by L. L. Soares
“Run!” Ulaf shouted, and they sprinted for the door, Anders herding the boys along and trying not to vomit from the stench of burning flesh.
“You can’t escape!” came Gryla’s voice. “I’ll eat your hearts for what you’ve done.”
Anders risked a look back and saw the Yule Lad, his body engulfed in fire, staggering through the kitchen while his brother beat at him with a cloth. Sections of the floor and table were already in flames from scattered coals.
Then he focused his attention on Ulaf, who waved his arms at them from a different stairwell than the one they’d used before.
Somewhere deep in the castle, a horn sounded, followed quickly by others. Anders pushed the children faster.
The King had joined the search.
Anders gritted his teeth and forced his legs to keep moving. He had both hands against the walls of the stairwell, using them to push himself forward and keep his balance at the same time. Although the elf said nothing, his desperate eyes and sweating face told Anders all he needed to know.
They were running out of time.
One flight down, Ulaf stopped on a landing much wider than any they’d seen earlier.
“This way leads to the Great Hall,” he whispered. Over everyone’s combined panting and gasping, Anders had to strain to hear the words. “’Tis our only hope. If we can cross it to the main doors, a chance there might be of reaching the path that leads out of the village.”
“Won’t there be guards?” Paul asked. He had his arms around his sons, who both looked as spent as Anders felt.
“Likely, yes. But perhaps not as many.” Ulaf shrugged his shoulders to emphasize his uncertainty. “Aiding in the search they might be. Let us hope so, for above us are no exits, and below there will be men in the tunnels for sure.”
Paul looked at Anders, who shrugged. “We don’t have much choice.”
“Daddy, I don’t want to,” Jake said, clutching at Paul’s leg. “The nasty old lady might be out there.”
“You have to trust Grandpa.” Anna leaned down, put her face in front of Jake’s. “If he thinks this is the only way to get back home, then we should do it.” She glanced at Anders and gave him a tight-lipped nod that he couldn’t decipher.
Accusation or apology? He decided it didn’t matter. If by some miracle they made it out of the castle and back to their own reality, they could worry about working things out then.
“Go ahead,” he told Ulaf, who responded by opening the door just wide enough to slip through. When no alarms were raised, the elf motioned for them to follow him into the Great Hall.
Anders had no idea what to expect as he stepped into the throne room of the Holly King. As a child, he’d always imagined it would look like the pictures and drawings he’d seen of medieval castles.
As with so much of Winterwood, his imagination paled in comparison to reality.
The Great Hall stretched out in all directions, a colossal monument to Death. The mounted heads of slain animals—elk, reindeer, bear, wolves—decorated the walls. Mixed among the grisly trophies were dozens of human heads, but not like any humans who walked the earth. These faces were more beast than man, with tusks jutting out and noses that looked stolen from wild boar. Violent tapestries hung at intervals, depicting graphic scenes of the Wild Hunt and the Feast of Juul, complete with men, women and children being gutted or eaten.
At one end of the hall, an enormous throne made of leather, bone and antlers perched atop a wide dais. From the width of the throne and the height of stairs leading to it, Anders got the impression the Holly King’s stature had nothing in common with the other inhabitants of Winterwood.
In fact, it seemed the King might be something of a giant.
On the opposite side of the room from the throne, a pair of gigantic arched doors made up the main entrance. In between was open space, with no furniture of any kind. Rows of blazing torches ran along the walls, providing ample light to see by.
“Quickly now.” Ulaf headed carefully towards the doors, glancing back and forth with each step. Anders followed a few paces behind, sweating from the surprising warmth in the room. Although he couldn’t see it, he assumed there had to be a massive fireplace somewhere, perhaps behind the throne, to heat such a large space. The scent of the burning wood lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp odor of kerosene from the torches.
The idea that someone had carved the entire Great Hall right into the center of the tree stunned him. He leaned back, taking in the domed ceiling at least thirty feet overhead.
