I was no healer, but like all magickers I knew the simple spells of warming and cooling, both of which are used by those whose skills are directed toward healing the sick. Swiftly I covered her burns with cool air, and she sighed and sank back to the grass.
“I am sorry, Megan,” I told her. “I am so sorry.”
“I can heal myself,” she whispered, “given time, that is. But it is taking all my power, and I can be of no use to you for a while. Mace is on his way here—I reached him last night. When he arrives, I will be sleeping deeply. Take me to the town of Ocrey. It is north of here, perhaps a day’s travel. Do not seek to wake me but carry me to the house of Osian. It is built beside a stream to the west of Ocrey. There is an old man living there; he will … care for me. You understand?”
“Yes. I will do as you say.”
“And warn Mace of the Six. He must be prepared.”
“Who are they?” But she was sinking fast, and I had to lower my ear to her mouth to hear the softest of whispers.
“The Satan Hounds,” she murmured.
The name sent a shiver through me, but before I could question her further, Megan closed her eyes, passing from consciousness. I had no idea what she had meant, but there was no way she could have spoken literally. The Satan Hounds, more often called the Shadows of Satan, were mythical creatures said to have walked the earth beside their master after his fall from heaven, when the world had been but a glowing ball of molten rock lashed by seething seas of lava.
I guessed that the pain must have made her delirious. The Six were probably no more than warhounds. Even so, they would be dangerous, for Cataplas had imprinted upon their minds the image of Mace. The talk of souls and auras was, I was sure, a lie to fool only the uninitiated.
Mace arrived within the hour, Piercollo and Eye Patch with him. The hunchback had been left at their camp some two hours’ march to the west. Piercollo lifted the sleeping Megan and cradled her to his chest, her head upon his massive shoulder. She did not wake, and none of us spoke as we walked out into the morning.
Mace took the lead, moving smoothly across the forest floor. He was wearing a black sleeveless jerkin of well-oiled leather and a green woolen shirt with puffed sleeves and cuffs of black leather that doubled as wrist guards. As usual he wore his high riding boots and trews of green. He had no cap today, and the sun glinted on blond highlights in his auburn hair. Wide-shouldered and slim of hip, he looked every inch the hero that he ought to have been—the warrior of legend, the forest lord.
I looked away and thought of Cataplas. I had been surprised when I saw him in the service of Azrek, and yet, upon consideration, I should not have been. He was an amiable man, yet remote. Polite and courteous, but without feeling, lacking understanding of human emotions. His skills had always been awesome, and his search for knowledge carried out with endless dedication. I can remember many pleasant evenings in his company, enjoying his wit and his intelligence, his skills as a storyteller, and his incomparable talent. But I cannot remember a single act of simple kindness.
We entered the outskirts of the town of Ocrey, located the home of Osian—a slender old man, toothless and nearly blind—and laid Megan carefully upon a narrow pallet bed. Osian said nothing when we arrived but waited, silent and unmoving, for our departure. We slipped away into the gathering darkness, crossing several hills and streams before Mace chose a campsite in a sheltered hollow.
Piercollo built a small fire, and we settled around it.
I was saddened by what had happened to Megan but also irritated by the lack of reaction in Mace. This was his friend and I had rescued her, yet not a word of praise was forthcoming. His head pillowed on his arm, he slept by the fire. Piercollo nodded off, his back to a wide oak tree, and I sat miserably in the company of Eye Patch, who had said not one word on this long day.
“Where are you from?” I asked him suddenly as he leaned forward to add a dry stick to the fire.
His single eye glanced up, and he stared at me for a long moment. “What is it to you?” he responded.
It was not said in a challenging way, and I shrugged. “I am just making conversation. I am not tired.”
“What happened to the old woman? Mace said she was unhurt by the burning.”
“She was, but a sorcerer cast a spell of fire.”
He accepted that without comment, then hawked and spit. “You can’t deal with magickers,” he said at last. “Not one of them has a soul. Their hearts are shriveled and black.”
“A generalization, I think.”
“A what?”
“You are putting all magickers together, saying they are all the same. That is not so.”
