Old Dark Things

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH

  The low moan of a horn resounded through the courtyard. At the gate, hunters stood by their shaggy ponies. Each of the trackers wore the pelt of a bear, wolf or boar with the dome and snout of the skulls forming rough hoods. Behind them, the men of the Eorl's guard shuffled into a column, their boar spears waving like a stand of glinting rushes.

  Sigurd patted the firm neck of his horse, and he ran fingers under the warm mane. "Calm, calm, Rauthus. We'll be riding soon enough." Stepping up into the saddle, he tested his balance. Nudging Rauthus, he moved past pages struggling with leashed hounds and elderly thanes, too grey and grizzled to take a place at the fore of the hunt, but too vain to admit their better years were gone.

  The Mareschal, commander of the Eorl's men, sat near the gate. He sat atop a massive hairy-hocked courser, brooding, cloaked and frowning under a peppered beard.

  "Alaric, hail."

  "Sigurd. Good day. Have you no lance? You, page, bring Thane Sigurd a hunting lance. Be quick."

  "My thanks. Have the trackers found any trace of this monster wolf?"

  "Only a few footprints." The Mareschal looked over the thanes and hunters. "Your huntsman, the northman, he is nowhere about? We could use another man."

  Folding his arms under the Mareschal's steady gaze, Sigurd shifted about in the saddle.

  "He has another matter to attend to."

  Alaric said nothing but his face became a frown. "Well, if the hunt proves fruitless today I shall expect him to join us tomorrow."

  "Of course, Mareschal."

  "By the way, I have been meaning to ask." His voice dropped a note. "Why have you hired him? He seems a strange sort."

  "He is an expert in hunting certain beasts. I'm, er, I'm hoping to learn a few of his tricks and arts."

  "Indeed? Certain beasts? Be careful, Sigurd. I've a feeling you're dabbling in affairs that have nothing to do with you. That's all I'm going to say on the matter. Be careful."

  -oOo-

  Kveldulf leaned against a battlement and looked down into the courtyard. Only a few wind-tattered clouds hung in the sky and the cold sunlight gilded the edges of helmets and spears.

  His hand ran absently over rain-worn stone. The moss seemed to cement each block. He watched as men filed through the gates. He listened to the lonely cries of the hunting horns and the baying of hounds.

  And he waited.

  A simple thought had occurred to him. If someone wished to sneak out of the fortress, perhaps to visit a sorcerer, perhaps to gather witch's herbs, then this would be a very good opportunity. The fortress was all but emptied of guards. He watched people come and go. None of them seemed suspicious.

  Then he noticed a woman wrapped in an ivory hood and cloak. Looking left and right, she stole down the steps from the keep. But instead of heading towards the gate she paused, looked around again and turned in another direction. She was coming closer to Kveldulf's battlement, walking slowly and carefully so as to avoid sods of wet hay and horse droppings. She didn't want to leave footprints. He edged back.

  The hood worked both ways. It concealed her face, but also hid Kveldulf from her view. She was heading towards a narrow roof of blue slate that covered a low shed. As she laid a hand on the door she paused again and looked about the courtyard. No-one else seemed to have taken any notice of her. Pulling the door open, she disappeared within.

  As soon as she vanished, Kveldulf went down the nearest flight of steps and across the courtyard, dodging. He nudged the door open and peered inside. The shed was filled with smells of dry rot and mildew. Though the interior was thick with darkness, Kveldulf could make out the far wall. The cloaked woman was gone.

  About half-way along the room, he stopped. He could feel a cool, damp draught coming from somewhere deeper. He smiled to himself. As he walked, he began tapping barrels and moving crates.

  Finally he came to a lone barrel that wallowed in muck against the back wall. The nearby flagstones were scored with arcs of rust and mud. Placing both hands on the lip of the barrel, he dragged it away from the wall. It shifted easily, much lighter than it looked. What was revealed, was a low stone arch, little more than an oversized drain. Fortresses, magiasteries and grand temples: they all tended to have at least one bolt-hole for times of siege, and Kveldulf guessed that he'd found of one the Toren Vaunts tunnels for just such a secret egress.

  He shuffled into the hole, doubling up to avoid knocking his head on the low ceiling. It took time drag the barrel back into place from what was now quite an awkward position. Once done, he turned towards the dark tunnel. Raked by tendrils of wet mould, Kveldulf descended deeper. He stopped when it became too dark to see, fumbled about and opened his shirt just enough to let some light shine from the feather that hung around his neck on its fine gold chain.

  As soon as the unearthly fire filled the air with dull light, he moved on. He was soon coughing under showers of dislodged the dusty muck, and wondering when the hole was going to end, or what he would find, when a faint gleam of light appeared in the distance air. It was a grey thornprick at first, then grew stronger, before turning into a flood of daylight spilling into the tunnel mouth.

