"Who are you?" asked Greene.
The young man extended a hand. "Othniel Cope, at you service."
"Sal Greene." They shook hands.
"My master heard your summons," said Cope.
The accent sounded odd. The prospector could not place it. "Your master?"
"The demon Basilis. I am his intermediary, Mr Greene. Since his fall from Heaven, Basilis has used one thaumaturge or another to speak on his behalf."
A thaumaturge? No wonder Ravencrag was in such a foul mood. The phantasmacist had no patience for practitioners of rival arts.
Ravencrag hobbled over. The cold weather had evidently aggravated his hip. He squeezed past the arrangement of dead dogs, and then eased himself down into the seat closest to the wood stove. With his crooked shoulders all hunched over, and his hooked nose poking out from the folds of his topcoat, he looked more like a gargoyle than usual.
Greene and Cope joined him around a table.
"You are wondering," Cope said to Greene, "if I am who I claim to be."
"Well..." The prospector shrugged.
"How could a man of my apparent youth be the guardian of Ayen's Hounds, the skulls described by Azzarat the Nomad in his grand grimoire? You have a copy of the Heshette tome, I see." He pointed his walking stick at Ravencrag's ghoulish gallows.
"We have the book," Greene said. He thought it best not to tell Cope how little he'd paid for it. After Ravencrag had eliminated the rare and expensive magic tomes, they had moved on to the common titles, followed by the cheap ones, and then finally the tat the heathens sold at Sanpah flea market. The Book of the Hound propped up a great many tables north of Clune.
Cope lowered his walking stick and then twirled it between his hands. "Basilis grants his servants longevity," he said, "for as long as it pleases him to do so. I have served my master faithfully now for one hundred and sixty three years, during which time I have not once failed him. In return, I am permitted to retain my youth."
"What happens if you make a mistake?"
"I do not make mistakes, Mr Greene." The thaumaturge smiled thinly, then set down his walking stick. "My master's fee will be two fists of gall stones," he said. "Each one must have been removed from the body of a virgin. Basilis finds such morsels quite delicious." He paused, staring hard at the other man. "Of course, if you cannot procure these delicacies, your own soul will be an acceptable alternative."
"You'll have your stones, after you do your job."
"And what is the job?"
The prospector hesitated.
"He wants you to kill an angel," said Ravencrag.
Cope arched his thin dark eyebrows. "I see." He placed his tall hat on the floor beside his travel bag. Then, from one of the many inner pockets of his topcoat, he brought out a tiny dog. A thin, mangy creature no larger than his hand, it appeared to be suffering from some painful malady. Patches of fur had fallen out, revealing scabrous grey skin. Its ears were leathery and ragged, as though they had been chewed by older and larger pups. A repulsive crust had formed at the corners of its eyes, which it seemed unable to open.
The thaumaturge held up the tiny creature. "Let me introduce my master, Gentlemen," he said. "This is the demon Basilis, formerly Ayen's Hound Master, foremost assassin, and ultimately Heaven's own Lord of Warfare. It is from him that you must beg aid."
The dog gave a low, pitiful wail.
Greene failed to stifle a guffaw. "That pup is a demon?"
Cope nodded.
Ravencrag spat on his own floor. He peered out from under his pudding bowl hat, studying the dog with undisguised contempt. Finally he said, "I've seen scabbier mutts than that one, but not many. Do you want to kick this charlatan out now, Sal? Or should we rob him first?"
"Gentlemen!" Cope's tone demanded no further frivolity. He raised his free hand. "Do not let his humble appearance fool you. The Hound Master's physical form was destroyed in the final War Amongst the Gods. Ayen then seized her chance to condemn his soul by trapping it in this animal. In this form, Basilis cannot wield his power on earth. Nor can he die."
The pup growled.
"An impotent demon," said Ravencrag. "It's original, I'll give you that, Cope. I note that Azzarat never mentioned this in his cheap and wildly distributed tome. What was his share of the con?"
