Hound of Night (Veil Knights Book 2)

by Rowan Casey

  A sigh ran around the bar when I sat and took the harp into my lap. It wasn't a guitar, so I wasn't as fluent as I could have been, but I can get a tune out of most strings, and these were no exception. The audience were quiet as I worked my way into it, starting with something slow, a slightly mournful, given my hesitation, rendition of 'My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose.' But by the time I got my rhythm and feel they were clapping along to 'A Man's a Man for a' that.' They particularly liked my folked-up take on 'The Times They Are A' Changing' too, and the barkeep relented enough to fetch me over the bowl of hot soup. It was something green and cabbage-like. It looked like boiled moss than anything, that might even have been what it was, but it was delicious. I ate between songs, for I wasn't going to be given a chance to stop now that I'd started—my audience was having too much fun.

  After the soup there was beer, malt and dark and strong, and singing. The gathered crowd, although they did not know any of my material, proved quick enough on the uptake to come in on most of the second choruses, high pitched harmonies that should have grated, but here, in this place, felt almost right. There was much foot stamping, clapping and merriment. The music made the magic made the music. So it goes.

  I believe they would have been happy for me to sit there forever, singing the old songs and slowly getting more proficient on the old harp. And as for me, for the first time since leaving the rat-king on the balcony, I was actually happy that I hadn’t chosen the beach.

  That all changed during my attempt at 'Matty Groves.' The old folk tale of deception and love, death and betrayal seemed to strike a chord with the audience. They might not understand the words, but they seemed to pick up on the meaning quickly enough and for the first time I sensed some degree of alarm in them. The barkeep came over and gently took my hands away from the strings, and put a finger to his lips. A universal gesture—shut the fuck up.

  I did as I was told. Silence fell in the bar, but the warning had come too late it seemed. Outside the keep, the sound coming from somewhere high and dark and far off, a great dog howled. The faces of the gathered folks told me all I needed to know. Seconds ago they had been singing and clapping and happy. Now they were terrified. And they were all looking to me to do something about it.

  I'd been fed and watered. Now, it seemed it was time for me to earn it, and they'd taken the harp away now, so no more singing was going to get it done. The barkeep poured a heap of salt on the table in front of me, flattened and spread it out, then traced in it with his finger. After teasing the salt into the semblance of three crude peaks, he pointed at the first, then at himself, then at the third, then across the bar to my right. Then he repeated it until I got it.

  Third peak on the right, knock three times and ask for Face.

  The expectant look on their faces told me all I needed to know. There had been a reason they were so happy to see me. They'd been waiting for a champion, and they thought they had gotten one. Now it was up to me to live up to their expectations.

  They gave me a soft leather canteen. Not of water, but of beer, and I wasn't complaining, and some dried meat jerky, unidentifiable as to provenance but, again, beggars can't be choosers. Then I was ushered out with as much ceremony as I'd been welcomed. They took me to the gate, pointed off to the third peak on the right, and then closed the old oak behind me with a slam that seemed to say 'don't come back until it's done.' Maybe that was just my own imagination providing a commentary, but it felt right.

  Besides, I hadn't come here to sit in a bar and sing the old songs. I could have done that in L.A. just as easily. But the stop had achieved one thing, it had grounded me in this place, made me see that maybe it wasn't quite as foreign and outlandish as I'd feared. My heart was just a wee bit less heavy, and my footsteps that bit firmer and more assured, as I took a narrow, right hand path out of the keep.

  I sang as I walked—“Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho.” It seemed only apt.

  16

  I didn't have to walk far before I got a good view of the task ahead of me—the keep and tower was obviously the highest point of this part of the ridge, and within seconds after walking away from it the ground fell abruptly into a dark valley. The trail I was following was quickly lost in gloom even before it reached a tree line; distinguishable only as a darker shadow among many shadows.

