Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  As the music fell about them, Theo stared and, quite suddenly, in a single, glorious blaze of understanding, felt lights explode inside her head and memories start to open up. She thought, with surging delight: I remember. So overpowering, so breath-taking was the knowledge and the emotion, that for a moment she could not move; she stayed where she was, staring at the rushing Armies, and thought: of course! Memory uncurled further, its edges sharp and fragrant and fresh, and Theodora thought: these are the evil creatures I ran from, through the darkness of Chaos’s Realm, on the Uisce, with Andrew.

  Andrew …

  As she turned, he was with her, his arms coming about her, the warmth and the immediate feeling of safety he always gave her instantly there.

  ‘You remember —’

  ‘I remember,’ he said softly. ‘But there is no time to think of it now, Theodora.’

  Theodora … The gentle, courteously careful pronunciation of her name enfolded Theo with the old love and protection, as sweet as the flurry of a summer’s breeze stirring a scented night-forest.

  ‘No time to think of it,’ repeated Andrew. ‘For these are Chaos’s Armies.’ And even though he was horrified and appalled at the might and the force of the Dark Armies, his own mind was singing and the memories and the understanding was pouring into him, as if he was being filled to overflowing with sweet, precious life once more.

  Theo was dizzy, her mind was tumbling as layer after layer of memory rolled back, but Andrew was right; there was no time for remembering, there was no time for questioning … Chaos’s Armies were in the Castle, the might of the Dark Ireland was before them and they must fight for their lives. She glanced across the hall, and saw the strange, silent Maelduin watching, the light blazing from his eyes, as if he, also, were remembering, as if he, also, had been dragged out of an enchantment by the crashing music and the pounding hoofs of the Armies. As if he, in turn, were seeing the memories and the images unravelling, and as if he, also, were emerging from the half-light of the years in the Grail Castle.

  A Veil is tearing, thought Theodora. That is exactly how it feels. A thick misty Veil has been shrouding us, but now it is being blown away, and we are seeing and we are hearing and we are remembering; not all at once, not in a bewildering, dazzling cascade, but a little at a time. Snatches, glimpses, like a flaring torch illuminating first one and then another chapter of our lives. Despite the danger, and despite the rampaging creatures in the Castle, she wanted to hold on to the moment, because it was so surgingly marvellous and so tremendously beautiful to see and to feel everything — your whole life — come tumbling back to you.

  The Prince was on his feet, the Fomoire running to his side. The Fomoire were leaping and jeering, their cloaks flying outwards, screeching imprecations at the Dark Armies, but the Prince barely moved, and hardly seemed to look at the creatures invading his lair.

  And then he raised one of his webbed hands, and something spun outwards and scissored through the air. There was a sudden, sizzling, slicing sound, and the heads of every single one of the Rodent Captains were scythed from their bodies in a single clean sweep, as if a giant invisible scimitar had sliced straight across them. Blood and gore spouted from the neck-stumps and gushed over the floor, and the ranks of Rodent soldiers hesitated and glanced at one another, disconcerted by such remarkable power.

  But the Almhuinians and the Spiaireachts were before them, jeering at such squeamishness, wading through the squelching, slopping blood, raising their spears, encircling the pale, squat figure of the Prince. The Spiaireachts scurried forward, and Theodora saw that their armour was not ordinary silver or iron or metal, but hard shell, thick, crusted bone, that grew over their backs. Lights exploded in her mind, and the memories came tumbling and flooding all over again — painful, hurting, but marvellously, blessedly familiar. She thought: the creature in Chaos’s Castle! The horrid Enchantment of Spies that killed Rumour! These are its creatures! And even in the midst of such fear and such tumult, knew a sudden, terrible pain for Rumour who had died — and I had forgotten! thought Theo with agony.

  The Fomoire leapt for the Almhuinians, linking hands and dancing, pointing with their bony fingers, producing the razors and the slicing tools they used for their grisly skinning work.

  ‘Humanish skins, lads,’ they shouted.

  ‘Cloaks for the peeling and fat for the roasting!’

  ‘Heat the fires, lads, warm the cages!’

  ‘To work, lads, to work!’

