Old Dark Things

by Hob Goodfellowe

CHAPTER THE FOURTH

  The hall was still in a state of disorder when Kveldulf returned. Rumours flitted from table to table. He found Sigurd talking with two householders, and waited for the conversation to pause before politely clearing his throat. "Do you know which room is to be mine tonight?"

  "Yes. I asked the chamberlain to have one cleaned out for you near the Eorl's chambers. I can find someone to show you the way."

  "If it is not too much to ask, I have some questions. Can we talk?

  "There is more to the night," said Sigurd. "Dancers and jongleurs."

  "I am weary. And I need to see to some things."

  "Of course, of course. The practise of your... er... trade."

  "Yes."

  Sigurd excused himself from the conversation. As he and Kveldulf left the hall, the young man glanced at the high table. "They are all fools, you know. The kinsmen and Chamberlain and Seneschal. As bad as the troubadours and jesters who act the fool to amuse. Worse, for at least a fool-by-trade is honest. These men... they play at being wise and are the more foolish for it. Look at the Freer, wriggling his hands and flapping his jaw and rubbing his scalp. All of them bickering and stammering and smiling to hide their fear."

  "Except for Rosa."

  "Yes, she is the only one of them who has command of her senses." A shrug. "Or at least as far as concerns doing anything useful. Ermengarde is quite steady, but too much involved in the day-to-day life of the fortress to see that there is something deeply foetid in the Toren Vaunt."

  "Ermengarde?"

  "The older lady. She's the Eorl's sister. At dinner she was sitting next to the Freer."

  Ah, good. That was the older woman who went after Lady Lilia then. Kveldulf nodded. "Tell me Sigurd, does Lilia ever vanish from time to time?"

  The thane's brow knotted. "I suppose so... yes, but whenever she hides herslef, Ermengarde ferrets her out."

  "I mean, for longer than an hour or so? Afternoons... days... weeks?"

  "I don't know. I don't think so." Each word was slow and considered, "But I don't think that anyone really keeps a strict thumb on her. Not as strict as they ought to. She takes meals by herself. She seldom spends time with her ladies-in-waiting. And if she did wander off for a day or more, well, Ermengarde would no keep it quiet. It would be quite a scandal, after all."

  "Yes. I suppose it would."

  "Why? Do you suspect her? She is a strange one, but if you are suggesting something more sinister..."

  "Deceit? Almost certainly. The shadowy arts? Murder? No, she does not have that air about her. Unless I am tricked." Kveldulf smiled. "Which is not unknown. One other thing, the pipe of hers, how long has she owned it?"

  "The shawm? Hm. Oh, I suppose a year or two. I think Rosa said that Lilia found it somewhere. In an old chest or wardrobe?" Sigurd stopped at a square, practical looking door. "Here we are. The Chamberlain said you could use this cell for the night. Actually, for as many nights as you want. No one else wants it."

  Dry, leathern hinges creaked. Light from the hall chased into the room but didn't seem to like what it found, and kept as near the doorway as possible. They stepped into the bare spare space.

  Sigurd coughed. "Still dusty, I'm afraid. No one has slept here since the Eorl's illness. At least the pallet should be free of bedbugs. The scurff will be starved by now. I asked the Chamberlain to order up some new straw, a wisp-lantern, chamber-pot and rug." Sigurd looked around. "Everything looks to be in order. Rest well."

  He shut bid goodnight to Sigurd and shut the door, then listened in darkness as lonely footsteps receded. He did not bother to light a lamp.

  Undressing slowly, he ran a hand over his face and decided that tomorrow he would make an effort to trim his beard. He kept it short so as not to catch food, but could not quite bring himself to shave it off entirely, as was the current fashion. Still living in the past, he thought. As Kveldulf took off his jerkin the room was suffused by a glow. Around his neck was a gold chain and hanging from this was a feather--the colour of fire and purple sunsets and warm brass--gleaming just enough to throw dull light into the corners of the room. Kveldulf hung the feather from a peg on the door. By the light of the uncanny feather he sorted through his things, careless with most of his belongings but very careful with his knives, which he laid out near the bed.

  He did not set out his wards though. The problem was that the wards worked both ways. He could not go walking in the night himself, not if the wards were there. So, on nights when he needed to go night-walking, he had to take a risk on his preternatural defences.

  Before climbing into the bed, Kveldulf took out the three knives he always carried. He set them down on the floor, within easy reach. The knives were a matching set, made in Temask and worth a prince's ransom. The first was a knife of cold iron for faer things, then a knife of steel for more mortal enemies, and finally a knife edged and coated with silver, for darker creatures.

  The warm smell of dry, fresh straw filled his nostrils as he lay down on the wooden pallet. Grass stalks poked him through the wool blankets. He sneezed, closed his heavy eyes, and eventually he found sleep... and dreams.