  I set my sights on the third tower along the ridge, then traced a route back to where I stood. I saw with some dismay that I'd have to go down a very long way before I could go up again. The shadows didn't look inviting in any way, and it was quite a distance, hours, maybe even a day if such a thing existed here, of walking ahead of me. I thought of stepping back through to L.A. I hadn't tried it yet because I wasn't sure it would work and I wasn't sure that I'd want to come back here if I did manage to return to the house on the beach.

  There was another thing preventing me quitting, too, the Norn had reached me. Their simple enjoyment of my playing, their hospitality despite the rigors of their existence, and their belief that I was the man for the job at hand, meant that I wasn't going to turn away just because there was a strenuous walk in front of me. I took a long sip from the skin and the heady, dark ale reminded me again of the harp and the music. My head was full of the old songs and my heart of as much remembered joy as I could muster as I descended into the dark shadows of the valley below.

  I walked through more ashen forest. It felt colder here than on the upper slopes, despite the protection from the wind, and the trees were more densely packed beside a trail that was only a foot or so wide, winding down into ever deeper darkness. There was only the yellowish moonlight dancing through the branches to light my way, and at times even that seemed to dim and splutter like a candle in a breeze as the air grew heavy and once again salty ash filled my throat.

  There were no footprints here, no sign of any wildlife at all. I hadn't even heard the flutter of wings from above since leaving the keep—although that might not be a bad thing. I felt like I was alone in an ash-covered purgatory and by the look of the terrain and track, I was the only person to have passed this way for many, many years. The songs in my head and the joy in my heart weren't up to the task of sustaining me for too long in these conditions, and all too soon it became a one-foot-after-the-other slog of blind determination to get to the end of it.

  I went down that trail in the dark for what felt like hours. To tell the truth, if the hound had howled at any point in that dark descent, I might well have tried my Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card and attempted to head back to the beachfront house. But there was only the soft crunch of ash underfoot and the crack of breaking branches when I had to push my way through a thicker copse.

  Finally, and to my great relief, I reached the lowest point of the trail—not the lowest point of the valley, for it kept descending away toward where the moon hung over the dark sea. Thankfully, I wasn't headed that way. The trail crossed what had once been a river here, over a stone bridge so ancient that it too had taken on a dark, almost burnt aspect, as if the old rocks were themselves turning to ash. I stopped on the near bank to inspect the structure. I didn't want to get part way over and have the thing collapse under my weight. It was a long way down with no sign of any way back up, even if I miraculously survived the fall.

  And that's when I found a sign that I wasn't the first living person to take this path, although by the look of the body it might have been by the side of the trail since the bridge itself was built.

  I had to scrape ash away to even see it clearly, but it was a knight, in mail and greaves, the metal of which was rusted and burned away so much that it crumbled under my touch as easily as any of the tree's branches. There was a skeleton inside; bones darkened by age and ice and ash, the eyes darker shadows still than any that lay around him, teeth bared in one last smile. His rib cage was crushed inward, jagged bone piercing the ash remnants that was all that remained of his heart. But he'd died in victory, for there was a sword, as rusted as his armor, embedded in the chest of a far larger skeleton that was str
etched alongside him at the edge of the bridge. I don't know what it had been, but I could take a guess—it had leathery, bat-wings, not quite as ravaged by time as the rest of it, and a long face—a gray, rodent like skull with yellow, broken teeth.

  But that wasn’t even what gave me pause and had me standing on the edge of the bridge far longer than was necessary. No, what gave me pause was the only bit of color in the gray aftermath of this ancient struggle.

  Long, wispy strands of hair streamed out around the knight's helmet—long, ginger, hair, untouched by darkness.

  "Hail cousin, well met," I whispered.

  I wasn’t the first Seton to pass this way.

  I took a firmer grip of the quarter-staff and, tapping it hard on the surface of the bridge ahead of me to test for weakness, began to make my way slowly across. The bridge was narrow, only five feet at the widest, and if it ever had a wall guarding against a fall, it too had long since crumbled away. I felt exposed to the height, a drop of fifty feet or more to the black dry rock below that used to be a riverbed, and was thankful that the wind was not any stronger than a stiff breeze from my right.