  The Almhuinians struck out, wounding a couple of them, but the rest closed in, whirling and dancing, jabbing at the Almhuinians’ legs with their tiny, wicked knives, here and there drawing blood.

  Andrew had stood with Theodora, holding her to him, feeling, as she had felt, the gentle, marvellous tumbling of memories, understanding as the light flickered on the lost years of his life, what had happened. We were the victims of an enchantment … A long, terrible spell that blanked our minds and our memories … He stared at the turmoil and the fighting in the hall, but for a breath space of time he did not think: we are at the centre of one of the greatest and bloodiest battles in Ireland’s history, but: how long has this creature held us in bondage! Anger flared, a deep, slow-burning anger that threatened to engulf him. He glanced to where the Prince was standing, a little removed, the flat, pale eyes watchful and unblinking, and cold rage filled his mind.

  That is the evil creature whose sire hurt Rumour, who has kept Theodora chained in this Castle, so that she was unaware even of who she is … He has made her work like a scullion, he has taunted her and jibed as he taunted and jibed me, and he has taken pleasure from it …

  He felt the fingers of both hands curl as he watched the Prince, and he began to calculate how he could be across the hall, dodging a path through the fighting and the seething, boiling mass, and be at the creature’s throat.

  For, man of peace that I am, I should like to tear the creature’s throat out and gouge out its eyes and stamp on them …

  And then, as he tensed his muscles to move, he became aware that the music had faded, and that a silence had descended on the hall. Every head turned to the open doorway; in every face now was eagerness, avidity, a strange, dark adoration tinged with terror.

  The doors were still open to their widest extent, so that it was possible to see the night sky with the scudding black clouds, and to see quite clearly the crags and the cliffs of the Moher coastline. Andrew caught, very faintly, the sound of the ocean hurling itself against the cliffs, and quite suddenly this was a clean, strong sound; something natural and good, something that was a part of the real world. Something that had no part to play in evil Dark Lords, and in grisly, repulsive sea-kings who came from strange, tainted worlds and stole people’s minds and their memories.

  And then, without the least sound, he was standing framed in the great doorway, a slender, almost slight figure, wrapped in the scarlet velvet cloak, the Silver Star of his sinister profession on his breast.

  The evil Dark Lord who claimed descent from the House of Medoc. The arrogant, beautiful Lord of Chaos, surveying his new Domain … The greatest necromancer ever known, ready to enter and claim Ireland.

  A power so tremendous radiated from him that Andrew and Theodora both flinched. Andrew felt a tremor go through Theo’s slight form, and she made a quick movement, as if she would have liked to shield her eyes. The anger that had surged up earlier swirled and flowed, and with it came the whisper, the flurry of that other presence, that strange, alien strength and fury that had been there once before, many years ago, when Andrew had faced Coelacanth …

  The mantle of the Samildanach descending once again …

  The Lord of Chaos stood motionless for a moment, only his eyes alive, scouring the hall, finally coming to rest on the grotesque, evil figure of the Prince. Light showed in Chaos’s eyes, and with it recognition, rather as if he had entered the hall at the invitation of an unknown host, and now sought that host to make him his compliments. He walked forward, s
lowly, unhurriedly, as graceful and as fastidious as a cat, and the Dark Lords moved into the hall behind him, standing grouped together near the door.

  As Chaos came to a stop before the Prince, Andrew thought it was as if two immense protagonists were facing one another. He thought: this is surely one of the most momentous occasions in all of Ireland’s history. And through the fear and the tumultuous array of emotions, through the still-churning memories and the bitterness of what had been done to him, even beyond the agony he was feeling for Theodora and her safety, a strange thought formed itself: it would be a pity if this was never properly set down for all Ireland to know of it …

  Chaos was studying the Prince. He said in his soft, cultured voice, ‘I make you my obeisance, Son of Coelacanth,’ and the Prince said, in his harsh, warped tones, ‘And I, yours, Lord of Chaos.’

  But Andrew, listening very intently, thought that there was a faint uneasiness in the Prince’s voice, rather as if he had encountered something he had not expected to encounter, or as if he might have underestimated the strength of this particular adversary.

