Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2)

by Mark Chadbourn

  “The dark, out here in the country.” Veitch knew he was talking as much for himself, but it made him feel a little more easy. “I’m a city boy. It never gets dark in the city, even when it’s night. You’ve got other things to worry about there, but at least they’re always easy to see.” He looked up. “The moon’s full. It’d give us more light if not for the bleedin’ clouds.”

  “You’re not afraid of a few shadows, are you?” Tom snapped. His brogue had grown a little thicker now he was back in his homeland again.

  “Ah, fuck off.”

  “City boys. You think you’re so hard,” Tom taunted.

  Witch’s anger flared white and hot for an instant; sometimes he was afraid of it and the way it seemed to take him over completely. He wondered, when he was in its grip, what he was really capable of. Before he could respond with a comment that would bring about another raging argument, he glimpsed a light high and away to his right that was quickly lost behind an outcropping. He pulled back until he saw it again.

  “There’s a place up there.” The light seemed more than welcoming in the sea of darkness. “Maybe they’ll let us bunk down for the night.”

  Tom wavered for a moment, but the prospect of a night with a roof over his head seemed too attractive. He pushed past Veitch and marched briskly towards the white glow.

  It was a crofter’s cottage, built out of stone, but still looking as if it had been hammered by the elements almost to the point of submission. Smoke curled out of the chimney to hang briefly and fragrantly in the air; it smelled of peat or some wood they couldn’t quite identify. The ghostly outlines of prone sheep glowed faintly on the hillside all around. They both watched the place for a few moments while they weighed up any potential dangers, then, finding none apparent, Tom strode up to knock on the door.

  There was a brief period of quiet during which they guessed the occupant was shocked that someone had come calling to such an out-of-the-way place. Then heavy footsteps approached. “Who is it?” a deep voice said in a hesitant Highlands accent.

  “We were out walking. There looks to be a storm blowing up,” Tom said politely. “Do you think you could give us shelter for the night? We-“

  “No. Be off with you.” There was a sharp snap in the voice that could have been anger or fear.

  “Miserable bastard,” Veitch muttered. “Come on, I thought I saw somewhere to make camp just over there. He’s probably in-bred anyway.”

  Before they could move away another, unidentifiable, voice rose up from somewhere at the back of the house. They heard the man move a few steps away from the door and a brief, barely audible argument ensued. A few seconds later the door was jerked open so sharply they both started.

  A man in his late forties with dark, unwelcoming eyes barked, “Get in. Quickly now!”

  They jumped at his order and he slammed the door behind them, throwing a couple of bolts as if to emphasise his order. He was wearing a faded Miami Tshirt with old blue braces over the top holding up a pair of dirty grey, pinstriped suit trousers. His hair was curly black and grey, but his three-day stubble made him appear harsher than he might otherwise have been. He sized them up suspiciously, then beckoned them over to the fireside with a seemingly approving grunt. “Better get y’sen warmed up. It gets cold up here at night, even in summer.”

  He disappeared into another room and came back with a woman in her early twenties who had obviously been the source of the argument. Her face was bright and confident, as welcoming as the man was suspicious. Her hair was long and shiny-black, her eyes dark, and she was slim, in a clean white T-shirt and faded Levi’s. There was something about her that reminded Veitch of Ruth, although her features had more of country stock in them.

  “You’ll have to forgive my dad. He doesn’t know the meaning of hospitality.” The father began to speak, but she silenced him with a flashing glare; a fiery temper clearly lay just beneath the surface. “I’m Anna. Dad here, he’s James. Jim.”

  “Mr. McKendrick,” the father mumbled in the background.

  Tom and Veitch introduced themselves. “You’ve been having some trouble,” Tom noted, slipping off his rucksack.

  “Something’s been worrying the sheep.” Looking uncomfortable, McKendrick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Worrying? Savaging more like. Six dead in the last two nights. Eight gone last month.”

  “A wild dog,” Tom suggested, not believing it for a minute.

  “Sat up with my gun last night. Never saw a damn thing. Found what was left of the carcasses at first light.”

