The Hound of Rowan

by Henry H. Neff

“Really?” said Ms. Richter, raising an eyebrow and leaning forward.

  David tried to meet the Director’s gaze but looked away and began coughing. Max was surprised that his roommate, normally so timid, was not more cooperative.

  “I don’t know if I should say,” said David quietly when his coughing had stopped. “I mean, you’re the Director…. Why don’t you know? Maybe nobody’s supposed to know. Maybe they just wanted Astaroth to fade away in a prison no one even knew existed, much less where to find or break it?”

  “A fair point,” conceded Ms. Richter. “Indeed, it has long been rumored among our faculty that Astaroth was imprisoned in a painting, but I am not aware that any Director has ever had the specifics. Based on what you’ve said, however, I think that time is past. We must know where Astaroth is and if the Enemy has already taken possession of him.”

  David cleared his throat.

  “I don’t know exactly which painting, but I have hunches…,” he said.

  Ms. Richter glanced at the French doors and closed the curtains with a wave of her hand. David began pacing around the chair once again.

  “First of all, the painting will have been completed sometime close to when Astaroth was defeated. That’s when he was weak and we had the Tuatha de Danaan as allies—they had the Old Magic needed for the binding spells. I know the Enemy has taken modern paintings, too, but that’s all just a cover-up to disguise who’s stealing the art and why.”

  “You’re sure?” asked Ms. Richter.

  “Yes. Astaroth’s too powerful to hold in something temporary or move from one prison to another—all of that’s too risky.”

  Ms. Richter nodded, stirring her coffee and watching David carefully as he continued.

  “I also think it would be by a famous painter. The idea is that the Enemy would assume any prison would be hidden away. Famous paintings might be in plain sight, but they don’t change ownership often and can be guarded really well.”

  “Leading candidates?” asked Ms. Richter, nodding.

  “Rembrandt and Vermeer,” said David.

  “Why these artists, specifically?”

  David shrugged.

  “Time period fits best and others had access to their paintings while they were being made,” said David. “I don’t think either artist would have even known their work was involved; one of our people—a student of theirs or someone who had access—would have played the pivotal role. Nothing in the Archives’ records says that Rembrandt or Vermeer was one of us. Personally, I think the painting is a Rembrandt, but it’s most likely any one of these four paintings.”

  David got up to take a pen from the Director’s desk and scribble on a slim pad of paper nearby. Ms. Richter snatched up the paper and glanced at it.

  “The good news is they haven’t been stolen,” said David.

  Max tried to glimpse the names through the paper as the Director held it up but was unable to make them out in the soft light. Ms. Richter glanced at him, as though she suddenly realized that he was still there.

  “Thank you, David,” she said, placing the sheet facedown on her desk. She motioned for David to be seated once again. Opening her drawer, she produced a folder Max had seen before. His pulse began to quicken.

  “Now for you, Mr. McDaniels,” she said, removing the glossy photograph and flipping it around to face him. Max blinked at the picture of Ronin staring furiously back at him. “Can you explain why you still have not shared the fact that you had a conversation with this man on this very campus?”

  Max had not heard from Ronin since Halloween; he had assumed enough time had elapsed that Cooper’s suspicions had been unreported or dismissed.

  “I’m sorry,” said Max quietly. “I just thought—”

  Her interjection was calm and even.

  “You chose not to report this despite the fact that I told you this man was dangerous. You chose not to report this despite the fact that vyes infiltrated this campus several weeks prior.”

  “Is he a vye?” asked Max, horrified.

  Ms. Richter stood and walked to the window to open the drapes and watch snowflakes float about the outside lights like tiny moths. “No, Max, he is not a vye. Your original instincts about him were on target, nonetheless—he is dangerous. I’m sorry to say he is a graduate of Rowan—a supremely gifted one who is quite misguided. He was cast out several years ago. His name is Peter Varga.”

  “But he tried to save me in Chicago and at the airport,” said Max, confused. “He did save me. Why was he cast out? What did he do that was so bad?”

  The Director’s reply snapped through the air with finality.