  Kveldulf stumbled into the open air coughing from the grit. He stretched his back. This hole ended below the limestone crag. It looked like he was on the east side of the fortress. Around him was forest. Craning his head back, he strained his eyes up at cliffs. Crows circled at a dizzying height. Kveldulf re-buttoned his shirt, and scanned the ground.

  Small, delicate footprints cut a trail through muddy leaves and into the trees. She was clearly no longer worried about leaving footprints. It was an easy trail to follow, and quite well worn too. The cloaked lady had walked path among gloomy pines and old oaks quite often. Careless, thought Kveldulf, and eager.

  The forest grew thicker. The hooked, tangled branches became a canopy so tight that daylight turned to rich amber. He went silently on, listening to the wind and birds and then suddenly something else.

  He stood still.

  At first vague, then clearer, now quite distinct: the silvery tune of a pipe: a strange melody, wandering and haunting, despite being difficult to catch.

  Kveldulf stalked closer. He stooped behind a stand of birch and peered into a shady glen. Trees encircled and sheltered this hollow. At its centre was a circle of stones. Each dolmen was no taller than a child and stood half-buried in the autumn drift. Lilia sat on one of the old stones. Her white, flowing dress was stained about the hem with mud, and the hood of her cloak was thrown back. She piped her tune and swayed gently in time to unearthly song.

  As Kveldulf lay hidden he felt another presence. He felt it in the pit of his stomach. It seemed to him that the whole forest felt this new thing coming closer. Birds chirruped and squirrels chattered in alarm. Then everything fell silent.

  He recognised the feel of it, and gently laid fingers on the hilt of his iron knife.

  A cloud of thistledown drifted into the glade, a cloud of sun-struck white motes. And then, just as lightly as the thistledown, the wild thing appeared. Like all the Faer and Midsummer Folk he was a creature of the dreaming earth. He was handsome, perhaps even beautiful, despite his face being both rather austere and harsh. His eyes were a silver twilight. The cloak about his shoulders was trimmed with rose gold leaves. On his head was a crown of autumn.

  The pipe-song ended abruptly. Lilia lowered the instrument. Dim sunlight flashed along its length. The wind toyed with her hair. "I was afraid you had not heard." Her lips formed a shy smile. "Or forgotten me."

  "Don't say such things." He replied in a voice made up of the mingled sounds of wind, and bird-song and rain on stone. "I do not forget, my beauty." Reaching out with a pale hand that might have been flesh and might have been the polished wood, he stroked Lilia's hair.

  "Alraun," she said in a small voice. "I have missed you."

  "My beauty, come away with me."

  She clasped his hand and held it to her cheek. "Soon. Soon. I still have my wo
rk to do, but soon there will be little left for me in that world. Soon."

  The Alraun creature moved nearer, until the two of them were so close that she must have felt his breath on her lips. As they were about to kiss the faer man tensed and stared straight at where Kveldulf was hiding. His eyes flared so bright they gave the impression that sunlight was filtering through his skull.

  Lilia turned her neck and searching in vain said, "What is it?"

  "A wild beast. Nothing more. Come away with me..."

  Kveldulf crawled back an inch, retreating low to the ground and watching as Alraun took Lilia's hand. She slid down from the stone. They were walking deeper into the woods; Kveldulf decided to follow.

  As he did this, the air around him stirred. The leaves and branches began to bend and shake, brushing Kveldulf. The wind grew more fierce, as Lilia and Alraun disappeared from view. The trees near Kveldulf now began to lash and swish and writhe.

  Too late, he realised the movement of the trees had changed. The swish-brush-flutter of limbs had gained purpose. Taken by shock he stumbled dumbly to his feet as branches like convulsing serpents lashed out and entangled him. Rough bark clawed his skin and wrapped his limbs. The trees began to constrict.

  On instinct, he dragged his steel knife from its sheath he slashed at the trees. But a knife is neither axe, nor saw, and the whip-like birch, the ivy and the holly just grew tighter. There were scurrying things in the branches now too: mice--ferrets--voles. One of them bit his hand with little sharp teeth. Several others crawled down into the collar of his shirt. Dropping the steel knife, Kveldulf wrenched his arm until he felt as if he were going to pull out his socket, but he managed to draw the blade of cold iron. This was the knife he should have drawn first. Stupid. Desperate now, barely able to breathe, he thrust the dagger into the pith of a branch. The whole tree quivered and then grew still. All the enchanted mystery fell away from it. The branches turned limp and spiritless. He stabbed again and again, killing the wild magic in the trees with the touch of iron. The small animals fled then too, leaping into the leaf-litter and then gone.