“An expert, are you?” he hissed.
“I would not say so. But there are men who learn the art of healing, spending their lives in the service of others. They are magickers.”
He thought for a moment. “They are doctors,” he announced as if that ended the discussion. “Sorcerers are different.”
“Indeed they are,” I agreed. He seemed pleased.
“My name is Gamail, though most call me Patch.”
“You shoot well. How can you judge distance with but one eye?”
He chuckled and removed the patch, tossing it to me. “Put it on,” he ordered. Holding it up to my eye, I saw that it was virtually transparent. Then I looked at his face, to see two good eyes staring back at me.
“Why do you wear it?”
“Three years ago I was fighting in the Oversea War, and the eye was infected. After that it would take no strong light but would weep and blur. I met a doctor who made that for me; it dulls the light.”
An eerie howl echoed through the night, followed almost instantly by a high-pitched scream.
Mace awoke. “What in hell’s name was that?” he inquired. I shook my head.
“I never heard nothing like it in my life,” whispered Patch.
“How close was it?” asked Jarek Mace.
“Difficult to say up here,” Patch told him. “Maybe a mile, maybe two.”
“Have you heard of the Shadows of Satan?” I asked softly.
“Tell me a story on another night,” grunted Mace, settling down once more.
“I do not believe it is a story. Megan used her powers to overhear a sorcerer talking to Count Azrek. The count ordered the release of the Six, and they were to hunt you down. I asked Megan about the Six; she said they were the Shadows.”
Jarek Mace rolled to his feet. “Why didn’t you tell me before this?” he stormed.
“I thought she was delirious. What are these beasts?”
“How should I know? But would you want creatures called Shadows of Satan hunting you in the night?”
“No.”
The howls came again, closer this time. “Wolves?” I whispered.
“No wolf I’ve ever heard made a sound like that,” muttered Patch, rising.
Swiftly we woke Piercollo and set off into the darkness.
The moon was high and three-quarters full, moon shadows lacing the track at our feet as we moved on into the night. Mace and Patch notched arrows to their bows and carried them ready for use. We traveled at speed, stopping often to listen for sounds of pursuit.
At first we heard nothing, then came the eerie howling from left and right. Jarek Mace swore and pushed on down a long slope to a stream that rushed over white rocks and pebbles. Mace splashed into it, running swiftly toward the west, the water spraying up around his boots like molten silver. I followed him, Piercollo behind me and Patch bringing up the rear.
We ran in the stream for several hundred yards until it curved north, then Mace scrambled up the opposite bank, taking hold of a jutting and exposed tree root and hauling himself clear. Reaching out his hand, he pulled me up after him. Piercollo jumped for the root, his huge fingers snaking around it, but the wood snapped with a loud crack that echoed in the night. The big man slid backward, cannoning into Patch, and both men tumbled into the stream.
A dark shadow m
oved on the opposite bank. I blinked and stared at the spot. At first I saw nothing, then a massive, horned snout pushed clear of the undergrowth.
How can I describe it without chilling your blood? It was both the most loathsome and the most terrifying sight my eyes had yet beheld. The face—if face it could be called—was pale and hairless, the nose distended and flattened. Long, curved tusks extended up from the lower lip. But it had fangs also, like a wolf. In weight and girth it was the size of a great bull, but there were no hooves, the legs being thick and heavily muscled above great paws similar to those of a lion. In all it was a grotesque deformity, a meld of many creatures.
Yet it was the eyes that sent ice into my soul. For without doubt they were human, and they gleamed with malevolent intelligence.
“Behind you!” I yelled at the struggling men. Piercollo was hauling himself from the stream, but Patch swung, his bow still in his hand, the arrow lost in the swirling water. He saw the beast and reached instantly for his quiver.
With a terrible cry the creature charged, uprooting bushes and snapping a young sapling in its way. An arrow from the bow of Jarek Mace flashed across the water, burying itself in the left eye of the monster, causing it to rear up on its colossal hind legs. Seizing his opportunity, Patch sent a shaft thudding into its exposed black belly, and the creature came down on all fours. It was covered in matted black fur and had a massive hump on its neck. The hump writhed, and two long arms unfolded from it, the fingers long and pale, curved claws clicking together. Charging once more, it bore down on Patch.