  “He made contact with the wrong people.” Her figure remained framed against a backdrop of swirling snow and frosted glass. “You had best go get some supper, Max. You are not to speak to Mr. Varga again or say anything about David’s research to anyone. I will emphasize to you that these are not polite requests I am simply making of a student; these are field orders issued by the Director of Rowan. Do you need me to explain the difference?”

  “No, Director,” said Max, his face reddening.

  “Good,” said Ms. Richter in a gentler voice. “Please get some dinner and some rest. David, I would appreciate it if you would remain a bit longer. Good night, Max.”

  Max left the room as quickly as he could, skirting several students and hurrying down to the dining hall, where Bob had put aside a special plate for him.

  The next few weeks were a whirlwind for the students at Rowan. Everyone had been brought up to date by their respective advisors. The news of missing Potentials caused quite a shock as did the distribution of security watches to every student. These watches were thin and silver with a digital screen that was to be pressed hard if danger threatened. While these developments had triggered a buzz among the students, the real shock and gossip began one evening when Cooper brought his hunched and shambling vye to the dining hall.

  “We’re seeing more of these,” Cooper announced to his petrified audience. “We caught this one sniffing round the gates, so the Director thinks it best you see one now—in captivity. Some of you may think you know all about vyes from your books; I thought the same until I met one in Oslo….” Cooper then gave a very practical and targeted explanation of how to spot and handle vyes. According to the Agent, a fair fight was not what they wanted. The vye’s objective was to catch you unaware, even trusting. The key was early detection: a vye was much less likely to attack if it thought it had been identified. In human form, their eyes were often watery, and they had a meandering, indirect way of speaking.

  “They like to think they’re clever.” Cooper smirked. “Catch yourself in conversation with a vye, and it’ll be using ominous words and violent metaphors—toying with its prey. Turn the tables; introduce a riddle into the conversation. Vyes love riddles—it will almost always get distracted and try to solve it. Catch-22s are gold: say that you’re applying for a job that requires experience, but that you can’t get experience without the job. Drives them crazy—a record skipping in their heads.

  “Don’t just rely on your gut to spot a vye,” Cooper cautioned. “I know that’s the going tip, but it’s wrong and risky. Some people can sense a vye in a heartbeat; something about it triggers a response in their genetic memory and they know a predator is near. Some people aren’t so lucky. Be alert and remember to check the eyes and speech patterns. Also, remember that vyes almost always work in pairs; always be wary of a second vye if one is spotted. Always! The one you see might just be distracting you. If their teeth or claws ever puncture your skin, you’ve got seventy-two hours to get the antidote or you risk contamination.”

  Jason Barrett, looking very serious, asked Cooper how best to combat one.

  “That depends on you and your strengths,” he mused. “I think of vyes as knife-work, but that’d be risky for students. They don’t burn easy, but they sure don’t like bright light or bitter cold. They’re quick, but not quick enough to keep pace with you if you’re m
uch of an Amplifier. There are many ways to tangle with a vye. You’ll just have to figure out what works best for you.”

  “And how are we supposed to do that?” a nervous-looking Third Year asked.

  “On the Course,” Cooper hissed. “On my recommendation, vyes will be randomly inserted into your training scenarios. Effective immediately.”

  15

  UNEXPECTED GUESTS

  Following Cooper’s dinner demonstration, there was a sharp decline in Course usage. Max had reluctantly continued his scenarios but had yet to encounter any vyes. What he did encounter was incessant teasing at the hands of other students as tales of Kettlemouth’s song flooded the campus.

  Julie now avoided him whenever she could. When their paths did cross, she muttered “Hello” and hurried off, usually flanked by a protective phalanx of girlfriends. The Valentine’s Day dinner and dance had come and gone without Max in attendance. The only consolation was that Mum had reportedly hounded Connor throughout the evening, claiming he still owed her a date from Halloween. Max put Julie out of his mind, however, as he jogged with Rolf and Sarah on the muddy path to the Smithy. It was mid-March, and there was a brisk, wet wind in the air as Rowan shook off the vestiges of winter. Small buds sprinkled the branches, shoots of grass peeked from the soil, and the sky teemed with convoys of pink-tinged clouds rolling in from the sea. The trio quickened their pace as Old Tom chimed five o’clock.

