Eye of Darkness
The Dragon’s Eye Cycle: Book One
By
Michael J. Scott
SMASHWORDS EDITION
***
PUBLISHED BY:
ICHABOD on Smashwords
Eye of Darkness
Copyright © 2012 by Michael J. Scott
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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For Greg, because you always believed…
When the days draw nigh their end
Comes the One which by his friend
Betrayed and wounded makes his stand
Against the dark to save the land.
No greater power, nor stronger force
Shall stay his hand, nor change his course
Till the Dragon’s fire is quenched and passed
And the Gilded Age comes ‘round at last.
Chapter 1: At The Drunken Dwarf
Bill Dugharrow burst through the door of the Drunken Dwarf. Raucous laughter from a table in the back and the muted conversations wafting on smoky air confronted him, disorienting him. A blazing fire roared in the hearth, warming the room. The smoke mingled with the aromas of dark ale and sweat. He stepped back as a bar-wench slid by in her long skirt and ample corset, expertly holding aloft a tray of steins as she wove through the crowd.
After she passed, he saw the back table of revelers held four men in the king’s colors, the steel armor they wore glistening amber in the firelight. He grimaced and went to the bar first, ordering a shot of whiskey and an ale chaser before turning to face the men in the back. They didn’t see him, or if they did, chose not to acknowledge his presence.
This was not going to be easy.
He asked for another shot and downed it quickly, and then crossed the room, jostled as a satiated customer stumbled past. Coming to stand at the table, he waited until a break in the conversation before clearing his throat to speak. The man with his back to him spoke first.
“What is it, Dungharrow?” he drawled. “I recognized your stench as soon as you stepped in. The distinct odor of manure.”
The others snickered, stifling their laughter in their ale.
Bill swallowed and studied the man’s reflection in the mirror behind the table. “My Lord Sheriff,” he began, “you must come at once, I beg you.”
“Not more tales of faeries trampling your potatoes.”
“Sir?”
“Or cutting holes in your mistress’ bed sheets? Or crafting faerie rings out of your carrot patch? Carving designs in your barley?”
“No.”
The men were laughing openly at him now. The Sheriff turned and sized him up. “Then what could it possibly be? We’ve answered alarms at your farm five times now, and honestly I am at a loss why the fey seem so driven to assail you.”
Bill opened his mouth to speak, but the Sheriff put a gloved hand out. “No wait. They didn’t mate with your cow, did they?”
“No. Sir—”
“Quite right.” He gave his men a raised eyebrow. “I must’ve been thinking of someone else.” The drunken deputies burst out in a fresh round of laughter.
“Sir, it’s my daughter.”
The Sheriff raised a doubtful eyebrow. “Your daughter? And the cow?”
The deputies howled, earning disapproving glares from the other patrons and the barman, Gregor. Bill wilted under the abuse, but continued. “Sir, you misunderstood me.”
“How relieving. That stretched even my imagination.”
One deputy gave him a quizzical look. Another leaned over to explain the joke. The Sheriff continued unabated. “Your daughter, you say? And how often have they mated her?”
He slammed his fist on the table and leveled with the Sheriff’s eyes. Surely the man could see he was desperate!
The laughter died with his outburst. His voice breaking, he said, “Whether or how often she may have been violated thus, I know not. I pray not. But I know this: My Annabelle is missing.”
The Sheriff eyed him sidelong. “And Annabelle is…?”
“My daughter.”
“Your daughter. Not the cow.” He took a draught of ale. “One never knows.”
***
Lucas Veritatus’ ears perked up at the mention of Annabelle. He the far end of the bar, and as Bill struggled to coax the Sheriff into action, he listened intently. The three deputies behind the Sheriff were making that difficult with their renewed laughter. They reminded him of the scavenger dogs of Kresh, wandering the fields of battle and barking maniacally over the fallen, eating the corpses of soldiers and enemies alike—making no distinction between the good or the bad.
It grated on him. He poured another shot of whiskey from the bottle Gregor had lent him and tossed it back, hoping to obliterate the memory. Soon, Gregor would want his gold. Not that Lucas had any.
Gregor could wait for his gold. He owed him that much.
He didn’t have to glance around the room to know that in one way or another, every man and woman in the tavern owed him at least something. Twenty years he’d served as their Sheriff, protecting them from brigands, Kreshan raiders, Outlanders from beyond the Dragon’s Ridge—and the fey by whom Bill was so enthralled. He studied the confrontation between the farmer and the new Sheriff, Bram Loric. Bill had been one of the few to speak out against Loric’s ascent to Sheriff when he returned, bearing his charter with the king’s seal in his hand. It had won him no friendship with the man. Demanding his help now was a fool’s errand—something Bill should have known.
And it wasn’t going very well.
***
Bill grabbed the Sheriff’s shoulder, making him spill his drink down his front. “My lord, you may mock me all you wish. Call me ‘Dungharrow’ instead of ‘Dugharrow’ if you must, but you have sworn an oath to protect and defend us. I must have your assistance.”
The Sheriff glared coolly at Bill’s hand on his shoulder. Bill let go. “I know well my oath, Farmer Dugharrow. It extends to the whole of North Dhoriland, from the boundaries of the Great Wood to the foothills of the Dragon’s Ridge. I cannot be always running to a single farm to investigate the wild claims of a mad plowman.”
“And yet you find time to warm a table at the Drunken Dwarf?”
The Sheriff paused, and gave a short laugh before setting down his ale. “You should learn to speak with more caution. These men have just returned from a three day patrol of the ridge. They’ve had their fill of investigating unsubstantiated reports and are entitled to a little refreshment, as am I.”
“Unsubstantiated?” said Bill. “You know as well as I the Daoine Sidhe may come and go at will—”
A gloved hand gripped his throat, cutting him off.
“Do not name them thus!” the Sheriff barked. “Are you mad? Uttered twice more you’d call them on our heads. Would you so foolishly violate the compact that holds them in abeyance?”
One of the deputies across the table said, “The rumors we pursued in the Dragon’s Ridge were of an Outlander, not the fey.”