Piercollo, unarmed, hurled himself at the beast, meeting its charge. He was swept aside like a leaf in a storm, but his attack caused the creature to swing its huge head, seeking out this new enemy. Patch cooly shot an arrow into its throat, and it screamed again, its ghastly jaws opening wide.
Jarek Mace sent a shaft into the open mouth … it vanished from sight, feathers and all.
Piercollo rose from the water, raising a jagged boulder above his head and crashing it down upon the beast’s skull. I heard the bone splinter, and the creature’s front legs folded. Without a further sound, it died.
The Tuscanian dragged himself over the crest of the bank, Patch nimbly following him.
Mace notched another arrow to his bow, his keen eyes staring back down the trail. Without a word he swung back to the west and set off through the forest.
We followed him in silence.
And the howling began again.
The night has a capacity for terror that the day can never match. Often in my life I have woken in the dark to hear some sound, some creaking of a shutter, or the soft whispering of the wind through dry leaves. In the dark it is easy to picture a stealthy assassin, an undead Vampyre, stalking through the house.
But in the forest the power of the dark swells. Silhouetted trees are eldritch giants with waving arms and sharp talons; the rustling of the undergrowth becomes the stealthy slithering of giant serpents. The hoot of an owl, the fluttering wings of a bat cause icy fingers to pluck upon the strings of the soul’s fears, unearthly and threatening.
I shall never forget that midnight run through the dark of the forest with the beasts from the pit upon our trail, the fickle moon hiding often behind thick clouds and forcing us to halt, standing stock-still, blind and terrified. Then she would shine again, and our trembling legs would carry us on, following the narrow deer trails ever west.
Piercollo suffered the most, for his enormous bulk, despite its prodigious strength, was not made for running and he began to fall behind. I shouted to Mace to wait for him, but he ignored me until the next eerie wail sounded from some way ahead of us. Only then did he halt. Another cry shattered the silence of the night, this time from our left.
Piercollo staggered up to us. “I … can … go no … farther,” he said, the breath wheezing from his lungs.
Mace swung, his eyes raking the trees. “Over there,” he said, pointing to a circle of oaks. Forcing our way through the undergrowth, we reached the trees. Mace climbed the first, ordering Patch to scale the tree opposite; since Piercollo and I were unarmed, he ignored us and we climbed a gnarled oak at the edge of the circle, seating ourselves on a broad bough some fifteen feet from the ground. Piercollo leaned back against the trunk of the tree and wiped the sweat from his face.
“This is not to my liking, friend Owen.”
“Nor mine,” I admitted. “But the creatures cannot climb.”
Piercollo sighed. “He is not what I expected.”
“Who?”
“The Morningstar.”
“He is what he is,” I told him. He nodded and closed his eyes.
The moon disappeared once more, and darkness descended. A cool breeze fluttered across me, causing an instant shiver, for sweat had drenched my clothing. I cast a warming spell and relaxed a little.
Then came the sound of bushes being uprooted and cloven hooves beating upon the soft ground. Leaning back, I took hold of a branch, gripping it with both hands and hugging myself to the tree.
The moon eased herself clear of the clouds, and I glanced down to see the monsters come to a halt, their great heads angled up, staring at Jarek Mace as he sat in full view of them. His bow bent back, and a shaft slashed through the air to bury itself in the throat of the lead beast. It reared high, then charged the tree; the oak was old and firm, yet the vibration almost dislodged Mace. Patch loosed an arrow that sliced into the hump of a second beast. While the first circled the oak Mace had climbed, the remaining four rushed toward where Patch was hidden. There was a tremendous crash as two of the creatures butted the oak and Patch lost hold of his bow, which fell to the ground, he grabbed at a branch to stop himself from falling. Now the beasts moved slowly against the base of the tree and began to push. At first the oak withstood the pressure, but soon I saw one root appear above ground, then another.