  Their class had been attempting more complex scenarios as teams, and the three hoped to complete one before dinner. Three other First Years had just set the best mark, a thirty-one, on a Level Three scenario requiring them to track and capture a golden fawn. To complicate things, the scenario also offered opponents: a pack of mischievous hampersprites who attacked in swarms, clinging to one’s legs until the victim was toppled and bound with tree roots.

  Sarah punched in the security code, and they entered the building. Moments later, Max felt his usual queasiness of anticipation as the elevator opened to the familiar granite walls of the Course’s trophy room. Sarah’s speech came rapid-fire.

  “Don’t forget—communication is the key,” she said. “Our goal is to use sunbursts and frighten the fawn to the central clearing, where we can converge on it. Rolf, you’ll camp in the clearing so at least one of us is already there; plus, you’re the best at Hypnotics. Max, can you Amplify whenever you want?”

  “No,” said Max. “But I’m getting better—Miss Boon’s been giving me lessons.”

  “Will you try during the scenario? I think it’s probably our best chance to catch it.”

  Max nodded but felt uneasy. There were times he feared that his body simply couldn’t contain the energy that Amplification generated. Others feared it, too; Miss Boon often kept her distance during their lessons, instructing Max from across the room.

  While they waited for the elevator, Max wandered over to a heavy mail gauntlet suspended in one of the cases. The gauntlet was enormous, forged for a hand twice Max’s size. Its rings and plates were twisted and battered. It was the Gauntlet of Beowulf, and next to it were inscribed the names of those students who had demonstrated exceptional courage. Max’s eyes wandered over the list, wondering what deeds the students had performed to merit the award. Craning his head, he did a double take. Etched above in fiery script was the name Peter Varga.

  Max blinked. According to Ms. Richter, that was Ronin’s real name.

  Sarah’s voice hissed, “Max—come on! The elevator’s here!”

  Level Three was paneled in tortoiseshell, the swirls creating illusions of depth in contrast to its flat silver doors. Sarah went to door three and punched codes into its console.

  “Everybody ready?” asked Sarah, clapping her hands with excitement. With a twist of the knob, they stepped into another world.

  Max instantly noticed the different aromas; polished wood and metal had been replaced by moss, earth, and pine. His eyes adjusted quickly to the light as he scanned the deepening sky and gauged the distance across a meadow of tall grass and low bushes bordered by an encircling hedge of forest. The sun’s last rays shone orange through gaps in the western trees. Some movement caught his eye; deer were grazing in the meadow, but there was no telltale glint of gold to signal their quarry.

  “Rolf, take a position near those bushes in the center,” said Sarah urgently. “Keep low and choose a path downwind from those deer. Max and I will split up and head in opposite directions around the forest. Remember what Mr. Watanabe said: slow and steady. Our chances are best on the first try, so make it count!”

  Max nodded and slipped into the forest, hugging the trail and avoiding the twigs and branches. He moved quickly; the sun was setting, and its light would be valuable in spotting their target’s golden coat. The air was cool, but perspiration formed on Max’s brow as he scanned the forest for the reflective eyes of hampersprites. Periodically, he would stop to listen but heard only the beating of his heart and the buzzing of mosquitoes.

  Suddenly, a fountain of red sparks erupted like firecrackers above the forest canopy across the meadow—Sarah was in trouble! Max burst out of the forest and raced across the clearing. The deer scattered; Rolf stood up from his hiding spot. “Stay hidden!” Max hissed as he raced past him, his body beginning to Amplify. Seconds later, Max had reached the other side, leaping over a low hedge and into the dark forest.

  Three hideous lime-green creatures with mossy hair and yellow cat’s eyes clung to Sarah’s legs like stubborn toddlers while a fourth wrestled with her hands. Hampersprites. To Max’s alarm, another gang of five had taken hold of a tree root and were lugging it like a fire hose to bind her.