  Kveldulf dreamed that he got up and stretched an imaginary body. Stepping lightly to the timber floor, he shivered in the cold. The stale air smelled of nothing unusual. The darkness was a muted grey through which he could see every stone and plank. It was impossible to know how many hours had passed since he fell asleep. Sometimes he dreamed at once. Sometimes he lay asleep hours before the dreaming came. On rare nights no dreams came at all. Enough wine could keep the dreams away, but ever since Pyreathium he'd given up on that. Better to use the dreams. Better to make the night-walking his ally, rather than run away into a stupor each night. Crouching, listening, he decided the household sounded and smelled thoroughly asleep.

  The door was difficult to open. When he dreamed Kveldulf found it hard to manipulate things. It always took effort and time and far too much focus.

  When he finally got the door open he peered out into the empty corridor.

  Nothing but shadows and silence.

  Creeping out, he stole down the corridor. At the Eorl's bedchamber a light flickered under the door. Armed men would be keeping vigil within. He could not risk nudging open this door, but as it was, he didn't need to.

  The air was thick with the stench of sorcery. It hung in greasy, clammy coils, too faint for a living, waking man's nose, but now as obvious as the plaster on the walls and planks of the floor. Dogs can smell faint scents like sorcery. Cats too. And sometimes dreams.

  The reek of witchcraft flowed like a thin, broad stream under the door. It eddied away from the Eorl's room, down the hall, and around a corner. It was an easy trail to follow.

  The tainted air led first to the great hall, then beneath the carved dragon and then through the chambers beyond. Those too drunk or too poor to find a bed after the feast lay slumbering on the floor. No one woke as Kveldulf passed, although the more sensitive stirred as they were visited by a brief flicker of a nightmare.

  Now stalking the courtyard, Kveldulf breathed in lungfuls of the witched air. It flowed out of the fortress. Into the woods perhaps? Or to the hamlet below?

  Though he was careful to avoid the kennels and stables, Kveldulf's presence still made dogs whine and horses stamp. A sleepy voice cursed somehwere in the darkness. A dog barked. Kveldulf edged a little deeper into shadow.

  Nosing along the east wall, he found a small sally door. The place reeked of rotting cabbage and offal. Kveldulf guessed that it was a shortcut to a midden outside the walls.

  He leaned against the door, putting force into it until he felt it give. It buckled slowly, creaking and groaning, then, with a crack, it splintered. Somewhere on the battlements someone heard the sound and gave a short, hard yell. A moment later a horn bleated from the nearest watchtower. Torches were being lit.

  Kveldulf stepped through the remains of the broken door. He skirted the base of the fortress and descended the jagged rocks,
until he was on the road, and then in the village. Near the outer gates of the fortress he paused and sniffed the air again. The smell of magic snaked away into the forest.

  It took all his will to ignore the sounds of the wild wood, the small scurrying of animals and the wonderful breath of cold air. The woodland taunted him, it begged to him. "Come, Kveldulf", the wind said. "Hunt the wild groves", cried an owl. "I'm fat and slow", said the scuffle of a boar. But he ignored the voices.

  Through dark and misty glens he went, into a rugged landscape of mossy stones and trees. Other, stranger smells drifted here. Things he had not smelled in a hundred years, not since he'd wandered from the faraway north.

  As he came to a rushing stream the smell of magic grew pungent. Leaping from glistening rock to rock, he came to a small cataract and above that a lazy, midnight pool. Leaning close to the mirrored surface he sniffed. The magic was as thick and tangible as mist from a corpse-choked swamp.

  "I have a friend who will be very unhappy if you upset his work. He takes such pride in it."

  Stepping away from the water Kveldulf hunched up and snarled. "Who spies on me?"

  "Now, now, now, no need for that." A sleek shape glided to a tree that overhung the pool. The thin branch it landed on bobbed twice under the raven's weight. It a fat, old bird, as black as the spaces between the stars. Eyes glittering, it poked its beak forward.

  "Who are you?" said Kveldulf.

  "What a fine fool you're making of yourself. Running around without a body. Very unnatural, if you ask me, not that a raven knows much of such things."

  "And what does a raven know much of? How to crack snail shells and steal pies from windowsills?"

  "And how to find robin nests. And which feathers need smoothing in spring. And more. Tell me, what do they call you?"

  "Kveldulf."

  "Well then, Kveldulf, a name deserves a name, and though birds do not have much need of such things, others call me Gnissa."

  "Spectre," said Kveldulf.

  "Your name is of the old tongue, and you speak it too. You are older than you look."

  "Older than you."

  "But of course." And the raven stretched its wings. "Ravens do not live so long as men. And we certainly do not live as long as men who turn into shadows at night. What a cruel, cruel world it is. Even eagles live longer than ravens. Those ugly creatures think they are so grand. A moult on them."

