they must know they could be seen. Several of them had joined hands and tiptoed forward with exaggerated movements, and several more were holding a finger to their lips in hushing gestures like malignant children.

  The leading one unlocked the cage, and at once the rest fell on Andrew and Rumour, pulling them out.

  Andrew said, ‘You are speedy in your dealings with us,’ but all the while he was noticing how the Fomoire handled them through the skin cloaks, using the dead Human hands rather like ungainly gloves.

  ‘And since you are speedy, we shall not keep you waiting,’ said Rumour, and the Fomoire shrieked and jabbed at them with hard bony fingers that they thrust through their skin cloaks.

  ‘We shall not be dealing with you yet awhile,’ they cried.

  ‘We shall wish to savour that pleasure,’ said another.

  ‘And you have to be fattened first,’ said a third.

  ‘Until your skins are soft and juicy,’ said the first.

  ‘Until you are plump and fair.’

  ‘Then we shall peel you of your cloaks, Humanish.’

  ‘Show them!’ cried the Fomoire, prodding one another. ‘Show the Humanish what is ahead of them!’

  ‘Let them witness the feast!’

  They pulled the two prisoners forward, and forced them into the largest of the caves. The fire was at the exact centre here and, as they were dragged into its light, they saw that the Fomoire were carrying in driftwood and logs which they cast into the flames.

  ‘The gleanings from the shores of Tiarna,’ said one who sat on the far side of the fire, and who carried an air of authority.

  Rumour said, ‘So you prowl the outskirts of the sidh’s city?’

  ‘We prowl the world, Madame Sorceress,’ said the Fomoire. ‘We are ever hungry for Humans, and so we prowl the world.’ It gestured to several of the others. ‘Throw on the bones,’ it said. And then, with a cunning glance to Rumour, ‘There is nothing so fine as the fat of Humans to make a fire burn brightly.’

  As the flames leapt, the rest of the Fomoire ranged themselves in a circle about it, some of them sitting cross-legged, the heads of their skin cloaks thrown back like hoods, so that Andrew and Rumour could see their tiny, bald, wizened skulls and their grinning, toothless, leathery features, and the flat, pointed ears. Rumour looked at them, and knew she had not mistaken: there was goblin blood here. I see it and I feel it and I smell it, she thought.

  The Fomoire who was seated across the fire from them lifted an arm and gestured to the five who were holding Andrew and Rumour.

  ‘Bind them fast,’ it said. ‘And then bring out the other one. Bring out his cage and let us have a little fun with him.’

  ‘Bring out the prisoner!’

  ‘Bring out the Humanish prisoner!’

  Andrew and Rumour were bound with the thin ropes again, and held tightly before the fire while several of the Fomoire went out, with their strange circling, half-dancing walk. While they were gone, the rest began the dance again at the back of the cave, almost as if they might be trying out new steps, moving this way and that, reaching down some of the skins from the cave walls, spreading them on the floor, and then dragging them behind them as they moved, as if they were ceremonial trains.

  And then the others returned, and Andrew and Rumour saw that between them they were pulling a great square cage which was composed of iron bars on all sides, and which had a roof and a floor of bars. There was a small gate in one side with a massive padlock.

  Inside the cage was Echbel.

  *

  He was naked and his air was matted and unkempt. He was screaming and clawing at the iron bars, begging the Fomoire to let him out, promising them all manner of things, offering them the Amaranths’ secrets, offering them the Cadence itself.

  ‘Useless,’ snapped the one whom Andrew thought was the leader. ‘We know your people’s secrets already.’

  ‘We inherited them from our ancestors,’ said another, and Rumour knew that these were indeed the strange mutant descendants of goblins.

  They grinned and crouched before the cage, prodding at Echbel with long spiked sticks. Echbel scuttled into a corner of the cage and huddled there, shielding his face with his hands, and the Fomoire sent their shrieking laughter into the glowing cave.

  ‘String him up!’ they cried. ‘Hang him over the fire and let us see if he jumps!’

  ‘For if he jumps, then we shall take his skin!’

  ‘If he jumps, then it will be a skin for dancing in!’

  ‘Make him jump! Make the prisoner leap and dance!’

  They linked hands and began to circle the fire, singing, and as they did so, four of them dragged the cage to a great iron winch, with clamps, and fastened the cage into the clamps. The smallest of them adjusted the screws, and two more began to hoist the cage aloft, winching it higher and higher, up and up, winding it outwards then, so that at length it hung directly over the fire.

  The Fomoire threw handfuls of a fine white powder into the fire’s heart, and the flames leapt up, sizzling, throwing out a sickly-sweet stench of decay, licking at the underside of the cage, turning the lower bars to glowing heat. Echbel screamed and clawed at the bars, climbing to the cage roof.

  ‘Human bone-dust!’ cried the Fomoire, gleefully leaping higher in delight. ‘See him jump! More! More bone-dust for the flames!’

  ‘Burn the bones!’

  They began to sing again, with a greedy, gleeful sound that made Andrew and Rumour, watching helplessly from the side, feel sick.