***
Lucas heard this, too. Another interesting bit of information. He wondered how long the Outlanders had been encroaching upon their borders, and how long Bram meant to let it continue before informing his cousin, the king. Lucas knew for a fact no dispatch had been sent. No doubt Bram thought it wise to look into the matter himself before bothering his sovereign.
Not that he’d find anything. Lucas himself would be hard-pressed to find an Outlander if he did not wish to be found, but Bram was incompetent. The Outlanders would’ve spied his coming leagues before he got there. In fact, if Outlanders had been in the Dragon’s Ridge and meant any real harm, it was doubtful Bram would’ve made it back at all. Still, there'd been peace between their peoples for nigh on a generation. It was unlikely they'd risk open war again. The kingdom was in more danger from Kresh than from the Outlanders in their colored wagons. So where were these rumors coming from?
***
Bram glared at his deputy, but released Bill.
“Forgive me.” Bill sank to his knees. “I assumed—”
“You assumed much. How do you know your daughter has not simply wandered off? I can think of one or two reasons why a young girl might do that.”
“Please, sir. She is only ten.”
“Go home, Bill. I’m sure your daughter will turn up.”
“She’s been gone three days!”
***
Lucas closed his eye at this utterance. Three days? He fingered the bottle. Annabelle had blond hair woven with blue ribbons, last time he’d seen her. It had been a few years’ now, but she was a delicate child—at that time, too innocent and pure to know that asking Lucas Veritatus why he only had one eye was impolite at best.
Three days meant it was highly unlikely she still inhabited this world. No wonder Bill was so frantic.
Bill’s impatience was growing, his desperation loosening his tongue even more than the ale and whiskey. If this continued much longer, Lucas would have to intervene.
And that could be unpleasant for at least one person this night, and probably for four.
***
The men had quieted. The Sheriff heaved a breath. “Three days. Then it is unlikely we will find her. She may have been torn by wolves, or died of exposure, or met some other unfortunate fate. You have my sorrow.” This last was said into his stein, which he raised to his face until the ale sloshed down his matted beard. He belched in satisfaction.
“Nay.” Bill recoiled from him. “It cannot be. It is not true!”
“Misfortune comes to us all. My men are weary. I cannot aid you.” He set the stein heavily on the table and motioned for the bar-wench to bring him another.
“And what of justice? For her? Will you not at least make the attempt?”
“I cannot aid you! Go on now. Drown your sorrows.” He tossed a gold coin on the floor beside the farmer. Bill stared at it a moment then spat at it.
“Lucas would’ve aided me. He’d have come no matter how weary he was.”
The Sheriff pushed himself from the table and rose to his full height, towering over the smaller farmer still on his knees. “Lucas Veritatus is no longer Sheriff.”
“And a pity he’s not!”
The room fell to a sudden hush. The Sheriff slipped the hitch off his scabbard, loosening his blade with one hand. He took a menacing forward, his spurs ringing like tiny bells as his boot came down. “You’ve insulted me the last time. I received my charter at the hand of the king himself. I speak in his name. It takes two eyes to keep order in this land, and Lucas Veritatus has but one.”
Bill slipped backward on his hands, scrambling toward the bar.
***
Lucas rose, standing behind Bill as he backpedaled until the farmer literally lay at his feet. He swept his cloak to one side as he reached down to lift Bill upright, leaving room for his sword in the same motion.
“You are so quick to point that out.” Lucas eyeballed the Sheriff.
The Sheriff greeted him coolly. “Lucas.”
“Bram. I see you’re still serving the finest way you know how. So glad we have you keeping the peace.”
“You’re not Sheriff any longer. I do not answer to you.”
“Quite right,” Lucas answered evenly. “Come, Bill, my friend. You obviously had enough. You should be getting home.”
“A man is judged by the company he keeps,” said the Sheriff to Lucas’s back. “You should choose better friends.”
“As should yours,” Lucas muttered under his breath. He propelled Bill forward and out of the bar. Hopefully, they’d make it before Bram realized what he’d said and decided to pursue the matter.
Chapter 2: For A Cobbler
“Sheriff Lucas.” Bill stumbled toward the door. “You are sorely missed.”
“Caution,” he hissed. “I am no longer Sheriff.”
“You left us too quickly.”
“And you’re not leaving quickly enough.”
With that, Lucas propelled Bill away from the tavern into the cool, night air. He drove him around the building to the shadows.
“Thank you,” Bill said as the night enveloped them. “You’re a better man than Bram Loric ever could be.”
Lucas glanced around, wondering what ears might be listening. Much had changed in the years since he served as Sheriff in the North Country, but the populace’s willingness to spy for coin wasn’t one of them. The buildings that surrounded them were darker than when he’d guarded them, and not just for the night. It was as if autumn had come early to the town of Kilearny in Dhoriland, withering the farms and shops instead of the trees though it was barely June. The northerners left to wander its streets were as dry and lifeless as scattered leaves rent by the wind. There were so few of them left. Ever since the slaughter of the village of Wytherin, people had been slipping away from the North Country, seeking better lands in which to raise their families. Lucas wondered whether any would remain in a year. Still, it wouldn’t do for Farmer Bill to speak without caution.
“He is a cousin to the king. When you are sober, perhaps you will remember that. Now go home.” Lucas gave him a thrust on his way.
Bill stopped and turned. “Nay. I need your help.”
Lucas continued walking, and Bill had to run to match his stride. Lucas shook his head. He didn’t need this right now. He was easily as drunk as Bill, and prone to doing things he’d later regret—something which had cost him more than his eye during his fifty years.
“Bram Loric may be wasted as a Sheriff,” he said to Bill, “but what he said to you tonight was the truth. It is most likely your Annabelle has run off. And after three days, it is unlikely she’s coming back. Grieve for her as you must, but don’t think that hounding me will change the result.”
“And what of the others?”
Lucas stopped. He turned slowly, studying the farmer’s form lit by the moon. “What others?”