The thaumaturge's expression darkened. His eyes thinned and his lips twisted into a cruel and dangerous smile. Suddenly he looked much older than his apparent years. "You are the amateur here," he said in an ominously low voice. "Do not mock me, Sir."
Ravencrag scowled and chewed his lip. For a moment Greene thought he would respond, but thankfully the phantasmacist said nothing more.
Cope unbuttoned his travel bag and drew back the flap. It was full of bones, and three long-jawed skulls: of hounds or foxes. He withdrew one these and set it on the table beside the pup. The relic was old and yellowed, about a foot long and brimming with sharp teeth. A tiny window in the top of the cranium hinged back to reveal a hollow where the brain had once been. This was full of dust. "If you wish to beg my master's aid," he said, "you must first allow him to gaze upon you. I require a drop of blood from each of you, to add to this powder."
"Why?" asked Greene, suddenly wary.
"The ritual requires it," said Cope. "Objects which have been in Ayen's presence remain invested with shreds of her power. These are the skulls of the goddess's hounds. The beasts, as you see, are long dead, yet they retain memories of Ayen's former Hound Master. Aspects of Basilis inhabit these memories. To communicate with him we must explore them."
Ravencrag yawned.
Cope ignored him. "The ritual is similar to those used by shamans to induce visions. You are familiar with the ways of the Heshette Seers, the bone women of the north?"
"That old coot's familiar with plenty of women from the north," said Ravencrag. "So far it's caused him nothing but trouble."
Nevertheless, Greene acquiesced. What did he have to lose? His life? His eternal soul? Better that than the lives of his family. He pricked his thumb on a needle the thaumaturge produced, then, under Cope's instruction, let a drop of blood fall into the dust inside the hound's skull.
But Ravencrag refused to have anything to do with the ritual.
"You summoned my master here," Cope said to him. "Without your blood, we cannot proceed."
The phantasmacist shrugged. "You know where the door is."
Greene felt his anger swell. "You will prick your thumb, or I'll bite off your bloody finger myself. I've not come this far for you to wreck everything!"
The other man scowled at him.
"Do you want your bonus, or not?"
Ravencrag did as he was told.
The thaumaturge then scooped the clotted dust into a spoon, and heated it over a candle.
"Shouldn't we be uttering an incantation?" muttered Ravencrag. "Words of power, or some such thing?"
"If you know any incantations," said Cope, "feel free to utter them. I shall not object."
Ravencrag sank deeper into his coat pockets.
The dust smouldered and released green smoke which had an earthy woodland odour. The fumes thickened until they engulfed the three men in a dense, stinking cloud. A candle on the mantel guttered and blew out. Greene laboured to breathe. In the distance he thought he heard the braying of a pack of dogs, the thunder of hooves, and the clatter of steel: the sound of the hunt. Hot, humid air crept over them. They were assailed by powerful odours: of soil, loam, wood and moss.
And then the smoke cleared.
* * *
Sal Greene found himself standing in an oak forest. Sunshine filtered through green leaves, dappling a thick carpet of moss. A breeze rustled the canopy overhead, through which he spied glimpses of vivid blue sky. The light was soft and verdant and full of birdsong.
He stumbled and fell onto his rear, gaping at his surroundings. "Is this Heaven?" he exclaimed.
"This place no longer exists," said Cope. "We are inside the dream of the first houn
d. This was your world, an age ago, when forest covered the Deadsands. Come, quickly now, there are dangers here."
Ravencrag said, "You drugged us!"
"I did nothing to impair your senses, Mr Ravencrag," said the thaumaturge. "Now curb your tongue. An aspect of Basilis exists beyond those trees. You will show respect, or be cast out."
Greene got to his feet.
Othniel Cope set off at an energetic pace. He led the men through the woods, swinging his walking stick at his side. The mossy ground compressed under their heels, springing back like cushions. It was a maze of green shadows and whispering leaves, with the scent of summer pollens upon the air.
After only a short distance, the party reached a glade in which stood a single mighty oak. It was much larger and older than the others, and yet it looked sick and wasted. Black leaves sprouted from its gnarled branches. It had queer, blistered bark which glistened and seemed to weep fluids. A fungal infection? The trees beyond this sentinel appeared to be similarly afflicted. Disease had crippled the forest, reducing it to a snarled morass of mould and shadow.