  He dug the blade into the bark of the last two of the quickened trees, twisting it into the enchanted flesh. Though he cut each tree only slightly, he heard weak moans as he pushed the knife in, and thought he saw ghostly shapes blow free and wither. Kveldulf untangled himself. He took a moment to enjoy being able to breathe again and check that he had suffered nothing worse than cuts and scrapes.

  As he knelt down and picked up the steel blade, Kveldulf felt a trickle of blood on his brow. He touched his fingers there and came away wet with blood. He could feel the wounds knitting already, closing up and sealing. That was worse than the injuries. It made him feel inhuman, somehow monstrous.

  A glance around the woods.

  Alraun and Lilia were long gone, and their trail had been well hidden. Snarling to himself under his breath, Kveldulf went back to the hollow where she had been playing her songs. The stones looked like hunched, frightened creatures. At the centre of the circle Kveldulf stood and listened. "Lilia!" He called out and heard only echoes. Then holding his hands about his mouth cried out still louder, "Lilia!"

  Silence.

  With a low groan Kveldulf eased himself onto one of the stones and with each movement discovered the meaning of pain as each fresh bruise started to heal itself. He sat there listening to the far off cries of crows and breathing in the fresh smell of earth and last night's rain. SLowly, he realised, something else was mingled in that smell. An undercurrent that was barely perceptible. He would never have noted it, if he hadn't sat here for the time it took his body to heal.

  A chill scurried over his neck. His fingers felt hot and cold.

  Dropped from the stone, falling to his knees, Kveldulf began to spread the golden leaves aside with his hands. Then taking his steel knife he hacked at the soil, scraping aside humus, rot and wriggling earthworms. Eventually, he uncovered something worn and yellowed.

  Lifting it up carefully, and brushing soil away he found the eyes of a human skull staring back at him. Other remains jutted through the disturbed soil.

  Golden scraps of light moved up the trunks of trees as the sun melted into the west. Kveldulf dug. His fingernails were chipped and blackened and his tunic was stained black by the time was finished. Breathing hard, he stood back and surveyed the glade. In the leaf litter sprawled six corpses, two of which were recent enough to still have their sparse strands of long hair. One still wore the remnant of a dress.

  -oOo-

  The twilight was rich and cool as Kveldulf trudged into the courtyard. Guards, standing about and relaxing against spears, greeted him with smiles and good evenings.

  He growled.

  Soaked, muddy from head to toe, cut, itchy where scratches were still healing, and with twigs and leaves stuck in his hair, Kveldulf didn't walk, he plodded. His frown turned to a grimace as he found himself blocked in the courtyard by a crowd. It was impossible to sneak past. Then he saw Sigurd striding towards him.

  "Kveldulf! Come see! We flushed the beast out of the woods. It's a monster, a true monster. It took a dozen arrows and killed five dogs before we brought it to ground. Largest wolf I've ever seen." Taking Kveldulf by the shoulder Sigurd pushed through the throng, puasing long enough to look him up and down. "Damn the Night Queen, you look and smell like a pigsty. What have you been out hunting? Moles?"

  "The dead."

  Sigurd looked momentarily uncomfortable, then without another response to fall to, he smiled and said, "Yes, yes, of course... here... we have slain the wolf. Come see and tell me it isn't the greatest wolf you've ever seen."

  It was hanging from a scaffold. From its jaws crawled snakes of blood. Raw injuries tore its flanks. Flies droned about the corpse. A lot of the householders held cloths or sleeves over their mouths. Children pointed and threw sticks at it.

  Without a word Kveldulf went up to the beast and pushed open the eyelid. He stared at the clouded yellow orb beneath.

  "That's not it."

  "What?"

  "You have a wolf but not the wolf." Kveldulf rubbed his temple. "Now, if you want me I will be in my cell with a basin of hot water. Goodnight."

  "But what makes you think this isn't the wolf? Ofrah swears it's the same beast that murdered her dogs and..."

  "Cut it open."

  Sigurd was now following him as the mud-stained huntsman shoved through the crowd. "Sorry?"

  "Cut it open. If there are chicken feathers and dog-bones in that gut you've got your wolf. But I am telling you, you haven't." Kveldulf fixed Sigurd with a solid stare. "You won't catch that one with dogs and spears. Not that one. Not so easily. Goodnight."

  "Wait, before you go, I almost forgot, Rosa wants to speak with you. Today, if possible, she said, but if not, then tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow, I'm afraid. I've already had enough of today."

  Sigurd looked back at the crowd. With deliberate care he drew his knife and ran a finger down the blade. His eyes on the carcass of the wolf, he bit his lip. "Ah, he's just jealous. Wishes he'd killed the damnable thing himself." With a shrug he put the knife away. Someone was yelling after the chamberlain about fetching some barrels out of the cellars. Sigurd thought about the curse, and Kveldulf's warnings about the murder. And there was the hunter's odd behaviour just now. Sigurd supposed that men in Kveldulf's trade either started out odd or end up that way, but still. During the hunt, he'd been trying to avoid thinking about it all. But now he had little choice. Without any immediate problems to deal with, his more general worries started circling around and around in his thoughts.