“Three days ago, Annabelle went missing. I hunted her the past two. What I learned was dreadful.” Bill’s face changed with the telling. The flush from the ale was gone, the color drained from his skin. His voice, when he spoke next, was steady and clear, and lacking warmth. “Near the foothills of the Dragon’s Ridge, about a day’s ride west of my house, I came across a farm—its owner unknown to me. There was nary a soul around. The doors were unlocked and the windows open, so I went inside. The fire had gone out in the hearth, but there was yet food on the table, still warm by the touch. I searched high and low for someone to speak to, thinking to inquire about my Annabelle, and in the barn, I found them—a man and his wife. Naked and…”
He stuffed his hand in his mouth, as if trying to unsee what he remembered. Lucas shifted on his feet, waiting patiently.
“What happened?” he finally said.
Bill wouldn’t meet his eye. “They’d been skinned. And butchered. Like they were cattle, or pigs!” He sucked a large breath before continuing. “There was no child to be found, but I saw a bed. Empty. Clothes and a child’s toy.”
“And the bodies?”
“I gave them a decent burial. ‘Twas the least I could do.”
Lucas closed his eye. Inwardly, he cursed. Had the farmer left them as he’d found them, Lucas might have been able to discern what precisely had befallen them. Bill’s kindness cursed them to suffer forever without justice.
“‘Twas the fey. I know it was. The Daoine Sidhe—”
“Forbear!” He put his hand on Bill’s lips. “You’ve already called them twice tonight. Do not do so again. In this Bram was right. You do not want to bring the wild hunt to these streets.”
After a moment, Bill nodded. “Forgive me.”
“I may, but they will not. Why do you think the fey are responsible?”
“My Annabelle was taken from her house, from her own bed, long after the door was locked and the windows shuttered. That same night my wife and I were plagued by strange, tormented dreams from which we could not awake. And then the way that couple died—savage—it was butchery. The fey are known to consume human flesh.”
Lucas scratched his scraggly beard. “The compact has been in place for a generation, now.”
Bill tried to smile. “You won a great victory over them. No one disputes that. And you paid a heavy price. But who else could walk through solid walls and steal a child from the very noses of her parents? There’ve been other signs as well,” he added when Lucas opened his mouth to object. “Cows that give sour milk. Hens that won’t lay eggs. Smoke that does not rise. I don’t know how this has happened. We did everything you told us to do and still they came.”
“It’s not possible. The geas binds them, ere havoc is unleashed on the world.”
“And what do you call a man and his wife hanging butchered in their own barn? A child stolen from her own bed? If that is not havoc, then what is? For twenty years you served us, Lucas. Will you not help us now, in the hour of our greatest need? I know I’m standing here drunk as a Kreshan sailor, but it’s only because of what you told us.”
Lucas furrowed his brow.
Bill grimaced. “The faeries favor drunkards, poets and fools. I am no poet, sir, and by God I am no fool.”
“And yet, I am no Sheriff.”
“And that fool son of Loric? He is? He only attained his charter from the king because they once played Queek together as children.”
“Bill,” he warned. “Do not forget I swore fealty to that king.”
“You swore to his father.”
“I served the father. I serve the son.”
“The son revoked your charter.”
He nodded. “As is his right. I remain loyal nonetheless, and I will not hear charges laid that he favored his cousin thus. I will not even bear thinking it myself, no matter what the truth of it might be. He is the king. But as I am not Sheriff, I have no means by which I might assist you. I am sorry. There is nothing I can do.” He turned to go, but Bill caught his shoulder.
“I can pay you. I have gold. Look!” He tore a bag from under his shirt, lifting the cord from his neck, and pressing it into his hand. Lucas studied it. The bag weighed only a few ounces, and probably represented his life savings, meager as it was. Still, it might suffice.
Lucas sighed, realizing then he was about to do something he’d regret. “Tell me. Does your Mary still bake her cobbler?”
Bill frowned. “Aye. She does.”
“Then have her bake me a fine dish. That’ll be my pay. Your gold you’ll need for the Witch.” He turned and strode down the street, looking left and right. He’d left his horse tethered here somewhere. He was sure of it.
Bill struggled to keep up. “The Witch? In the Great Wood?”
“You know of another?”
“Not anymore. Not since the days of the Loric the first. The king had all blood-eaters killed in the Great Purge.”
“Or driven into exile.”
“But the Great Wood is impassible.”
Lucas shook his head. “Nay. It is near impassible. Any seeking to do the Witch harm find themselves wandering in circles for days—forgetting to eat or drink till they die of exhaustion. But those who seek her wishing to barter—and having something worth bartering for—they shall find easy passage to her door.”
“And why are we seeking the Witch?”
“Because,” he clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder, “only the Witch can call up the faeries and not die for her trouble. Now, have you seen Shy-Mane?”
“Who?”
“My horse. Have you seen my horse?”
“You mean to seek the Witch tonight?”
“Aye. That we’ll do. If I am drunk enough to forget where I tethered my mount, then I am drunk enough to seek the Witch. In the morning I shall be sober and think better of it. Come, the sooner we’re off, the harder it will be to turn back.”
He moved two steps further down the street, but Bill grabbed his shoulder. “This way.” Together, they went to find the mare.
***
Two minutes after they disappeared down the street, a lithe figure dropped down from the shadowed rooftops, and silently followed.
Chapter 3: Crossing the Moors
They found Shy-Mane tethered a block in the other direction, not far from Bill’s own horse, a gelding named Plodder. Thus mounted, Lucas led them northeast out of Kilearny on the Old Post Road. If they continued to follow it, the road would lead them past the southern reaches of the Great Wood before plunging southeast to follow the river Cairn as it bled toward the sea.
But Lucas left the road shortly after dropping down a low rise. They crossed into the fog-laden moors even as the brilliant moon arose silver in the sky above, obliterating the stars so not even the Hunter nor the Dragon could be seen locked in their mortal combat.