Not just this room. All the rooms and hallways, from the dungeons to the topmost spires. All of it carved by slave labor over the centuries. The millennia. How many millions of lives had the Hunt claimed in that time? How many people changed against their will, forced into servitude?
How many consumed at the feasts?
Anders looked back at Anna and Paul, each holding one of their children’s hands and pulling the exhausted boys along. Sweat poured down their faces, which had gone red from exertion.
There are four lives this place will never get. Not if I can help it.
They’d covered half the distance to the exit when the brassy croak of a horn sounded outside the castle. Ulaf came to a stop just as the doors swung open and a pack of the largest dogs Anders had ever seen came charging in. Each snarling hound stood as tall as Ulaf at the shoulder, with coats of the purest black. Their eyes whirled yellow and red and orange, like hot coals in a breeze. Steam rose from their mouths and their tongues lolled over teeth that would have sent a wolf cowering in shame.
The hounds formed a circle around the humans and Ulaf, cutting off any hope of escape. Their growls intensified to a rumbling, felt as well as heard. Strings of saliva hung from black lips pulled back to reveal yellowed fangs, and the rotten meat odor of their combined breath filled the circle.
Jake cried out and hid his face against Paul’s chest. Nick wrapped his arms around both Paul and Jake, while Paul pulled Anna close.
Ulaf let out a moan, drawing Anders’s attention back to the doorway in time to see a figure enter the hall. More trumpeting accompanied him, and several of the hounds whined in anticipation.
“Krampus.” The elf’s voice sounded faint, swept away by the frigid wind coming through the doorway. An involuntary shudder ran through Anders as freezing air met damp skin. He stared at the Holly King, and his last hope of escape shriveled and died inside him.
Wide as two men and at least seven feet tall, the King looked more fearsome than any tale described him. Ragged white hair fell down to his shoulders, creating a knotted, tangled mane around a narrow, angular face. A wide forehead lined with numerous creases descended to heavy brows that hung over deep-set eyes ringed with reddened flesh. The eyes themselves weren’t human, their yellow color and horizontal pupils reminiscent of a goat’s. A hooked nose with flaring nostrils centered the face and slanted down towards a mouth designed for a carnivore. Thin, red lips surrounded pointed teeth. Oversized tusks protruded out from his top and bottom jaws, overlapping his lips. Below the mouth, the face narrowed to a cleft chin decorated with wispy hairs, which only added to a goatlike countenance.
The rest of the King’s appearance shouted warrior. Muscular arms and legs, a barrel chest and clothes made of thick hides dyed red and black. Across one shoulder hung a longbow, and in one hand he gripped an immense axe, its iron head permanently stained from centuries of blood.
“No, this, this is all wrong,” stammered Ulaf. “The Hunt never goes out twice in a night.”
“Oh, a Hunt there shall be.” The Holly King’s booming voice echoed through the hall. “The stink of human blood has filled my nose since I returned. I thank you for entering my home. I do so enjoy it when my food comes to me.”
The King swung his axe around, the heavy blade whistling through the air. Ulaf moaned again. One of the hounds snarled and
inched forward, forcing the elf back a step.
“Halt,” Krampus said, and the hound stopped. “It wouldn’t be sporting to kill them this way.” He pointed the axe at the humans. “A count to hundrað I shall give you. Then I will come for your lives.”
The hounds in front of them licked their chops but stepped to either side, creating an opening in their circle. Anders stared at it.
“Einn, tveir, þrír…”
Was the Krampus really counting them a head start?
Move, you old fool!
Anders turned to Anna and Paul. “Run for the woods. Hide. Climb a tree if you must. But find your way back to the Veil before sunrise. Go!” he shouted when Anna just shook her head and pressed herself tighter against her husband.
Anders raised his hands, ready to give them a shove, scream at them, anything to get them moving while they still had a chance.
“Fire! The castle is burning!” Everyone turned at the cries coming from the stairwell. Gryla, with one of the Yule Lads behind her, ran into the room, her clothes and hair covered in soot. Thick, black smoke chased them from the doorway.