  -oOo-

  Kveldulf pushed open his door with an elbow. Stream gusted from the basin he held in his two hands as he moved into his room. Putting down the bowl, he stripped off, hung the feather on the wall, and began to work his fingers through the water. As he sat there something struck him as wrong. Missing. But whatever it was, he couldn't quite place his finger on it. Perhaps he was just on edge.
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  Then a scuffle in the shadows took his attention. Kveldulf's hand went to his knife belt.

  "Courteous salutations from the King of the Weird Woods."

  The voice, though quiet, had depth and a rushing sound that no human tongue could quite manage. In the shadows by the bed two gleaming eyes lit up.

  Kveldulf knew what was missing. His bag of chalk and stones for making wards was gone. "And good day to you, little one." His felt as naked as he was. All his knives were out of reach too. "A mortal house is no place for a spirit of the wilds. Be off with you."

  "Oh ho, you've no sigil-cut rocks to threaten me with. No salt from the sea. No midnight chalk. No iron-girt amulet to ward your room with. And still you threaten me?" A grin. "I can go away, but I can come back again. In the night. When you are insensate."

  Kveldulf said, after a moment's thought, "Ah, I see now. The mice in the woods." He smiled. "While I was fighting with the spirits of the trees."

  "Not all of mine master's servants are of enchanted flesh. And a mouse has no reason to be afraid of spirit-cages and such things, no, no. But I dither. I have a message." The eyes blinked. "The lord of all that lies beyond the lands of mortal men has sent me. He hath spied you in the woods..."

  "Yes, yes. I know that bit. Hurry up."

  It hissed. "Ineloquent mongrel. Fine. Mine king warns you, quit your meddling. His wrath is the storms and the rivers and all the wild things. Obey, mortal, or mine master's wrath will be swift and wicked."

  Kveldulf lunged, grabbed, and the black knife slid from its sheath. He stood. Naked, with nothing but an iron knife he advanced. The shapeless, little creature withdrew deeper into its shadows. Sharp teeth glistened as it gave a nasty snarl.

  "Kill me and mine master will have your soul."

  "Tell your lord I have heard his message." Cooling suds were running down his cheeks and over his chin. "Now get from my sight."

  The creature narrowed its pale eyes.

  It leapt forward and as it leapt it grew. It swelled and bloated. Thin gangly limbs turned massive and knotted. Kveldulf looked up into its face. A wide muzzle with bear-teeth and flaring nostrils smiled down at him. It had a mane that was both fur and ferns. Its voice was rumbled. "Quit your meddling."

  "No."

  "I shall rend you limb from limb."

  "Unlikely."

  Reaching out with one paw it made as if it would tear a hole in Kveldulf's throat, but stopped a hair's breadth away. Short, harsh breaths hissed through its teeth. It tensed its claws. Kveldulf did not move. He stared, almost bored, at the creature. Its fingers began to tremble, then with a sneer, it withdrew and hunched up.

  "I am not afraid of illusions, forest thing. Tell your king he will have to do more than send an ugly spright dressed up in a coat of glamour next time."

  "So kind was mine lord to send me, a messenger with no power to kill, but now I must tell him you are not swayed. You ask for more than mere illusion? I will tell mine master that, most gladly, and you shall see what powers he commands." A flicker of faer-fire grew about the hairy creature and with an angry growl it shrunk as quickly as it had grown. Within a heartbeat it was small and spidery again. Following with intent but impassive eyes, Kveldulf watched the creature as it darted to the door and then crawled under it, all sprawling limbs.

  Even as he watched the creature vanish a jab of pain shot through the knuckles of his right arm. He realised that he'd been gripping the knife so hard his muscles had gone rigid. "Queen of Night and Chaos." He put down the knife.

  This was bad. He still had feather, but it worked as a power to feed his scribbled charms and wards. The wards would work, if less well, without the feather. The feather would not work without the charms.

  Kveldulf threw the bowl across the room. It would be just like before Pyreathium again. She would truly grow bold again if she realised that he could no longer make night-wards against her. And it wouldn't be just dogs and chooks. Looking at his hands, he sighed. He sat down on the bed and decided that the best thing he could do for now was dry off and get some sleep, despite it being only late afternoon.

  The warm light of the feather that he had grown used to, did not give him the reassurance it used to. Maybe, he thought, Helg would have some tools of the art she could spare. Even just some cleansed chalk would be enough to work up a rude charm.

  Sleep came only slowly for him. Worry gnawed him. Like a wolf, he realised, and smiled bitterly.