Bill did not question Lucas or offer conversation, preferring to ride quietly alongside him as they crossed country to come upon the Great Wood. In truth, his senses were on high alert, his skin prickling the nape of his neck. Rumors of the moors at night kept him on edge. He’d heard the tales of werewolves in the mist as a child, rising under the full moon to take vengeance on the unwary. Half-man, half-beast, they lived their normal days in the company of men, denying their true nature till the moon’s fullness called it forth, driving them mad. Cursed by the fey, a last revenge of the Daoine Sidhe for the geas imposed upon them.
It happened rarely now, but every once in a while he’d hear of some poor fool wandering off into the misty moors on the night of a full moon, never to be seen nor heard from again.
And now here they rode, foolishly driving headlong into these same mists. And at the end of their journey, what awaited them? Shelter and a warm bed? Not remotely. The glistening enchantments of the Witch in the Great Wood were well-known. So great was her power that not even the king’s best knights could penetrate her demesne. And hadn’t even Lucas himself failed in the attempt when he was Sheriff so many years before?
A raw suspicion grew in Bill’s mind, one that bore asking, if he could but find the words. He cleared his throat. “My lord Lucas, if you don’t mind me asking, what have you been doing since you’re no longer Sheriff?”
“Is that what’s been troubling, you, Bill? You’ve been twitching in your saddle there ever since we left the highway.”
“Aye. I mean, nay. I confess the moors leave me unsettled, especially on a night like this.”
“Frightened of werewolves?”
He laughed nervously, his voice sounding high pitched to his ears. “I suppose. I’ve heard the rumors, of course. I’ve always dismissed them as…”
“Faerie tales?” Lucas gave him an eerie grin, his white teeth glistening in the moonlight.
“I suppose so.”
Lucas smiled and pulled out his pipe. There in his saddle, he struck his flint to a wisp of cotton, beckoning a tiny flame just hot enough to light the fragrant leaves. In a moment, a wisp of pungent smoke lifted from the bowl. He drew it in and blew it out again in a long stream.
“There’s many things in those tales.” He took another draw. “The ones told of the fey, the ones the fey themselves tell, and the ones they only tell each other. Some of them are truth. Some are half truth. Some are outright lies. And some of them are so false they are their own truth—a direct contradiction to the whole world. Those stories you would not wish to hear. They would fill your mind with such outlandish visions, such wild hopes and… you would never be content in your farm again. Both beauty and hope are thieves of joy. They would rob you blind, leaving you forever restless until you abandoned all, expending your youth in the quest to possess them. Only then, at the end, when you are exhausted and spent would you learn the truth—that your little farm with its quaint chimney puffing smoke and a sturdy wife by your side is a far more beautiful and priceless thing than all the treasures of this world.”
“You speak as a man bereft.”
“Hmm?” He chuckled. “I suppose so. You are young—thirty years?”
“Twenty seven.”
He rolled his eye. “You probably don’t realize what you’ve got. I have lived a life some would call an adventure. I have fought in wars. Battled demons and dark magick. Once I even chased a dragon. We didn’t catch him, which is good, because I have no idea what we’d have done had we succeeded. But I would give it all to be young again. Only this time I would choose differently. I’d find a suitable mate and settle down—much like you have done. You’ve chosen wisely, and you don’t even know it. Am I right?”
“I suppose you are. Though I can’t say as I chose it. I became what my father was, and his father before him. There was never any question of choosing anything else. We were too busy just trying to survive.”
“It’s a gift they gave you. You asked me what I do. Most days, I crawl inside a bottle and try to live with my regret.”
Bill nodded, and fell silent again.
***
Lucas watched him out of the corner of his eye. The man’s twitching had settled now. His nerves had calmed, which was good, because his constant shifting to and fro had made it almost impossible for Lucas to listen.
And listening was the only thing that would keep them both alive.
There was only one entrance to the Great Wood that would take them to the Witch, and it couldn’t be found by safely following the road. Only by risking the moors on a moonlit night could they find the entrance. This was yet another protection the Witch employed, relying on the creatures that prowled the mists to secure her borders. She hadn’t caused the curse that turned men into beasts, but her enchantments enthralled them just the same, drawing them to the edge of the wood without quite letting them enter, nor giving them liberty to leave the moors for another place.
He suspected it was the Wolf’s Bane that grew in droves all along the edges of the moors, its delicate petals caging the beasts more effectively than any bars or prison or grave. In a way, the Witch provided a service to the Northerners as well, though they knew it not. The werewolves—or wolf—he wasn’t sure whether or not there was more than one—couldn’t leave the moors and spread the curse to the rest of Dhoriland.
But the werewolves weren’t the only thing that stalked them that night.
Ever since they left the Drunken Dwarf, someone had been following them. He had no idea who or what it was, nor even how many—though he suspected only one. Whoever it was, he kept himself at a discreet distance, and disappeared into the mist whenever Lucas contrived to look back.
He wondered whether or not their pursuer realized the danger. A single person on foot was a far easier prey than two men on horseback, and not even an Outlander could hide their scent well enough to guard against a wolf.
That was the other reason for the pipe. The burning leaf obscured their trail, covering the smell of the horses with smoke. Wolves held no love for fire. Even a tiny flame was more apt to drive them away than draw them nigh.
He estimated their pursuer remained a hundred yards to the southeast. But a quick gust made the horses start, whinnying nervously, their nostrils flaring. He caught it, too. A hint of musk on the wind. The werewolf was coming, despite the smoke.
“Lucas,” said Bill. “If you don’t mind my asking, how’d it happen? Your eye, I mean.”
“I do,” he said brusquely. He had no time for memories of that betrayal, though the image of a burning village and townsfolk screaming assailed him nonetheless. He blinked his eye and focused on the present. The breeze came from the northeast, which meant the wolf was coming from that direction, too. If they fled now to the woods, they might just lead their pursuer between them, at the mercy of the beast—not that there was any.
“I meant no offense,” Bill said.
“None taken. My business is my own. Look now, we’ve drawn nigh to the Great Wood.” He pointed ahead to where a dark mass rose on the horizon, stretching to the north and south as far as the eye could see.