“Them!” She pointed at the humans. “They did it. Killed one of my Lads and set the kitchen on fire.”
“Get them!” the King roared, but in that instant other doors, hidden until then, opened and disgorged dozens of elves and ogres, all of them shouting for help. A deafening crack drowned out their voices and a section of ceiling crashed onto the throne in an explosion of flames. Burning timber tumbled away, creating lines of fire that quickly spread across the floor and set the tapestries alight.
Smoke poured down through the hole and in from the doorways, creating a superheated cloud that rapidly spread through the room. Instead of attacking, the hounds whined and turned in circles, confused by the commotion.
“Now!” Anders slapped at Paul’s arm. The stunned look fell away from the man’s face and he pushed the boys forward. They ran, following Ulaf.
Anders waited for Paul and Anna to get moving before bringing up the rear. Smoke and heat burned his eyes and made it impossible to see where he was going. Heavy footsteps pounded the floor near him and the King’s axe carved through the smoke to thud into the wood inches away. The resulting vibration nearly shook him off his feet. Jagged splinters flew in all directions and Anders gasped as several of the tiny daggers pierced through his clothes to stab at his flesh.
Then the smoke thinned and he saw the doorway ahead, the cold wind from outside creating a zone of clear air. The others had already passed through and Anders ducked his head and ran harder, his lungs fighting for oxygen as he caught up to his family. Together they sprinted across the village square and towards the dirt path beckoning from the other side.
The moment they reached the path, the woods closed in around them and created a tunnel through which they raced, the bellowing of horns behind them a constant reminder of Death on their heels. The thrumming of hoofbeats a moment later only added to the terror fueling their muscles. In another breath, the baying of the hounds added to the din.
“How far?” Paul gasped. Anders shook his head. The walk from the Veil to Ulaf’s tree was a blur in his memory. He’d been too intent on finding shelter to pay attention to the distance they’d traveled.
“A shortcut lies ahead.” Ulaf pointed forward, where the path split. A narrow trail led to the left, while the wide main trail continued forward.
There was no time to ask questions. Ulaf turned onto the smaller path and they stayed with him, trusting his sense of direction. The snow grew deeper, threatening to drag down their legs. Anders had hoped the narrow trail would slow their pursuers, but the baying only grew louder.
“The Veil.”
Anders saw it at the same time. A widening of the trail, and in the center, a shimmering rainbow of color, a diffuse curtain that turned the trees behind it into wavering, distorted shapes.
“Hurry,” he urged the others. “Don’t stop.”
It took less than a minute for them to reach the Veil, but in those seconds Anders feared they wouldn’t make it. The pounding of hooves had become a thousand kettledrums, a hundred thunderstorms behind them, the force of it shaking snow from the trees. He refused to turn and look back, his ears telling him all he needed to know. The King was close, the hounds closer.
He watched the people ahead of him disappear into the Veil; Ulaf, Paul, Anna, the boys swallowed by the divide between the worlds.
Two steps later he crossed the boundary and all sound and light ceased to exist. For less than a heartbeat, longer than a lifetime, he existed in absolute nothing, a place bereft of matter and energy.
And then reality returned. His feet came down hard on modern blacktop and he stumbled, his arms windmilling as he fought to regain his balance. Streetlights illuminated a silent, empty Main Street. Up ahead, Ulaf and the others waited for him, relief etched on their faces.
“Keep going,” Anders said, forcing his legs back into motion. The Hunt would be there any second.
“Safe we are,” Ulaf raised a fist, a smile pulling up the corners of his beard. “The Hunt cannot return twi—”
The elf tumbled over in midword, a three-foot arrow protruding from his chest.
Anders turned. Thirty feet back, the Holly King sat atop a giant reindeer, the points of its antlers sharp as knives and its eyes red as fire. A dozen ogres mounted on smaller deer gathered behind him, all armed with bows or swords. The hounds waited to either side for their master’s command to charge.