  Tom nodded. “I can see that would be a problem. And you thought the culprit had come knocking at the door?”

  McKendrick ignored him. Anna stepped in. “Have you eaten? I could do you some bacon sandwiches?”

  They both agreed this would be a good idea. While McKendrick pulled back the curtains to peer outside, Tom disappeared to use the toilet. Once Veitch heard the spattle of hot oil and smelled the first singe of the bacon he followed Anna into the small kitchen, which was barely big enough for the two of them.

  She smiled when he entered and asked him to slice the bread. “You’ll have to excuse Dad. He’s been under a lot of pressure. You don’t make any money with a croft at the best of times, and the last few years certainly haven’t been the best of times. He cannae afford to lose sheep at this rate.”

  “You help him out here?”

  “Don’t look so surprised!” She slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “My mum died earlier this year. It was a shock to us all, but Dad took it really hard. Went to pieces, really. I was living down in Glasgow, having the time of my life, but I jacked it all in to come back here and get him back on his feet.”

  Veitch took the spatula from her hand and turned the bacon, but he couldn’t take his eyes from her face. Her own eyes matched his, move for move. “That was good of you.”

  “Don’t make me out to be a saint. Anybody would have done it for family. But no good deed goes unpunished, right? Now he doesn’t want me stuck in a miserable life like crofting miles away from anything anybody could call society, and he doesn’t want to lose me and be on his own either. So we sit here every night stewing in our juices.”

  “Must be pretty hard.”

  She shrugged. “So what about you? You don’t look the kind to be hillwalking in these times.” She looked him in the eye. “Nobody would be up here alone at night in the Troubles. Unless they had a very good reason.”

  “I have a very good reason.”

  “Tell me about it, then.”

  “I’m a big bleedin’ hero trying to save the world from disaster.”

  Her eyes ranged over his deadpan face as she tried to pick the truth from his comment. Eventually she held his gaze, while a smile crept across her lips, and then she turned back to the cooker. But she never told him what she thought.

  They ate the sandwiches in front of the fire. McKendrick thawed a little and even offered around a shot of malt which looked, from its unlabelled bottle, as if it had been distilled locally. Veitch still couldn’t take his eyes off Anna. He didn’t know if it was because she reminded him of Ruth or because of some other attraction, and that thought filled him with guilt about how fickle he really was. For her part, Anna seemed truly taken by him. While Tom and her father talked in quiet, serious tones by the fire, the two of them sat in creaking, threadbare armchairs in one corner, their lighthearted conversation punctuated with humour.

  But at one point Veitch looked up and found McKendrick watching him with a cold annoyance bordering on anger. Veitch knew why, didn’t care; life was too short.

  They were disturbed shortly after midnight by a wild commotion outside: the undeniable sound of sheep in torment, deep rumbling from some unrecognisable animal throat that turned into a guttural roar. Veitch was the first to the window, but the light inside made it impossible to see more than a few feet. McKendrick had his gun and hovered hesitantly at the door, but Veitch was by his side before he had his fi
ngers on the handle.

  “Let me go first, all right?” The crossbow was in his hand as he slipped out into the chill night. He regretted it instantly. Even outside it was impossible to see much beyond the small circle of illumination from the croft’s windows; he could almost feel the darkness pressing hard against him. He had advanced to the edge of the light before McKendrick came out with a powerful torch. He had never heard the noise the sheep were making before; it was frenzied and high-pitched and at times almost sounded like the shriek of a woman.

  “Quick! Over there!” He pointed redundantly in the direction of the noise.

  The determination in McKendrick’s face didn’t quite mask the underlying fear as he swung the torch round wildly. It flashed over undulating grass, the ghostly grey shapes of fleeing sheep, past something that was just a glimmer, but a splash of colour and a jarring shape that shouldn’t be caught Veitch’s eye. “Back! Back!” he yelled.

  McKendrick retraced the arc. They caught a glimpse of a low shadow that moved away like lightning. Left behind was the carcass of a sheep, gleaming slickly, the white bones protruding like enormous teeth. It had been so torn to pieces they had trouble recognising which part was which.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God!” McKendrick hissed. “It is a dog!” He nestled the barrel of his gun over his forearm while still trying to manipulate the torch.