  Chaos felt it as well. When he spoke again, it was in a stronger, much more amused voice. ‘You did not expect me?’ he said, and glanced about him. ‘I see you did not. I see you were too engrossed in your own affairs to hear my approach. The marriage with the Amaranth Princess? How fortunate for me.’

  ‘You do not need the caprices of fortune to lend you strength,’ said the Prince coldly.

  ‘I do not disdain Fortune’s favours, however,’ said Chaos, and the amused note was more noticeable now. Andrew heard it with something that was very nearly relief, because people do not allow amusement into their voices unless they are feeling very sure of themselves. And if we have to choose, I believe I would rather by far be at the mercy of Chaos than the Prince, he thought. For Chaos is at least some sort of gentleman …

  The Fisher Prince said, ‘So you know my ancestry, Lord of Chaos?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Chaos was regarding the other with the slightly indulgent, very nearly fatherly mien of one who is meeting the very young son of an old friend. Andrew thought it was almost as if Chaos were saying, Ah, so this is Coelacanth’s boy, is it? How very interesting. Let us see how he has turned out and if he has his sire’s looks or his sire’s intelligence. Against the elegant and sophisticated Chaos, the Fisher Prince suddenly seemed gauche and unlicked.

  Sent into the world scarce half made-up …

  ‘I knew Coelacanth rather well,’ said Chaos, walking round the hall as if he might be planning on how he would arrange it when he had taken it. He turned round sharply, and the scarlet velvet cloak billowed with a whisper of sound. ‘It was I who condemned him to the Tanning Pit,’ he said.

  ‘I am aware of that,’ said the Prince, the flat fish-eyes never leaving Chaos’s dark, slender figure.

  ‘And … have sworn to be avenged on me as a consequence?’ Andrew thought there was no doubt about the amusement now. Chaos said, softly, and quite courteously, ‘Then perhaps you would care to try your strength against mine, Prince? Perhaps you would like to fling your half-formed powers against the breeding and the generations and the centuries of scholarship I have inherited.’ He paused, his eyes resting on the other with indulgence and pity. ‘I am an aristocrat, you know,’ said Chaos. ‘I have studied and read and learned for more years, more centuries, than you will ever count.’ His voice held a purring tolerance, as if he might be saying: and as an aristocratic I am in honour bound to treat you with a degree of courtesy, no matter what I may secretly feel. I am a Lord of my Realm, while you are a monster, a mongrel-thing, bred on to a part-Human, spawned out of a brutal rape. And I can deflect anything you care to summon …

  The Prince did not summon anything, he seemed almost to shrink before Chaos’s dark force. Andrew caught the flicker of movement on the edges of his vision, and turned to see the Fomoire creeping backwards. He thought: they see it. They see that their Prince is being defeated and that Chaos is the stronger. Will they change sides and give their allegiance back to Chaos?

  And then the Prince whirled about. He seemed to tower to thrice his former size, and the monstrous fin that had curled about his webbed feet erected in a single, repulsive movement and enclosed him; and in the same moment, malignant power streamed outwards from him: a cold, pouring vapour that hit Chaos full on.

  Chaos half fell, the streaming cold light all about him. A white rim formed on his armour, and ice outlined his head.

  The Prince gave his glottal laugh. ‘You condemned my sire to the heat of the Tanning Tit, charlatan!’ he screeched. ‘But I condemn you to the cold and the frozen ice of the Petrified Forests!’ He moved closer to Chaos, and stood looking down at the necromancer, his flat, ugly face stretched in a lipless smile. ‘How does it feel, Chaos,’ said the Fisher Prince in a hissing whisper, ‘how does it feel to have the blood in your body becoming solid, and your heart encased in ice? To know that you are hardening into brittleness.’ He leaned nearer. ‘Presently, your bones will be so brittle that they will splinter even as you breathe,’ he said. ‘You will be a Man of Ice. And very soon now your eyes will solidify. How will you feel when that happens? And how does it feel to experience this!’ cried the Prince, and with the flick of one hand, sent a second blast of icy vapour at Chaos’s face.

  At once the air surrounding Chaos became blue-tinged, and the Almhuinians and the Rodent soldiers, who had been unsheathing their swords, backed away.