Bill drew his mount to a stop. “I must confess: I’ve no real desire to see that any closer.”
A howl rose on the wind and the horses bucked. Bill’s eyes went wide.
“You do now,” Lucas exclaimed. “Run!”
Chapter 4: The Werewolf’s Curse
Bill didn’t need to be told twice. He gave Plodder the reins and let it surge toward the tree line. Lucas followed close on his heels, driving him toward the yards of Wolf’s Bane growing on the edge of the forest. He could only hope he was right about the plant. If he guessed wrong about the Witch’s enchantment, they were done for.
Two shapes bounded in the mist off to their right, closing in on them in a frantic race that fissured the mists and left a clear trail of disturbed vapor roiling behind them. Over the puffing of the horse’s breaths and the pounding of its hooves he could hear the snarls and growls as the wolves closed in.
They were enormous, much too large for natural creatures, with matted fur slick with dew covering most of their bodies. Their hind legs were longer than they should have been, and their front paws splayed wide on the ground, with an extra joint that suggested fingers rather than toes. It also made it possible for the beasts to grab with more than just their jaws.
He pulled a dirk from his belt and whipped it sideways toward the first beast. It rang uselessly on the ground, but the creatures veered around it, slowing their pace.
He didn’t see the third wolf until it was almost on top of them.
This one was larger than the other two. A male. And he came at them from the northwest, almost directly across their path.
Lucas screamed at Bill, but it was too late. The creature leaped in the air, diving for the farmer before he could do anything about it.
An arrow whistled past Lucas’s ear, embedding itself in the creature even as it reached out to tear the farmer off his mount. The werewolf’s snarl turned to a yelp of pain. It twisted in mid air, as if trying to get away from the arrow, and ploughed the earth where it struck. Lucas drove Shy-Mane straight over the injured creature, leaping clear and landing a few yards away on the other side.
On the ground below, verdant petals of Wolf’s Bane grew, filling the air with fragrance where the horse’s hooves crushed them. Behind them, the two remaining wolves drew up short, snarling at them. One of them sniffed its wounded mate. Lucas wondered if they knew each other in their mortal life. They might’ve been strangers. They might’ve been friends. They might even have been family.
The wounded beast tried to rise, but cried out and fell again. The smaller wolves yapped at each other, barking in an indecipherable language. Lucas watched, fascinated, as the second wolf pawed the male. The male barked and snapped at her. From where he stood, Lucas could see that the arrow had only penetrated the tissues of its hind leg, traveling straight through. The fletch was a black feather with a streak of white running through it. ‘From a mountain hawk,’ he thought.
With a snort, the wolf reached between its legs and snapped the arrow off in its teeth, dropping it on the ground. The larger female approached, grabbed the remaining shaft in her mouth, and drew it free. The male struggled to its feet. With a throaty growl, it turned and advanced on the two men.
“Lucas!” Bill’s voice was high, strained. His mount backed further toward the edge of the trees.
“Don’t go in the wood,” Lucas warned.
“They’re coming.”
“They won’t cross the Wolf’s Bane. We’re protected.”
As if to prove him wrong, the male placed a paw down on the verdant patch, crouching as if to pounce. Then it drew its foreleg back in surprise, shaking it as though all feeling had drained from it. It put it down again, but the foreleg went limp, unable to support the weight.
The wolves paced in front of the flowered yard, snarling. Then they sniffed the air, and with muted barks, slunk back into the mist.
With an oath he leaped off his horse and drew his sword. Hacking a handful of flowered stems in his hand, he was astride Shy-Mane and galloping back into the mist even before he heard the first scream.
He found his pursuer atop a tiny knoll, wielding a wicked-looking rapier with swift precision in one hand and a semi-curved bow in the other, driving the wolves back. They circled around, snapping and feinting. It wouldn’t be long before they drove together and claimed their prize.
Lucas charged straight at the wolves, lashing at their faces with the Wolf’s Bane and sword even as he barked, “Get on!” to the figure on the hillock. The wolves growled and bit at Shy-Mane, who kicked with her hooves.
A cry erupted from behind him, and he turned in time to see Bill charging the wolves on foot, flaming torches of Wolf’s Bane in either hand. He thrust a brand in a wolf’s face. It yelped and leaped back, then stiffened and dropped where it had landed. The other two wolves backed up, snarling, but then turned and fled into the mists.
Bill held the brands to either side and backed up. Lucas wheeled his mount and followed.
***
“You’re either the bravest farmer I’ve ever met, or the most foolish. But thank you just the same.”
Bill shook his head. “I may be neither. You are the only hope I have of seeing my Annabelle again. I do not think I could have done much else.”
Lucas nodded and turned to the archer who’d pursued them on the moors. “And I have you to thank as well.” He stepped back, struck dumb by her beauty. He closed his mouth, banishing such thoughts. By her face and build he judged her no more than seventeen—far too young for such as himself. She had raven black hair and porcelain skin, with eyes the color of a storm-tossed sea. The feathers woven into her tresses and dark cloak marked her as one of the Outlanders from beyond the Dragon’s Ridge. Remembering his manners, he put his palm to his chest and bowed after the manner of the Outlanders.
Her lower lip trembled when she spoke, and she struggled to maintain control. “The debt is already repaid.” She returned the traditional greeting. “I am Avenyë of the Ronami. Would that you had come moments sooner, but now I must ask you to kill me quickly.”
Bill frowned and stepped back from her. “Are you mad?”
“‘Twould be a mercy.” She rolled back the sleeve of her cloak. Deep gashes marred the surface of her skin where the werewolf had raked her arm. “‘Tis said that a scratch alone from a werewolf turns you into one. I do not wish that fate.”
“Here.” Lucas bent forward and plucked a bloom from the Wolf’s Bane. “Rub this onto your wound. It may yet slow the poison, perhaps stop it altogether.”
“It is a poison itself.”
“Aye, but what have you got to lose?”
Avenyë took the petal from his hand, crushed it in her fingers and rubbed it into the scratches. “No more than I have already lost,” she murmured. “You are Lucas Veritatus. Sheriff of King Loric. Is this not so?”