  “Careful,” Witch said. “It might be rabid.”

  The white light washed over more grass, its movement jerky with McKendrick’s anxiety, so at times it looked like they were glimpsing images illuminated by a strobe: a rock that made them all start; a sheep running in their direction. The carcass again. The wind had whipped up and was moaning across the high land, scudding the clouds across the moon and stars so it became darker than ever. And against it all was the sound of the sheep’s hooves constantly driving across the grass, disorienting them so it was impossible to tell where the dog was.

  McKendrick gritted his teeth in frustration. “Stay behind me. If I see it I’m just going to let rip with both barrels. Might scare it-“

  They had heard tell of animal sounds that could chill the blood; McKendrick had thought it poetic license, but when the howling rose up, at first low and mournful but then higher and more intense, they felt ice water wash through them. The primal sound triggered some long-dormant race warning that was so overpowering that their instinct rose to the fore and instantly drove them towards the house.

  Just as their backs were at the door, McKendrick’s final sweep with the torch locked on to a prowling shape, so fleeting they caught only a glimpse of golden eyes glowing spectrally in the light. McKendrick fired instantly, but they didn’t wait to see the result. They slipped through the door and locked it firmly behind them.

  “I think I got it,” McKendrick said breathlessly with his back pressed hard against the door. “Winged it, at least.”

  Veitch wasn’t so sure. Anna and Tom waited anxiously in the centre of the room; it was apparent from their faces they had been as disturbed by the howling. McKendrick and Veitch looked at each other, but it was the older man who finally gave voice to what they were both thinking.

  “It was a wolf, I’m sure of it.”

  Anna shook her head furiously. “You’re Joking! There haven’t been wolves here for centuries.”

  “But this was once their homeland,” Tom mused. “Perhaps they’ve returned.”

  “With the forests,” Veitch added.

  “How?” Anna asked. “That’s crazy!”

  McKendrick went to the window and peered out cautiously. “Crazy things are happening all the time these days,” he mumbled.

  “Are you sure it was a wolf?” Tom said pointedly. “Not a man?”

  Veitch knew what he was implying. “Bit bigger than normal, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Anna looked at them both curiously, but said nothing.

  “If you did hit it, we might be able to track it at first light. Follow the blood,” Veitch said confidently. “It would be easier if we could see the bleedin’ thing. We don’t stand a chance out there in the dark.”

  This seemed like the most sensible course of action, so while Anna retired to the kitchen to make a pot of tea, the men sat by the fire, slowly feeling their heartbeats return to normal.

  McKendrick retired an hour later, and while Tom dozed fitfully in a chair in front of the fire, Veitch attempted to make up a bed on the floor in one corner. Anna helped him, talking animatedly in a hushed voice.

  “Sorry if I’m rattling on,” she said with a giggle. “It seems like ages since I’ve had a body to talk to. Apart from my da’, that is.”

  Veitch lay back on the collection of cushions with his arms behind his head. “He seems like he’s got it pretty much together now. He’s a tough bloke. Bit of a no-nonsense life he’s got going up here. Maybe it’s time to get back to your life.”

  She looked wistful. “I don’t know. I can’t be selfish-“

  “You’ve got to be, sometimes. Otherwise you can just give up your life to all these responsibilities everyone throws at you. They’ll never stop.”

  She stifled a yawn, then lay down next to him, staring up at the ceiling. “That sounds like a lot of sense. Right now. But then I’ll catch him looking at Mum’s photo and crying when he doesn’t think I’m around-“

  “Don’t you get lonely?”

  She turned to look at him with her deep, dark eyes. “Sometimes.”

  He rolled on to his side and propped his head with his arm. “You look like you like big fun. You’re gonna go stir crazy in this place after a while.”