  The old decaying stone settled alarmingly in several places under my weight, and I went across slowly, inch by inch, tap-tapping the staff all the way. I kept my head down, eyes on the bridge, ready to run should any cracks appear, so I heard the voice before I saw anything—soft, almost sibilant, and with more than a hint of humor in it.

  "You shall not pass," it declaimed, and laughed as I looked up into a long, rat-like face. A winged beast stood at the far end of the bridge, blocking my path. At first I thought it was the king from the balcony again, come to make me another offer. But this one was different. It was the same sort of beast, with the rat face, the wings, and the talons on its feet, but this was younger, broader across the chest, stronger in limb, and with teeth that, when it smiled, looked ready to tear flesh. There was something about the face that reminded me of the Norn back up the hill in the keep, but I doubted that this one was going to be appreciative of my singing.

  "It looks like somebody a lot like me beat somebody a lot like you here, once upon a time," I said, and pointed back at the skeletons on the far side.

  The thing laughed.

  "Once upon a time, yes. But he had a sword and he's dead. You've got a stick, and I don't play fetch."

  I showed it the skin of beer.

  "This is all I have. It's yours if you let me cross."

  He stood right at the far end of the bridge, off the stone itself and on the trail that led up the far valley wall. I was thankful of that, for I didn't think it would take the weight of both of us at once. He looked from my canteen, to me.

  "Bribery won't work, Seton."

  "How is it that you know my name and I don't know yours?" I said, at the same time inching forward toward him. It wasn't worth attempting to go back; I was past halfway, and every little bit toward the far side would come in handy if I was to start to drop.

  He patted at his chest.

  "Norn," he said.

  "Catchy," I replied, and another thought struck me. I inched forward a bit more as I spoke.

  "How come you speak English but the guys back up the hill don't?"

  He tapped on the ground at his feet with the talons of his right toes.

  "This is Ladyland," he said, and pointed over my shoulder and spat. "Nornland, that's what they call it, but those buggers aren't Norn. I'm Norn."

  If there was any change in inflection in his names, I didn't catch it. But I had him talking, and every word meant I could sidle a wee bit closer to safety.

  "And this lady? I'm guessing she's up in yonder high tower?"

  He nodded.

  "You watch TV, she watches TV, and that stuff is insidious, you know? It seeps through."

  "Shite sticks, right enough," I replied. "But I'm a friend of the ladys—I just want a wee word."

  With that I took a bigger step forward. The quarter-staff send a burst of heat in my palm as the bridge swayed slightly. A lump of rock the size of my head fell away and tumbled into the gorge. It seemed to take an awful long time to fall.

  "That's far enough, pal," the beast said. I was less than ten feet from it, but now that the bridge had started to move, its final decay accelerated. Rubble and ash tumbled away underfoot, and I felt my balance get threatened as the whole structure swayed.

  The beast laughed at my sudden, uncalled for dance moves as I tried to stay upright. I got everything under control eventually, but I was only too aware that the bridge could crumble at any moment.

  Being on firm ground, the beast was in no hurry whatsoever.

  "I was put on guard here for a reason, you know?" it said casually, as if we'd stopped in the street for a chat. "The lady knows you're coming—and you're not welcome. I can't just let you through. It's more than my job's worth."

  "And this job," I said. "You getting much satisfaction from it?"

  The bridge was steadily collapsing away under my feet—I had no way back, no way down—the only option was forward. I braced myself to jump.

  "It's less of a job and more of an all you can eat buffet, to be honest," he replied, and showed me his teeth again as I rushed him.

  17

  The beast was expecting my attack. Its wings stretched out and ash fell around us as they beat, breaking branches and filling the air with choking flecks of salty soot. I leapt forward just as a chunk of bridge fell away under me, and I was off balance as the thing rose into the air to attempt to rake at me with the talons on its feet. I ducked, and felt my hat get caught in one of the talons, felt cold at my ears as it was dragged off my head and flew off somewhere into the darkness.