“Ho!” the King roared, his voice echoing up and down the street. The Hunt leaped forward, the King in the lead, his massive axe in hand.
Anders looked around. They were still blocks away from the house. Darkened stores and restaurants offered no safety. Up ahead, a stoplight swung back and forth in the wind, its green glow—
A memory rose up in Anders’s mind. Something his father had told him as a child.
“There are only two ways to defeat the Hunt. Join it or take yourself to a crossroads.”
A crossroads. Like a four-way intersection?
“Come on.” Anders pushed the others toward the center of the road, directly under the traffic light.
“What are you doing?” Anna tried to break free. “We have to run.”
“No time. Kneel down.”
“But—”
“Trust me, please.” He stared into his daughter’s eyes. An arrow struck the ground nearby, the metal head throwing up sparks as it zinged by. Please, daughter…
“All right.” She knelt, pulling the children down with her. Anders joined them, his knees touching the road just as Paul cried out and grabbed his arm. Blood flowed from between his fingers and he collapsed next to his wife. Anders prayed his father had gotten the old tales right. He put his arms around Anna and Paul and held on tight.
The thunder of the Hunt reached a deafening crescendo and Anders ducked his head, certain he’d made a mistake, that this was the end…
Cold enveloped him, worse than any winter wind, worse than falling into a frozen lake. The cold of deep space. He felt his flesh hardening, his blood turning to ice. Ghostly images flashed by, their phosphorescent shapes passing through clothing and bodies, sucking heat and life as they went. Someone screamed. A tremendous pressure built in Anders’s head, like diving too deep in a lake. He cried out and pressed his hands over his ears.
And then it all stopped.
Thunder, screams, bitter cold. All of it gone in an instant.
Anders looked up. A hundred yards down the road, the Holly King glared furiously in their direction, the Hunt lined up behind him. When he made no move to charge again, Anders let out a sigh.
The old tales had been true after all. Thank you, Vater. That was twice his father had saved him, once as a child and now again. A debt that could never be paid. At least not until the afterlife.
“Prepare to die, mortals,” the King shouted. The ogres cheered and shook their weapons, but none of them moved forward. Even the hounds remained in place.
Nick whimpered and Anders put a hand on the boy’s back.
“Not tonight,” Anders called out. “We’re safe as long as we remain within the crossroads. And we can stay here until morning, while you must return to Winterwood before light strikes the horizon.”
The Holly King lowered his axe. His eyes narrowed. One of the hounds howled in frustration and the ogres muttered curses.
“So, you know the old ways. But there will be other Hunts.”
Anders nodded. “And we’ll be safely inside, with warm drinks and gifts. You’ll never have us on your table, Father Ice.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Who knows what the future holds?” the King kicked his stag, which reared up on its hind legs and let loose an angry shriek. “Ho!”
The Hunt stormed forward and Anders ducked. Once more the supernatural cold swept through him as the riders and their mounts turned into harmless phantoms, spectral hooves drumming the ground but impotent against flesh.
When the last of the riders passed through, Anders turned to watch the flickering Veil fold in on itself behind the Hunt. A brisk wind whistled to life and Anders felt it tugging at him, trying to draw him into the shrinking Veil. Ulaf’s body tumbled down the street and vanished into the metaphysical curtain just before it closed with a pop.
The wind died away, leaving the five of them alone on the road.
“Is it over?” Paul lifted his head.
Anders let out a heavy sigh. “Yes. The Hunt won’t be returning tonight.”
“Can we go home now?” Jake asked.
“We sure can.” Paul ruffled his son’s hair, then winced.
“You’re hurt,” Anna said, taking his arm and pulling back the torn sections of sleeve to reveal a long, deep gash that still bled heavily. Blood stained his pants as well where the Yule Lad had bitten him.
“Gonna be tough explaining this to a doctor,” Paul said. His face didn’t mirror the humor in his words. In fact, Anders thought, he looked about ready to faint.