  "And this friend of yours? "

  "Now, a name for a name is fair, but two for one?" The raven croaked, as ravens do when they laugh. "Follow the stream past the boulder cut with old carvings. Then go to the pool of midnight revels. There you will find him, the master of curses, the dark heart of the woods. Or maybe not. Maybe he is elsewhere tonight. But on tomorrow eve you may find him at the pool. Or maybe on the tomorrow after. Give him time. He will be there."

  "And will you tell him I have found his little black charm?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. I am a raven, and ravens keep secrets. It is what we do best. Or second best, perhaps. After all, as you pointed out, I am rather good at cracking open snails." With a croak the raven took to the air and circled the small pool. Its reflection skimmed the starry waters. Then, beating its wings, it climbed into the night sky.

  Kveldulf sat for a time beside the pool. He wanted to be sure he could find the place by daylight. As he sat and stared, he also listened. The woods called to him again, stronger now. He was about to give in and let himself be carried away when the distant strain of a new sound caught his ears. Deathly still, he strained to hear the faraway notes of a fluting instrument: a strange melody, wandering and haunting, despite being difficult to catch. The music was coming not from the fortress, but from the woods.

  Thinking for a moment to follow the song, Kveldulf shook his head. No, that would be dangerous. He was not ready for that yet. He gave into the subtle hints and suggestions of the woodland and let the wild take him instead. The voice of the wild was plaintive now, demanding. It consumed him. Leaping into the night, his instincts wrapped about and subverted his conscious thoughts.

  He wore shadow-flesh more fleet than all the creatures of night. He was made to hunt. Under mossy roots, in the hollows of trees, among a bed of reeds, these were the haunts of all the skulking creatures of the night. When one sensed him it would wriggle deeper in its burrow, or slither away, or bristle and turn gleaming eyes to him and snarl.

  Though he stalked them for fun, each held his interest only briefly. It was the nameless thing in the forest. The darker, ever elusive shadow that he sought. Her scent was thick in some places. Her presence strong. But he never caught her. She was always too quick. Always too stealthy.

  It was not like before. She did seem to have become more cautious since Pyreathium. There was a time when she would have tread like a taunting ghost on his heels, kill in his footsteps, and leave bloodied gifts for him in his path. But now... now she was less bold. Some days he couldn't smell her at all, and he even wondered if she had given up torturing him, no longer following him at all. And then he'd find a body of a sheep, a deer or a child, and he would know that she was still here, somewhere, hiding in the night. Pyreathium had been the turning point, but the game was not totally yet swivelled against her. Not yet.

  As her scent seemed thin and occasional, Keveldulf allowed himself to delight in the woods instead. He ran himself weary and enjoyed it. He splashed through a misty stream. He chased small, bright-eyed things and sniffed at standing stones and ancient idols buried in the forest.

  Then he caught a new smell, cocked his head and wondered. Sweat and toil. Burnt wood and dried straw. A human smell. Curious, he followed it. In a hollow behind a thorny hedge he discovered a small cottage, standing alone and apart from the rest of the village. It was some way into the forest, and built of whitewashed wood, capped with thatch. Strange plants grew about its walls. No light flickered in the windows. No smoke wisped from the chimney. The cottage seemed dead.

  He ghosted closer, curious. The place did have a smell of magic to it. Could he have lucked upon the house of the curse-maker? There was a presence in the air--he was sure of it--and the smell of old blood, dried foxglove and elderberries. Intrigued now, he edged past the prickling hedge-thorns, and into the moonlight shadow of the house. And closer still.

  Closer, closer.

  Too close.

  There was nowhere to run, no place to hide, when the night air flared with yellowish light.

  "Good evening," she said, and the light that came from everywhere and nowhere faded a little.

  She sat on the threshold. Her face, emaciated by age, was made thinner still by the furs and shawls that she had wrapped herself in. The sallow light glinted off her left eye, but where the other should have been, there was only a pucker of scarred flesh.

  "I felt you. When you came a wandering, la-de-da, through the woods. Felt you from a long way off. Heard you talking to Gnissa, too. Be careful of that one. He's more dangerous than he looks." Raising a bone pipe to her lips she sucked noisily, then with a smile blew a ghost of smoke skywards. "Knew you'd find me eventually. Just had to wait in the miserable cold," and she huddled up a little more. "Kept me waiting long enough though. No respect for the cares of an old woman, have you?"

  "I wasn't looking for you." When Kveldulf spoke in his dreams it was with the inner voice we all know but never articulate. That surer, stronger, more charming sound that echoes in the skull.

  "Ah, but yes you were. You just didn't know it. Helgathusa." She leaned forward, extending a hand. "No. No, I suppose not. But, it is a rare thing to meet one who wears his soul at night. I'll shake your hand some other time, my rare fellow?"