Suddenly the tree yawed. Patch’s legs swung clear, and he was now hanging by his hands some twenty feet above the ground. An arrow from Mace slashed into the side of one of the beasts, but it showed no sign that it felt any pain.
With a wrenching groan the oak gave way, tumbling Patch to the ground. He hit hard, rolled, and came to his feet running toward the nearest tree.
The beasts set after him …
Taking a deep breath, I concentrated hard. The spell of light was not easy, though neither was it the most difficult. But what I wanted now was not just illumination. Forming the spell, I held it for several heartbeats, letting it swell until I could control it no longer. My hand flashed out.
The spell sped from me like a flash of lightning, bursting in the space between Patch and the pursuing monsters, blinding them and causing them to swerve away from their victim. For one brief second I was exultant. But I had forgotten the first beast, the one that had been circling Jarek Mace. Unseen by me, it had cut across the small clearing, and just as Patch leapt for an overhanging branch, it caught him, the taloned arms dragging him back, the awful jaws closing on his waist. With one dreadful cry the bowman died, his corpse ripped into two.
The other creatures gathered around and began to feed. I could not watch, and I tried to close my ears to the sound of ripping flesh and snapping bone.
“Fire! We need fire!” shouted Jarek Mace. “Can you do it, Owen?”
At the sound of his voice the five beasts moved away from their grisly feast and rushed at the oak in which he had taken refuge. Hurling their huge bodies against the trunk, they sought to dislodge him as they had the unfortunate Patch. But this tree was older and more firm, and it did not budge.
Two of the beasts then began to pound their hooves at the base of the tree, digging away at the roots, exposing them, then ripping at the soft wood with their fangs.
“Fire, Owen!” bellowed Mace.
I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate. Creating a fire was a variation on the spell of warming, but the power was condensed, focused on a very small point, usually a fragment of dry bark or shredded leaf.
I stared intently at the twisted hump on the back of the nearest monster, concentrating on the mass of black, matted fur—holding back the spell, allowing it to build, feeling the pressure grow within my mind. When I could hold it no longer, I threw out my arm, pointing at the beast. Blue flame crackled out, lancing down to strike the hump. Smoke billowed from the fur, and the monster reared up, screaming, the sound almost human.
I had expected a few small fingers of fire, but what followed astounded me.
Flames roared out, blazing with white light—more powerful than any beacon fire, brighter than daylight. The creature rolled to its back, but nothing could extinguish the blaze. In its panic and pain it ran into the other beasts, and the flames spread to engulf three of them; then dried leaves on the ground ignited beneath the hooves of the fourth monster, whose legs caught fire, sheets of flame searing around its body.
An unholy glow filled the clearing, and the heat was so intense that Piercollo and I eased our way around the tree, putting the trunk between us and the scorching flames. Even so, the heat was almost unbearable, the light so bright that both of us squeezed shut our eyes.
The blaze lit the sky for several minutes, the flames reaching thirty feet or more into the air. Then they died, swiftly dwindling. I climbed around to the front of the tree. There were no leaves now—the branches smoldering, the tips glowing red with hot ash.
Writhing on the forest floor were a score of blackened shapes. One looked like the burned carcass of a dog, another a horse, yet another a man. One by one they ceased all movement.
Suddenly the last creature emerged from the undergrowth. How it had escaped I do not know, but it advanced into the smoldering clearing and stood, its grotesque arms unfolding from its hump. Jarek Mace sent his last two shafts into the flanks of the beast, but it ignored them and advanced on the tree, continuing to dig at the roots.
“Piercollo has had enough of this,” said the giant. Taking hold of a long partly burned branch, he wrenched hard, the dry wood snapping with a loud crack. The branch was some six feet in length and as thick as four spears bound together. He proceeded to strip away the twigs and shoots growing from it. “Give me your dagger,” he ordered me, and I did so. Resting the broken length of wood in the crook of the bough on which we stood, Piercollo began to cut away at the tip of the branch, shaping it to a rough point. I could see that he was trying to craft a weapon, but what kind? It was too large for a spear and too unwieldy to be used as a lance.