“It is,” said Bill.
“It is not,” said Lucas at the same time. “I was Sheriff. My charter has been given to another.”
“That fool of a cousin to the king?”
“The same,” Bill said.
“Nonetheless, you are the man I seek.”
“Is that why you’ve been following us?” Lucas asked.
“It’s said among my people you are an honorable man, that you were blessed by the mage Saraken, and now you can scry out evil.”
“Saraken the Sorcerer!” Bill spat. “The enemy of the realm?”
“He is no enemy to the Ronami.”
“He is no enemy to anyone,” said Lucas, “at least, not anymore. He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Nigh on two years.”
Avenyë shook her head, trying to take this information in. “My people have not heard this. They are dire tidings indeed.”
“Dire tidings!” sputtered Bill. “The butcher of Wytherin, and you call his death ‘dire tidings!’” Lucas put out a hand, warning him to silence.
“The relations between the Ronami and the sorcerer are unknown in Dhoriland, but our two peoples do not always see eye to eye. Perhaps Saraken sought an ally with your people against us. Nevertheless he opposed our king, and he did so within our lands. For that he was executed.”
“I see.” After a moment, she swallowed. “I did not come as an emissary to your king, and the politics between our peoples is not my business. I have a much more pressing matter that concerns you directly, Sheriff Veritatus.”
“And what would that be?”
“Our need is dire, and my time is short—far shorter now than I imagined. I humbly beseech you to come at once and scry the evil that plagues our land.”
Bill shifted his weight. “He’s already engaged.”
“I scry nothing.” Lucas ignored Bill. “I use my nose and my ears. I listen. I reason. Magicks are dangerous, and only fools make use of them.”
“You would be well-rewarded.”
“D’you not hear me?” said Bill. “He’s already been engaged.”
“For what price?” she persisted. “We’ll double it. Triple it, if you desire.”
Bill choked his frustration. “F-for an apple cobbler. Will you triple that?” To Lucas he said, “My lord, I beg you not to listen further.”
“Nay, Bill.” Lucas, put his hand on the farmer’s shoulder. “She’s already paid a terrible price. I will hear her as a courtesy.” To the girl he said, “But I cannot say that I will aid you. The farmer has engaged my services. I named my price and he’s met it.”
“A cobbler? I’d no idea your services could be so costly.”
Lucas ignored the jab. “It is his daughter that’s missing. I’ll not turn my back on him.”
“Your daughter?” Avenyë said to Bill. “Is one life worth more than a dozen?”
“My Annabelle’s is. The very embodiment of innocence. The outer lands are lawless.” Bill glared at her. “Nothing but a haven of thieves and murderers—oath-breakers all.”
“That is a lie! Call us what you will, does it mean we do not suffer? For nigh onto six months now, our own daughters have gone missing. Twelve in all. Perhaps more in the time I’ve been gone. The last was my sister, Carina. Not ten years old. My people blame the fey. They say the compact has broken, and havoc is unleashed upon the earth. I know not whether this is true. But I do know this: they are taken in the middle of the night while their parents slept and at least once in the day time—though the circumstances of that taking were…” She struggled to find the words. Lucas gave them to her.
“Hung from a barn? Butchered and skinned alive?”
Her face registered shock. “It was no barn, but yes. How do you come to know this?”
“I listen. I reason.” He turned and studied Bill. “The farm you saw. How close was it to the Dragon’s Ridge?”
He dropped his gaze. “Perhaps half a day’s ride.”
“It is one and the same.” Lucas turned to Avenyë. “The evil which has befallen you has come to our lands as well. Discovering what befell one may reveal what befell all.”
“Then you’ll come?”
“I think that we were already on our way there. But first we must seek the Witch. You are welcome to accompany us.”
“If the geas is broken,” said Bill, “perhaps the rift began in the Outlands.”
“Perhaps. We will have to ask her.”
Chapter 5: Into the Great Wood
It was another two hours wandering north through the yard of Wolf’s Bane before they found the entrance to the Great Wood, and not a moment too soon. Lucas himself could feel the effect of the flowers assailing his senses, making him ill. Avenyë, weakened as she was from blood loss and the application of the toxin to her wound, had swooned after forty minutes of searching and passed out in the saddle. Bill kept a brave face, but he’d vomited once already.
Lucas began to appreciate just how effective the Witch’s defenses had grown. No wonder the king’s men failed to drive her from her demesne. He wondered now whether she’d help them, or if she were too embittered against the king to render them aid at all.
On the edge of the wood he spied it. A single tree standing aloof from the others, diseased with unnatural knots like faces covering its trunk, as though it had been cursed to bear the souls of the slain. He turned his mount toward it, passing on the far side onto a narrow path hidden from view.
Here, he called them up short and announced, “We break camp.”
Bill frowned. “For what reason? We just found the path.”
“Aye.” Lucas dismounted. “And it’s at least a day’s ride from here to the Witch, assuming we find our way aright. I’ve no desire to wander the paths of the Great Wood aided by naught but moonlight. We’ll be safe enough here, and now that we’ve found the path, we’ll not lose it in the morning light.”
Despite his protestations, Bill commenced to building them a fire and laying out their bedrolls. Lucas retrieved more of the Wolf’s Bane from the verdant patch before the tree and applied more of it to the Ronami girl’s arm. She moaned when he pressed the crushed petals to her skin, but did not waken. Her face and hands were slick with sweat, and her skin burned. Lucas wrapped his body around hers, and pressed close to the fire, praying to the Hunter that her fever would soon break.
***
The next morning they broke camp and rode for an hour into the wood. Avenyë remained unconscious in Lucas’s saddle. Her fever may have been gone, but Lucas could not be sure. The air around them grew hot and thick, buzzing with biting flies and other pests. Beneath their feet, tangled roots threatened to trip up the horses, and black water ran in deep rivulets that turned the ground to mud. He followed the trail straight in, driving his mount through the thorns and tangled vines. At midday they came to another tree just like the first. Once again he passed it by, and then turned on the far side, following a new trail deeper into the heart of the Great Wood. After five hours of relentless biting insects and foul-smelling water, they came across a third tree like the first two. This time, he brought his horse to a standstill, waiting beside it.