  "As rare as witches."

  She shrugged.

  "Yes, and no, I cast the bones now and again. I can summon up a little corpsefire light. I might see visions in fires. I know how to dig up mandrake. I can tell you the uses of moss scraped from gravestones in moonlight." She took another draught from the pipe and let the smoke
seep from her nostrils. "So, call me a witch if it pleases you. But, my arts are earthier than that. And more cunning."

  "So why summon me here, Helgathusa?"

  She rolled her eye. "Helg, please, just Helg. I had unkind parents. And, as for your question, I didn't. You brought yourself here. Like I said, you were looking for me. Foolish pigwiggenry if you ask me. A man your age ought to know better than to go looking for things he doesn't want to find." Hunching her shoulders a little, she glanced skyward. A fat sleek shadow winged through the stars and landed in a tree. "Humph," said Helg.

  "I wasn't looking for you. I was hunting a wolf. An unnatural thing. An old demon."

  Her voice was flat. "Bah. What did I just say about things you don't want to find?"

  "I would escape her if I could, but she is elusive. I would kill her, but she cannot die."

  "Is that so? Tell me what does this wolf look like?"

  "Unnatural. As large as a small horse, with silver-black fur, and..."

  She gave a quiet snort, "Fearsome eyes that glow with fire? Teeth like daggers? A voice that makes the soul tremble? Am I close?"

  "You have seen her? Is she about?"

  "No."

  "Then how..."

  "Seems to me that you should not ask questions that you do not want to know the answer to either." With the mouthpiece of her pipe she jabbed the air, punctuating each word. "Damned good advice. You should listen to it." She adjusted her skirt. "So now that you are here in our little valley what will you do with yourself?"

  "A man, Thane Sigurd, has hired me to protect the Eorl."

  "Oh, yes, terrible thing that. Bah and Bah. Someone's put a curse on the Eorl. La-de-da, how awful." Helg shrugged. "But if someone cursed me, would anyone go and fetch me a nice strong witch-hunter. No, course not. Must be nice, being an Eorl. And after the Eorl, what then?"

  "Follow the road north. Find somewhere peaceful and remote. Maybe in Goathland or Sorthe. Somewhere to while away time. I am tired of the road. Maybe she will give up following me if there is no one around me to kill."

  She grinned. Her teeth looked too sharp and grey. "No one, but no one, ever just passes through this valley. It has a way of getting to people, especially folk like you. Folk like me. Unusual sorts."

  "I will be here a day, two at the most, and after my work is done, I leave." His voice lowered. "I never meant to come here. I was drunk when Sigurd found me. I agreed out of pity. I can see why no one travels here, shabby old forests and crazy old women."

  "Call it what you will. I call it home." She took a last drag on the pipe, and tapped the oily smelling ash out into the dirt. It burned briefly then died. Kveldulf had last smelled that greasy reek in Pyreathium and he wondered how the old woman had obtained something as rare as gid-leaf in these foggy forestlands. "It has been delightful, but my old bones are telling me it's time for bed. And you look as if you are itching to get off and do whatever it is you do at night. It's been lovely chatting. Stop by for tea tomorrow, if it pleases you. I'd like to talk to you with your body on. A bit unsettling speaking to you like...well..." she waved a hand in his general direction, "And here I am forgetting my manners. I never asked your name."

  "Kveldulf."

  "Really?" She ran a finger over her chin. "Now there's a funny thing. I've heard of you. You've quite a reputation. There are witch-hunters, and there are witch-hunters, and then there is you. Humph. Well, I'm pleased to meet you, Kveldulf." She got to her feet. "And do be a bit more cautious. If I felt you from so far off, then others will know about you too. And mark my words: I may be a cantankerous old woman who practises the arts, but I'm still the nicest thing in this forest. Nighty-night."

  While Helg had been talking, the woods were silent. Once she scuffled herself inside and shut the door the forest awakened again. Chirrups and peeps drifted through the canopy.

  Kveldulf waited, sitting in darkness and in thought. A mouse scurried through the leaf litter. A moment later a fox stepped out of the thickets, started when it saw him and bolted away. He didn't feel like giving chase. His delight in the wilds was quite ruined for the evening.

  "So will you sit there all night?" he said, at last.

  "No," said the raven. "Just long enough to see what you're really up to. My friend, he will ask questions, and it will go better for me if I have some answers."

  "I'm not up to anything more or less than doing what I am doing. Tell your friend that, and tell him that I will be looking for him."

  "Indeed, I will."

  Kveldulf could not sit still. And he didn't feel much like chasing any night-prey. The joy of the night was receding from him. He prowled off into the darkness, almost with a sulky air. He would slip back into his body. It was easier going back than coming out. He just had to decide to return.

  And.

  He.

  Woke.