  “Solas!” he yelled, flexing his hand and filling the forest with a brilliant flash of light. The hampersprites shrieked and shielded their eyes, permitting Sarah to fling one aside and begin peeling the others off her legs.

  Max leapt away as a howling hampersprite came charging at him. He took hold of its little arm and tossed it at those carrying the tree root. The little creatures were dashed to the side, losing hold of the root, which promptly resumed its rigid state.

  Sarah had by now raised a low ring of red flames around herself. A half-dozen scowling hampersprites prowled around it, cursing in their high-pitched, jabbering voices. With a yelp, one tried to hurdle the flames, but succeeded only in catching its loincloth on fire. The creature fell to the ground while several others rushed in to smother the flames.

  From the corner of his eye, Max caught a golden gleam. Watching the action, with an inquisitive tilt of its delicate head, stood the golden fawn.

  “Sarah—on the path!” he hissed. “There it is!”

  Sarah risked a quick turn of her head, just as she raised a burst of flame to singe a hampersprite that had slunk behind her.

  “Go get it, Max!” she panted. “I’ve got this under control. Run!”

  As if sensing the upcoming chase, the fawn swished its tail and bolted down the path. With a predatory leap, Max was after it, his feet kicking up bits of bark and soil. Max quickened his pace and ignored the sting of branches that whipped at his face, but the golden fawn always managed to bound ahead just out of reach, holding to the gentle curve of the trail.

  I’ll never catch it this way, thought Max. This must be part of the scenario—speed alone can’t catch it. It’s sticking to the path—I have to head it off!

  Veering to the left, he sprinted out into the meadow, estimating the best angle at which to cross the clearing and intercept the fawn. He ran fast and low, trying to make use of whatever cover was available. Slowing almost to a stop, he crawled on his belly through a thicket and reentered the forest. He grinned as he heard the soft thud of trotting footsteps coming down the path. Scanning about for cover, Max leapt twelve feet straight up, onto a thick branch overhanging the trail. A moment later, he was perched above the path like a great cat lying in ambush.

  The approaching footsteps slowed; something was now moving very deliberately. Max hushed his breathing and wiped t
he sweat out of his eyes. Squinting, he saw a shape emerge from the shadows, walking slowly and clearly too big to be the fawn. Max flickered with annoyance as he thought it was Rolf abandoning his post. Annoyance, however, withered to sickening dread as the figure stole closer on the forest floor below him.

  It was the ears that triggered Max’s initial rush of terror.

  The vye had ears like a wolf, only longer, and they twitched with alertness as it suddenly shifted its gait and rose onto its hind legs. It took a quick step to the right, crouching to investigate the depths of the dark thicket. Then it stopped. It sniffed the air and swept its great head in Max’s direction. Max held his breath, fighting the urge to scream as the vye abandoned the thicket and crept toward Max’s tree.

  The vye was huge: over eight feet of rangy muscle, matted hair, and sinew. It edged closer. The top of the vye’s gray-black head was only a few feet away when it stopped at the base of the tree. Its head was bowed; its panting breath was hoarse and quick. Suddenly, it spoke in the voice of a woman, its tone calm and with a hint of playfulness.

  “Do you have him, my love?”

  “Yes, my love.”

  The reply was whispered from behind Max. He whipped his head around to see the leering face and bared fangs of a second vye inches from his own.

  Max screamed and let go of the branch. He flailed and kicked in anticipation of rending claws and ripping teeth.

  Nothing happened. With a croak, he opened his eyes and saw that he was sprawled on the blank white floor of the spacious scenario room. Rolf and Sarah were looking at him with a mixture of shock and concern.

  “What happened?” asked Rolf. “Was there a malfunction?”

  “I don’t know,” breathed Sarah. “Max, did you get the fawn?”

  Max shook his head; his chest rose in rapid beats while sweat poured off his body. He took a long, quivering breath.

  “There were vyes in the scenario—” he said.

  Before Max could finish his sentence, the door to the chamber opened. Nigel Bristow stood in the doorway, out of breath and agitated.