Bill drew up beside him, slapping his neck and flicking away the remains of the insect that gorged on his flesh. “Are we lost?”
“Nay. We just haven’t been found as yet.”
“You speak in riddles.”
He lit his pipe, blowing a long vent of pungent smoke into the air by the tree. “We are near to the Witch’s grove. Her hovel is less than a hundred feet that way.” He pointed with the shaft of his pipe. “But we will not approach uninvited. To do so courts disaster.”
“You have nice manners for a filthy king’s man,” said a voice. Bill turned to the sound of it, and saw no one.
“We seek the Witch,” said Lucas loudly.
“Where is she?” Bill whispered harshly. “I cannot find her.”
“Indeed,” said the voice. “You are known to me, ex-Sheriff Veritatus. Do you come to beg my help for the Outlander? Tangled with my pets and got herself a little scratch did she? Twenty-eight days and you’ll know the truth of it.”
“Nay. She is in my care, and we do not seek you for her welfare.”
Now the voice sounded like it came from in front of them. “Then is it for the ploughman? I have many potions which might make him beautiful, but nothing that will make him smart.”
“Hey,” said Bill, clearly offended. He peered forward, but still saw no one.
Lucas smiled. “Nay, Great Lady. We come not for the ploughman, either.”
“A touching appeal to my vanity.” This last was spoken as a whisper almost directly into his ear. “Very well, then. You have aroused my curiosity and named me both great and a Lady. You shall be permitted to see me.”
“Bill,” said Lucas. “Close your eyes. Gaze not upon her.”
Bill frowned, but did not close his eyes quickly enough. Instead he saw a breathtakingly beautiful woman step into the clearing beside the tree. She had a slender waist and full breasts, with a face so striking he thought his heart would stop. For a moment, she had brown hair. Then raven black, like the Ronami woman. Then flame red, like Mary, his wife’s. At last he saw that her hair was truly blond—nearly white, in fact—the same hue and sheen as his beloved Annabelle.
“I could be your Annabelle,” a gentle voice whispered. “Come with me.” Fingers caressed his chin. “Let me show you how good I can be. You’ll never want to leave.”
He felt a stirring in his loins, drawn to follow his Annabelle. And yet…
“Come,” the voice cooed. “Lie with me.”
“Annabelle, no!”
The hand caressing his cheek appeared to change, withering before his eyes. In moments it had grown old and wrinkled, bespeckled with age spots and hair. Long, yellowed nails grew to a sharp point at the end of the fingers. Turning to the beautiful young woman, so like his Annabelle, he saw instead a hag. Her teeth were rotted. Her lips chapped and bluish. Thin, silver hair clung to her scalp in tangled knots. And her eyes, far from reflecting the warmth and innocence of his daughter, held nothing for him but a greedy contempt.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you find me beautiful?”
He recoiled from her. “You’re not my Annabelle.”
The lips turned into a snarl and she pulled away. “You see me. How?”
“You guessed wrong,” Lucas said, his remaining eye still closed. “Annabelle is his daughter. And she’s only ten.”
The Witch snarled and drew back. “Unblemished innocence. No glamour can mimic that. A pity, too, from the look of ya.” She turned and started toward the hovel. “Come, weary travelers!” she announced, suddenly amicable. “Seek rest and shelter.”
Lucas opened his eye.
Bill watched the Witch hobble into the house, which he could now see clearly in the midst of a glade surrounded on all sides by towering trees. The house was little more than a thatched hut with squat walls leaning several inches off plumb, but a warm glow shone through its windows and the door yawned open. Beside him, Lucas urged his mount forward.
“My lord,” Bill said, “what would have happened had I gone with her?”
Lucas shrugged. “It was an enchantment. Don’t let it concern you.”
“I wanted to follow. She said she was my Annabelle, and yet… I never thought I could feel that toward my own.”
“You didn’t,” Lucas pointed out. “She plucked the vision of beauty from your own mind and sought to entice you with it. But she chose your daughter—nearest to your thoughts. Your love for her broke the spell.”
“Had she chosen different… had I gone with her?”
Lucas showed teeth. “I expect she would have had her way with you. A woman like that doesn’t see many men.”
“I can imagine why,” he muttered, following Lucas to the front. Here Lucas dismounted and lowered the sleeping Ronami to the ground. Bill jumped down and tethered their horses to the hitching post. Lucas lifted the girl into his arms, cradling her like a child. At the door, he turned and whispered in Bill’s ear. “Just so you know: after she was done with you? She’d have consumed you like a spider sups a fly.”
Bill stared in disbelief as the ex-Sheriff grinned and entered the hut.
“Would she really?” he said, following reluctantly.
***
“Here.” The Witch passed a chipped, earthenware cup to Bill. He stared doubtfully at the thick, foul-smelling liquid within. They were seated around a rickety wooden table, with wide slats dark with questionable stains. A fire blazed in the hearth, but somehow failed to drive the chill from the room. At times he swore he could see his own breath.
Lucas had already warned him against eating or drinking anything within, though now he doubted that such a warning was necessary. The ex-Sheriff told him to pantomime it, lest the Witch take offense. Staring at the rank liquid, he wondered if he had the stomach for even that. Still, it was worth the effort. He lifted the cup to his lips.
“Fool!” The Witch spat, pushing his arm down from his mouth. “It’s not for you. It’s for her.”
Lucas took the cup from Bill. Avenyë lay between them, her head cradled in the ex-Sheriff’s lap. “It’s for the poultice,” he explained.
Bill watched as he dipped a rag torn from her shirt into the cup, soaking it in the brine before lifting it out and wrapping it over her arm. Avenyë moaned softly when the poultice touched her wounds. A second later she gasped, her hand flying to her arm.
“Stay,” warned the Witch.