  I poked up with the splintered end of the quarter-staff even as I went into a roll. I caught the beast between the legs. The staff hit flesh, soft flesh, and it howled, long and high. It was as vulnerable there as the rest of us. It collapsed among the trees to my left; dead wood smashed in a billowing cloud of ash and dust that meant I had to hold my breath for a few seconds.

  The beast thrashed around, trying to get itself into a position where it could get up. I could possibly have stepped in then and finished it, but the soot and ash was too thick in the air and I could scarcely see beyond the end of my arm. By the time the air cleared enough that I might breathe and see clearly, the beast was getting its feet under its body, using outstretched wings to balance it as it attempted to stand.

  "Hey, no fair," it said as it rose, bent over now, pain clear in its eyes.

  "Well, I liked that hat," I replied, and managed to get my feet solidly planted on firm ground as it came forward in a headlong rush. The trees on either side hampered its attack. I'd made sure of that. It couldn't take flight, so couldn't bring its main weapons to bear. And I was ready now.

  It didn't stand a chance. It lunged and I struck from a high guard, and as quick as that it lay in a crumpled heap at my feet. Its skull had been softer than I expected. I'd meant to just stun it, but blood and brain was already seeping onto the ash underfoot. It looked up at me, pleading, and gave out a mewling whimper of pain I could not bear to hear, so I gave it what it was asking for and struck down, hard, between its eyes.

  In truth, I felt worse about this kill than I had in dispatching the man in Black's library. I knew I'd be thinking about this one later, in dark nights when my mind went to darker places.

  I had some of the beer to get the bad taste out of my mouth and my head, then I had a look around for my hat, checking the immediate area before I looked back over the valley to were I'd come from. Both my hat and the old bridge had gone down into the dark. The structure had collapsed completely, the whole length of it having fallen away to the dry riverbed. There was no way back for me. And although I liked that hat, I didn't like it enough to go down into the gorge looking for it.

  I left the fallen guard where it lay and turned back to the trail.

  The only way was up.

  Now that I knew there was a possibility o
f guards, and that I was expected, I was more circumspect and kept a watchful eye on my surroundings as I went up through more of the dense forest. But it wasn't as if I had much choice in the trail I was taking. There was only this single, narrow trail, snaking through the blasted woods. Somewhere higher it would open out above the tree line, and somewhere above that there would be another tower, and at the top of that, finally, Face would be waiting. It suddenly seemed like an awfully long way to go for a chat.

  As I trudged, with cold ears to go with my colder feet now, I had plenty of time to ponder why I was here at all. Sure, there was the leash to think about, that was the goal after all, Dante's fortune and glory and white knight stuff that had motivated me in the first place. But I was more interested in a different motivation at that point; Face's motive, in what might be a betrayal in my eyes, but in hers might be a good result of a long con. I'd meant what I said to the guard, I just wanted to talk to her. I had to look her in the eye, for the first time ever, and see whether there was truth or lie there. The problem was, if her con was as good as I now suspected it to be, I wasn't sure I was going to be able to tell one from the other.

  I won't bore you with details of the next few hours, there are none, just cold drudgery and the ever-present taste of ash in my mouth. I was dog-tired, cold and out of beer by the time I finally reached the tree line and looked up to see the jutting black ragged outline of another tower looming high over the slopes above me. I scanned the sky, looking for not-birds, listening for the snap and rustle of leathery wings, but there was only the whistle of the mountain breeze and the crackle of frozen ash underfoot as I stepped out into the open.

  The quarter-staff felt slightly warm in my hand, but that was mostly to do with the fact that my grip on it was so tight that my knuckles had whitened. I forced myself to relax my hands. If there was going to be a fight, I needed total control and calm. But both felt a long way away as I made my way up a rocky slope of frozen scree, almost as fine as gravel, hard work that dragged me nearly as far backward as forward with every step. I was fortunate to have the staff, for there were several times I was saved from tumbling in a slide by being able to plant it firmly like a third leg and use it to hold my weight.