The hairs on the back of Greene's neck stood up. He had the sudden feeling that he was being watched. He looked more closely at the oak, then suddenly recoiled. "Those are eyes!" he exclaimed.
The bole of the tree was full of eyeballs, thousands of them, each shifting in its wooden socket as it turned its attention towards the three men. Granger perceived movement above him, and glanced up to see countless more eyes watching from the branches above. Several blinked, their wrinkled bark closing over yellow, blood-flecked sclera. The prospector suppressed a shiver, for it seemed to him that those myriad gazes evinced pure malevolence. He began to back away, but halted at the sound of something snapping under his heel.
All eyes focused on him.
"This sentinel marks the beginning of the Forest of Eyes," said Cope. "The hound remembers its master's gaze, and so the woodland beyond this point is a representation of that memory, deformed by Basilis's will where it has subjugated the hound's dream. It is but one aspect of the demon which has been preserved." He threw out his arms. "Is it not beautiful?"
Greene chose not to reply.
Beyond the sentinel oak the landscape became very strange indeed. The three interlopers set off at a more subdued pace, and soon a deathly hush had settled around them. Greene could no longer hear the chirrup of birds or the whisper of leaves. Everywhere he looked he faced a murky scrawl of forest, alive with subtle movements and gelatinous glimmers. The demon stared at him from every bole and branch of these unwholesome trees, and even from the roots that gripped the earth like gnarled black fingers. Its eyes blinked and moved silently as they turned to follow the party.
They walked on a carpet of dark mulch, veined with pale fibres. When once Green nudged a scrap of the stuff aside with the toe of his boot, he saw eyes peering out at him from the clammy soil.
"Best not examine the ground too closely," warned Cope. "Lest you fear to tread."
The old prospector had, in his youth, travelled to lands beyond the Deadsands, and he had grown skilled at reading the history of the world in its shape and strata. He knew where to look for seams of copper or quartz, and which river banks hid the bones of ancient beasts. He understood erosion, how wind, rain and ice had sculpted mountain valleys so long ago. But the weirdness of this environment utterly unnerved him; it deceived his every sense. He felt tainted by its unwholesomeness.
If this was magic, then he wanted no part of it.
Ravencrag, however, appeared to have forgotten his former antipathy toward Cope. The phantasmacist shuffled through the trees, gazing around in wonder at the wretched place. The staring eyes did not seem to disturb him as much as the pain in his hip. He struggled to keep up, often forcing Cope and Greene to slow their pace to accommodate him. This aggrieved the thaumaturge no end, and ultimately caused him dismay, for it was Ravencrag's infirmity which put them all in danger.
Othniel Cope hissed a warning, and flung himself down behind a glutinous tangle of roots. He beckoned the others to join him. Greene did so at once, but Ravencrag, hampered by his stiff joints, was slower. By the time the phantasmacist had hidden himself, it was too late.
A group of very tall figures were approaching through the forest. Greene counted eight of them, all dressed in strange, tan-coloured armour bristling with hairs. Chitinous helmets inset with dark lenses obscured their faces. None appeared to be armed with martial weapons, yet their hands were protected by wicked spiked gauntlets. The warriors walked in an odd, jerking fashion, as though their legs contained too many joints. They had evidently spotted Ravencrag, for they were now converging on his hiding place.
"Who are they?" he whispered to Cope.
"I was afraid of this," said the thaumaturge, rising to his feet. "These creatures are an infestation, parasites born from the hound's memories and then mutated here. Such is my master's influence on the hound's dream. Once they were fleas. Come, it is better not to hide. They know where we are."
The creatures halted ten paces away, and stood in a semicircle under the watching trees. Greene caught his breath. What he had taken to be armour, was actually exoskeleton. They had short, hooked forelimbs and powerful legs. Combs twitched in their domed heads where their mouths ought to be.
One of them made a scratching, fluttering noise: "Frrr frnnn, frrr."