  “Sometimes I think I already have.” She shrugged. “You know how everybody needs something in their lives they believe in? Well, this croft is Dad’s thing. For all the blood and sweat that goes into it and the poverty that comes out, he loves it. He’d die if he moved away. It looks boring, bleak, hard. But then you get up on an autumn morning to see the dawn slowly moving across the mountains in orange and brown. And you hear the wind across the hillsides on a winter’s night, almost like it’s a real person.”

  “So what do you believe in?”

  “Right now, looking after a man who raised a bairn while managing to keep body and soul together in a place like this. He’s sacrificed for me. It’s the least I can do in return. The very least.”

  Veitch rolled back, his expression faintly puzzled, vaguely troubled.

  “And what do you believe in?”

  That question troubled him even more. “Still looking for it, I reckon.”

  She leaned over and gently touched the tattoo on his forearm; her fingers were cool, the contact hot. “Tell me about these.” She smiled with mock lasciviousness. “Do they go all the way down?”

  Before he could reply, the door to the bedroom swung open and McKendrick glared out. “Anna! To bed. Now,” he hissed.

  She smiled at Veitch a little sadly, but there was nothing else to say.

  The gale picked up during the night, whistling in the chimney and clattering around the eaves. Veitch woke repeatedly, reminded of Anna’s description of the wind as a real person; at times he was convinced he could hear an insistent voice, warning or challenging. Over near the dying embers of the fire, Tom grumbled and twitched in his sleep. Veitch checked his watch: 3 a.m. Shouldn’t be too long until dawn.

  A rattling ran along the length of the roof. He sat bolt upright in shock an instant before he realised it was still the wind. He wouldn’t be surprised if half the tiles were off come morning. He lay back down, but the rattling sound came back in the opposite direction.

  His instincts jangled. Slowly he raised himself on his elbows and listened. It didn’t sound like the wind at all. It sounded like there was someone on the roof.

  A shower of soot fell down the chimney and the fire flared. His attention snapped to it, but his mind was already racing ahead. The resounding crash against the front door had him to his feet in an instant; it was so hard he thought it was goin
g to burst the door from its hinges.

  Tom staggered to his feet, still half asleep. “What … what in heaven’s name … ?”

  Veitch ran to the window and peeked out. A large grey wolf which looked, in his state of heightened tension, as big as a Shetland pony, was hurling itself at the door. With each impact, the hinges strained a little more. Veitch struggled briefly to make sense of the wolf’s unnatural actions before jumping back and yelling, “McKendrick! Bring your gun!”

  But the crofter was already half out of the bedroom with his shotgun, looking dazed. “You better see this,” he said.

  Veitch ran into the bedroom. Anna was sitting up in a Z-bed, trying to make sense of what was happening. The curtains had been dragged back and outside Veitch could see several sleek wolves circling, all as big as the one battering the front door. The rattling on the roof echoed again; at least one of them was up there too.

  “There must be eight or nine of them!” McKendrick said in disbelief.

  “Have you got another gun?” Veitch snapped. The crofter shook his head.

  Cursing, Veitch ran back to the living room and scrambled for his crossbow, suddenly aware of how feeble it really was. He barely had time to load a bolt when the door burst open and the wind howled in; the curtains flew wildly. The wolf struck him full in the chest with the force of a sledgehammer. He went down, winded, and then it was on top of him, jaws snapping barely an inch from his face. Its meaty breath blasted into his nostrils, its saliva dripped hot on his chin. He could barely breathe from the weight of it.

  He forced his face to one side in desperate, futile evasion, anticipating the enormous power of the jaws stripping the meat from his skull. And then the strangest thing happened: deep in his head he felt an uncomfortable tickling sensation, like a dim radio signal on the end of a band. Slowly he found his face drawn back round until he was looking deep into the wolf’s eyes, golden with the cold circle of black floating at the centre; they drew him in until he was lost in a gleaming intelligent soup, at once alien, yet a part of him.

  The terrible spell was broken with the sound of smashing glass. Another wolf burst through the window and sprawled in the centre of the floor before righting itself. And then the rest of the pack was inside, circling low and fast. Tom tried to fend one off with a wooden chair. The wolf played the game for a second, then suddenly unleashed its jaws in a frenzied snapping that turned the chair to splinters in an instant.