“Shh,” whispered Lucas, pulling her hand gently away from the dressing.
“Keep the poultice in place for twenty eight days. Never take it off, not even to bathe. On the twenty eighth day, remove it just after the moon sets, then burn it and scatter the ashes.”
“What is it?” Avenyë sat up and examined her wound. “What happened to me?”
“Do you not remember?” said Bill.
“You were attacked,” Lucas replied. “You defended yourself nobly against three werewolves, but not without cost.”
Slowly, she nodded. “You saved me. You are Lucas Veritatus. I’ve been seeking you.”
“Yes,” he replied. “We’ve spoken of it already.”
“I think I remember now. It’s in bits and pieces. Images really. I can’t understand much else.”
“That’s the toxin of the wolf,” said the Witch. “Speech is useless to my pets. Words mean nothing. They remember sight and sound, and especially scent.”
Frowning, Avenyë leaned back on Lucas’s lap and inhaled. Her eyes widened. “You’re right. I remember now the tavern in Kilearny, watching you talk in the street. Following you across the moors.” She sniffed again. “There’s more. Two nights ago you bathed in the river. And before that you were with—”
“That is enough,” he said. “Let a man have a few secrets.”
Avenyë frowned. “Who was she?”
He grinned and helped her upright. “No one of consequence to you.”
“Here.” The Witch passed around another cup. Bill glared doubtfully at it. “What’s this? Another poultice?”
She jabbed his shoulder with her finger. “Don’t be daft. Drink it!”
He eased it to his lips, glancing between her and Lucas, who nodded to him.
“Go on, now,” said the Witch. “It’s not poison and I don’t bite.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“I’ve only got the one cup, so you’ll have to share.” She turned away from him. Bill tipped the cup to his lips, pulling it back when a drop touched his lip. He passed it quickly to Lucas, who did the same.
The Witch turned around, receiving the cup back. She glanced at it briefly, gave a quick snort, and then downed it in one shot. “Now.” She took a seat at the table. “What brings you thither?”
Lucas leaned forward, his elbows propped on the table. “We wish you to call up the fey.”
Chapter 6: The Witch’s Query
The Witch cast a sharp gaze at Lucas. “What do you seek of the fey? ‘Twas you that imprisoned them in the geas—binding them to a compact that has endured a generation, at least.”
“I wish merely to know whether the geas still holds.”
She gave a quick snort, and then threw back her head and laughed. “I warned you, Lucas Veritatus!” She spat his name. “Nothing could sway them long. They’d find a way. No creature can live in denial of its true nature. Not them, not I, and neither can you.”
“If the fey had escaped the geas, then havoc would have unleashed on the world. They’d destroy themselves as well as us.”
“Aye. And as that has not happened, I must ask why you want to know something so evident. D’you not reason? D’you not listen? Are you not the great Lucas Veritatus, resolver of puzzles both great and small? Tell me a tale worth hearing.”
“I am Lucas Veritatus,” he answered evenly, “though I claim no greatness. I ask because a havoc of a sort not seen before has been unleashed in parts of our world. Children have gone missing. The bodies of parents in at least two parts of the realm have been mutilated.”
Avenyë gave him a sharp glance, but he ignored it. The Witch leaned forward on the table now, her eyes glinting in the firelight. “Now this is a tale worth hearing. Come, tell me more.”
“There is no more. That’s all we know.”
She drew back slightly. “There is more you’re not revealing.”
“Nay.” He shook his head.
She growled, and then drew out a pouch dangling from a rawhide thread around her neck. Pulling it free, she dumped its contents on the table.
Bill stared at the pile of tiny bones. The Witch studied them carefully, scowling, and then scooped them back into her fist and returned them to the bag. “Dark magicks,” she muttered. “So much blood.” Looking up, she said, “The fey have nothing to do with this.”
“All the same, I’d prefer to ask them myself.”
“Then perhaps you should call them. Or maybe this young strapper here.” She nodded toward Bill. “He’s already invoked the Daoine Sidhe twice this evening. I can tell by the pallor around his eyes. Once more and the Wild Hunt will come pounding down the door and you can ask them yourselves.”
“I’ve no wish to break the compact.”
“True to yourself at last. Always wanting others to take the risk. Call them yourself. You have the means. Use your eye.”
“I’ll not use my eye for reasons you well know.”
“Look who doesn’t want to get his hands dirty. What’s a little blood between friends?”
“You’ve offered us hospitality and kept to the Old Laws, dressing our wounds and granting us refreshment and shelter. For that, we honor you. But we’ve come as paying customers. We encountered our hardships seeking you. Will you deny us the services we seek? Or must I invoke your name and compel you to do so?”
She grinned. “Think you could best me? What do you think would happen when I recover from that geas? Don’t think I couldn’t hex you in a hundred ways. Should I give you a third eye to match the other two?”
Bill stared in horror as an eyeball appeared in the center of the ex-Sheriff’s head, though Lucas didn’t seem to notice. Bill cried out and shrank away from the table. The eye turned and looked at him, blinking.
“Or perhaps,” said the Witch, “cause your arms to meld to the table, your feet to the floor.”
Now Bill saw Lucas’s hands and feet dissolve and become part of the furniture. He stumbled out of his chair, scrambling toward the door. Lucas grabbed him with a hand that a moment ago had been part of the table.
“I told you not to drink anything!” he whispered. Bill nodded, wondering why Lucas’s head was floating away from his body.
“You nodded at me, when she proffered the cup,” he breathed.
Lucas shook his head, which had miraculously reattached to his neck. “It’s an illusion, Bill,” he said. “Sit down.”
As if in reply, the extra eye in Lucas’s head blinked once, and was gone. Bill collapsed in his chair, visibly shaken.
To the Witch, Lucas said, “There’s no hex you can place on me that would protect you from a single thrust of my sword. You’d be dead before you woke. I would not fall to your enchantments. I can see right through them.”
“You see,” she sneered. “But only when you want to.”
“Only when I have to, which is rare these days.”
“The eye is wasted on you. It should have been given to me.”