  Chaos was fighting the ice sheets, but Andrew could see that they were too strong for him. Twice he lifted a hand to slice away the ice with fire spears and with cascades of pouring flames, and both times the Fisher Prince’s ice doused it instantly.

  The Dark Lords had not moved, but Andrew saw that, at the centre of their small group, twisting fire columns were forming, and knew that they were preparing to fight the Prince for their Lord’s freedom.

  The Prince glanced contemptuously in their direction and, raising a hand in a negligent gesture, caused the ice to pour forward again, encasing them. The Dark Lords shrieked and fell back, scrabbling at the thick, cold air, screaming in fear and pain.

  Chaos’s face was pure white, and his eyes were glazed. Andrew, struggling to free his hands from the cords, saw that the necromancer’s eyes had suddenly taken on a hard look, a glazed, fixed look. He remembered the Prince’s words, and understood that the liquid part of Chaos’s eyes was freezing into solid globes. Chaos’s eyes were turning into two spheres of ice in his head, and in another moment, in another moment …

  The Prince sent out his evil, bubbling laugh again, the gaping fins at the side of his neck opening and closing. Bending down, he struck Chaos hard across his eyes, and at once there was a dreadful, cracking, shattering sound.

  Chaos fell writhing on the ground, terrible agony in his movements, both hands flung upwards to shield his eyes. As he did so, there was the sound of his bones splintering and shattering, and he curled in agony on the ground.

  But there had been a split second when his eyes had been uncovered, and in that second, Andrew had seen that they had cracked; they had smashed and crazed into a hundred tiny shards, exactly as thin pottery would craze, or as fragile glass might shatter.

  The Fisher Prince had left Chaos sightless and in unremitting agony …

  The Dark Lords were screaming and trying to reach the door, tumbling over one another in their haste to escape the fate that had befallen their Master. But Andrew could see that each of them now had the staring white orbs, the immovable solid eyeballs. The Prince struck at them again, and Andrew heard once more the grisly shattering of their eyes, and as they fell, moaning in agony, he heard their bones smash like thin glass.

  Chaos’s armies had retreated, the Almhuinians slightly wounded from the Fomoire, the Rodent soldiers looking nervous. Cowardly at heart! thought Andrew. Is this the moment when I can somehow break free? On the other side of the hall, the Fomoire crouched low on the ground, rather like children making
a circle to play some secret game. In the shadows, he saw the silent, strange Maelduin, who had shared their long captivity, move forward, his eyes glinting. But I cannot be sure of that one, thought Andrew. He was never in my memory and he was never in my life. I have no knowledge of his allegiances or of who he is. It is up to me.

  And sure, there would never be a better moment. Chaos and his Lords were blinded and dying; the Rodent Captains were dead. If I can but get across the hall, he thought, and with the thought, reached for and felt the strength of that other one, that unknown creature who was not unknown at all, and felt the strength uncoil a little.

  As he did so, lights exploded at the far end of the hall, and the doors of the Grail Castle were once more flung wide.

  The people of Moher, brandishing home-made weapons, their faces set and determined, erupted into the hall and fell on the Almhuinians and the Rodent soldiers.

  *

  Now Andrew did not hesitate. The power was pouring through him, light-filled, ancient, but so brimful of beauty and strength and dawn magic that for a moment his vision blurred and wavered.

  The people of the Moher Cliffs were laying about the Rodent creatures and the Almhuinians, spearing them with their rather makeshift weapons, but inflicting a good deal of damage. Andrew saw them kill several Rodent soldiers, and there were certainly six or seven Almhuinians bleeding and badly wounded on the floor.

  But the Fomoire had recovered themselves, and they were advancing on the Moher army. They were tiptoeing forward in their horrid, exaggerated parody of naughty children trying not to be seen. Andrew looked across the hall, and saw that the Prince was standing watching the furore, sinister amusement on his face. Chaos lay at his feet — Dead? thought Andrew, and knew at once that Chaos was not dead. He was maimed, he was sightless, his bones were shattered, but he was not dead. And which of them do I attack? thought Andrew in sudden agony. Which of them should be disabled first?