  ‘Give us fire to burn up higher,

  Flames to roast and bones to flare.

  Burn and roast and scorch and sear,

  Singe the skins and tan the fur.’

  ‘Tan him!’ cried the Fomoire. ‘Tan him and burn him! A good skin, a worthy skin! A skin for murdering in!’

  Andrew said in a whisper, ‘This is terrible. Surely there is something we can do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Rumour in a low, furious voice.

  ‘The sidh’s music —’

  ‘Save it for yourself,’ said Rumour. ‘Soon it will be our turn.’

  The Fomoire were reaching up to Echbel now, each of them brandishing sharpened sticks and long-handled forks. In some cases they had thrust the ends into the heart of the fire, so that they glowed white-hot. They poked at Echbel, and laughed as he ran from one side to another of the cage, doubling up with mirth and holding their sides as he tried frenziedly to escape. The fire burned higher, and Echbel scrabbled frantically at the cage, trying to climb to the barred roof. His skin was already flushed and shiny from the heat, and his eyes were bloodshot.

  ‘Enough!’ cried the leader at length. ‘Preserve the skin!’

  ‘Preserve the Humanish cloak!’

  ‘Winch him lower!’

  ‘Yes, let us see the juices run!’

  ‘Let us feel the juices run!’

  ‘Lower! Lower!’

  Three of them darted to the trivet, and began to wind the black handle, so that the cage inc
hed its way out of the flames’ reach, and then down further until it hung on a level with the fire.

  Echbel was screaming continuously now; terrible, trapped-hare screams. He was clinging to the sides of the cage, as close to its roof as he could get, his hands curled about the bars, his feet twined through them lower down. He was so close to the flames now that, when sparks flew up, they touched his hair, making it flare drily and brightly. The sickening smell of burning hair mingled with that of the bone-dust stench, and Echbel fell from the sides of the cage, writhing on its floor as he clutched at his hair and tried to beat the flames out with his bare hands.

  ‘Careful of the fur, lads!’ cried the Fomoire, instantly concerned.

  ‘Don’t singe the fur!’

  ‘For there’s nothing so fine as a fur-trimmed cloak!’

  ‘A fur-trimmed cloak of Humanish vair,

  A sable lining with a veil of hair.

  Singe the beard and tan the hide

  But leave the fur safe behind’

  Andrew and Rumour were both struggling against the harsh ropes that bound their hands behind their backs, and Rumour was again murmuring a spell of light. But each time the spell began to form, each time the narrow splinters of light began to glisten against the cave’s black walls, one of the Fomoire knocked it away, so that it fell into hundreds of tiny, glinting beads, useless and impotent, trickling away into the crevices in the corners.

  Echbel’s skin was turning bright red and the soles of his feet were cracking. The Fomoire leapt in delight.

  ‘The juices! The juices are running! Don’t miss them!’

  ‘Give us the juice of Humanish blood

  Give us the seed of skinflesh and hide.

  Balm to smother our own hides in

  Give us the sap of Humanish skin.’

  Echbel’s skin was splitting in several places now from the intense heat. Andrew, unable to look away, saw that a colourless fluid was seeping from the splits, that it was actually running down his body and dripping on to the waiting Fomoire. For a moment, he was surprised that there was no actual blood, and then he realised, with a twist of nausea, that the Fomoire were so cruelly expert, so practised, that they could judge the exact moment when their victim’s skin would exude what they called the juice; the sluggish colourless fluid of a surface burn. They had not left Echbel long enough over the flames to draw blood, but they had left him long enough to make his skin scorch slightly all over so that the fat beneath the skin oozed and ran down.

  The Fomoire were fighting one another for places directly beneath the cage, squabbling and shrieking, tumbling over one another in their eagerness. Several of them fell into the fire, and shot out again squealing, bringing with them a pungent smell of burnt hair and nail and skin; but most of them managed to stand beneath the cage, their cruel goblin-faces upturned, their shrivelled claw-hands reaching upwards, cupped to catch the terrible fluids that dripped from the cage floor. They smeared their repulsive bodies with it, shrieking their delight, and Andrew and Rumour, sickened and appalled, exchanged looks, both of them frantically searching for a way to rescue Echbel.

  The Fomoire were winching the cage down now, shouting to one another not to let the skin split any further.

  ‘We have the juices, don’t spoil the skin!’ they cried.

  The cage was on the ground, and Echbel was struggling to break out, tearing his hands and nails in the process. Thin blood smothered the stout iron lock on the door, and the Fomoire wailed.

  ‘Make him ready!’ cried the leader. ‘Spread him out and make him ready!’

  ‘Take the cloak! The cloak of Humanish thin!’

  ‘The cloak of thin pale shale!’

  ‘Lay him out.’

  *

  A deep and sudden silence fell on the cave as Echbel was dragged from the iron cage and forced to the ground. The Fomoire abandoned their leaping, dancing mood, and suddenly took on an air of immense concentration. Several of them drove four iron stakes into the cave floor; strong thick stakes with short ropes attached, set in a roughish square. As they lowered Echbel between these stakes, Andrew and Rumour saw that he was to be tied in a cruciform shape, his arms and legs spread wide.