Cope strode purposefully towards them, slapping his hands as if to shoo them away. "Leave!" he commanded. "Go! Begone!"
"Thrrrrrr." The flea-men shifted and twitched; their mouth combs blurred. "Thrrrrr garrrrr."
"They possess little intelligence," explained the thaumaturge. "But they can be dangerous, particularly if they attack as a group. Show no fear or they will certainly pounce."
"We can be killed?" asked Ravencrag. "By a hallucination?"
"It is a dream, Mr Ravencrag, but it is not our dream. As interlopers, we are bound by the physical laws of this place. Our souls can be damaged here. Yes, we can be killed." He clapped his hands at the armoured creatures again, and then raised his walking stick as if to strike one of them. "Get away! Hah! "
"Frrrrrrnn frrrrrrnn." The creatures flinched, clearly agitated. Most backed away, but one crept closer to the thaumaturge, coiling to pounce.
"Hah!" In a quick, fluid motion, Cope pulled a thin sword from the hollow body of his walking stick and stabbed the vile insect through its chest. It crumpled to the ground. The thaumaturge put a boot on the thing's body, and yanked his blade free. Black fluid dripped from the steel. Twitching, the other flea-men leapt away. They danced beyond the reach of their attacker's weapon. "Frrrrnnn Thrrrrr Frrrnn Thrrrrr."
"I require assistance, gentlemen," said Cope. "The scent of blood, even their own, excites them. Stand with me and clap and shout. Show no fear! Hah!" He lunged at the nearest creature, forcing it to recoil.
Greene surged forward, slapping his big hands together, and yelling. "Away with you! Away!"
Ravencrag fled.
The phantasmacist, who had previously seemed so infirm, moved with a speed Greene could scarcely believe. His little bowl-shaped hat bobbed as he ran back through the Forest of Eyes, leaving his comrades alone to face their foes.
Clicking and chattering, the flea-men advanced. Cope swung his slender blade, nicking one creature's shoulder, but then the others were on him.
Greene searched wildly around for a weapon. He saw nothing.
He saw...
He grabbed at a branch from the nearest tree, and yanked hard. Something popped in his fist, leaking fluid. A rotten stench filled his nostrils, but he ignored it, heaving with all of his might at the branch. The wood cracked and split. He twisted it. Bark peeled away. Another yank, and the branch came loose. Greene swung the makeshift club at the nearest attacker, striking it square across its chitinous head. The creature hissed, retreated a step, its onyx eyes fixed on the prospector. Greene raised the club. To his horror, he saw that the branch was glaring at him.
Oth
niel Cope was having a hard time of it. Six of the creatures had surrounded him. Again and again the thaumaturge struck out with his sword, but the flea-men ducked and wove around his blows. The demon forest looked on in mute fury, its countless eyes narrowed on the battle.
"Have you no magic to help us?" yelled Greene.
"I dare not ask Basilis for aid," the thaumaturge cried. He struck out again as one of the creatures swiped at him, driving the foul thing back even as the others pressed closer. "It could be the end of us."
The flea-men chattered and buzzed. "Frrrrnn. Thrrrr."
Greene lashed his club at his own opponent. The wood connected, leaving a wet smear across its segmented face. But it was an impotent weapon against this creature's armour. The prospector could not hope to damage his foe, and already he was tiring. Pain cramped his hands. When had he lost the strength to handle himself in a fight? "It'll be the end of us if you don't do something," he said. "These bastards are relentless."
Cope took down a second attacker with a well-aimed thrust to the neck, but this sent the rest of them into a still greater fury. Two pounced at once, and, while he strove to drive the first one off, the other clung to his side, burrowing its head into his shoulder. Blood sluiced down the thaumaturge's arm. Impervious to Cope's flailing sword, the creature began to feed.
The thaumaturge cried out. He stumbled backwards, struggling against his attacker. He stabbed at the creature again and again.
Agony crippled Greene's hands. His chest heaved; he could hardly breathe. Yet he rushed to the other man's aid, smashing his club into the flea-man's face.