  And then they will flay him, thought Andrew.

  The Fomoire were quiet and watchful now, and the two prisoners were aware again of the deep and sudden concentration. They circled Echbel again, but now it was a silent, watchful movement; it was the circling of predators before they pounced. Their tiny evil eyes were assessing and calculating, as if they were gauging how many knives would be needed, how many needles and razors …

  Several of them had fetched long knives from the rear of the cave, and they held them out, so that the blades caught the fire glow and glinted redly, evilly.

  ‘Now!’ cried the leader, and the Fomoire moved.

  Each one had its appointed place; each moved to it, and stood with a knife or a razor poised. When the signal was given, they moved as one, making a long, absolutely straight slit from Echbel’s throat to his groin, slicing through the layers of skin and yellow fat beneath. Blood bubbled to the surface, and two of them mopped it, enabling the others to see what they were doing.

  Echbel was still screaming, but it was a sobbing, hopeless sound now. Rumour thought he scarcely knew they were in the cave with him, and was glad of it, for it would surely have been torture for Echbel to hope for rescue.

  It was quicker than they had thought it would be, but it was not really very quick at all.

  The Fomoire inserted wafer-thin flat-bladed knives into the single cut, and began to slide them beneath the skin. Rumour, with memories of a hundred Royal banquets, found herself recalling how the High King’s chefs would serve delicate pastry concoctions, and how they would ease a fragile slice from a serving dish with a silver server and lay it on the plate before the guests. Horrid! I believe I shall never want to eat again! thought Rumour. If only these goblin-creatures would ignore us long enough for me to pronounce a spell of some kind. What about a spear of lightning? But the instant she began the incantation, the guards brought their hands down and yet again the embryo enchantment died stillborn.

  Rumour gave vent to a brief angry curse, and then, quite suddenly, an idea slid into her mind.

  A spell to disable the Fomoire was clearly impossible, but what about a spell to free them both of the ropes? What about a tiny hidden spell? thought Rumour, abruptly alert. A delicate razor-sharp spell, a miniature enchantment to slice through their bonds? Could she pronounce one without the Fomoire hearing and sensing it?

  She kept her eyes lowered, in case any of the creatures should look across and see her thoughts. I do not think they possess the Samhailt, thought Rumour. I do not think they do, but I cannot risk anything. She searched her mind quickly, flipping through the layers of memory, much as she would have flipped through the Chronicles and the Indexes of Sorcery.

  A mixture? A little of the Spell of Human Hands? No, for to use that, a pure-bred Human must chant it, and although Andrew was becoming close to her thoughts, he was not close enough for her to give him a whole incantation.

  But there were other spells. There was the Lightning Spell she had attempted earlier; that could be used in a minuscule version, perhaps with something else. There was a fairly simple Enchantment of Slicing Fire that might do.

  And then she had it. Simple and clear and strong.

  The Silver Cord of the Druids.

  It was many centuries since it had been chanted; legend said it had last been used by a Human whom the Druids had tried to sacrifice on a Beltane Fire in the days when Human sacrifice was still permitted. It was Ireland’s ancient tongue, long since lost to Men — another Lost Language! thought Rumour — but the words of the Chant had been chronicled and recorded, and Rumour had seen the parchment bearing the words in Nechtan’s library.

  They had nothing to lose. She would try it, and if their bonds unravelled, then they would have a fighting chance.

  For the Fomoire
do not like being touched … Rumour glanced at Andrew, and saw the flicker of a response. She drew in a great breath of relief, for although Andrew could certainly not help her in the Silver Cord Chant, he was undoubtedly alert and aware, and he would fall on the Fomoire the instant they were released.

  He is not a man of violence, thought Rumour; he abhors violence, but he will do it. How remarkable. She sent him a sideways look, and saw the strong clear line of his jaw. Yes, he would certainly fight if he had to. This was quite remarkably comforting.

  The skin was being eased slowly away from Echbel’s flesh now. They could see the raw meaty flesh beneath, here and there the red stringiness of muscle, and the brief whiteness of bone. The Fomoire were completely absorbed in their work; if I am to do anything at all, thought Rumour, then I must do it now, while their attention is on Echbel. She half closed her eyes, and reached deep into her mind, seeing before her the ancient, vellum-bound Chronicles of Nechtan’s library, turning the leaves in her mind. It had been gold-tipped, the parchment, and twined with the licking, silver fire that signified it to be an ancient Druidic tongue.

  The Fomoire crouched low over their victim, moving the skin inch by careful inch, giving little irritated clicking noises if they cut too deeply and caused blood to well up.

  Andrew thought that Echbel was almost dead. His skin had been peeled as far as his limbs; all that they could see of his trunk was a glistening, sac-like lump, a membranous bag of red-raw flesh and muscle, with the occasional dark streak of liver and kidney. God’s bounty, thought Andrew, sickened. God’s bounty, packed tight but ready to spill out on to the floor if a knife or a needle-point cuts too deeply.