Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2)
Page 56
He saw no traffic at all along the sinuous road that ran along the banks of the loch, and he didn’t know if that was down to the Questing Beast or if everyone had simply fled to the cities. In Drumnadrochit, the quiet village that lay where Glen Urquhart intersected the Great Glen, the houses were still and locked, although a wisp of smoke rose from the occasional chimney. At the loch’s southern tip, Fort Augustus was near empty too, and the occasional resident who saw him coming quickly ran for cover.
He made camp on both nights in a tree-lined gorge not far from Fort Augustus. Without even the slightest sign of the Questing Beast, he had started to wonder if it was another of the Queen’s incomprehensible machinations, perhaps to separate him from Tom.
On the third day, he realised his hunt was true. In the early morning, he travelled alongside the tumbling river at the bottom of Glen Urquhart. The valley was blanketed beneath the drifting white mist that seemed to come and go with a mind of its own, muffling and distorting the splashing of the water and the clipped echoes of the horse’s hooves. In a lonely spot surrounded by acres of sheep-clipped grass he came across an old stone cairn. There was a fading majesty to it, and even he, who was usually insensitive to the blue fire, felt a hint of its power there. But among the standing stones beyond the cairn he came across the remains of a man, half-strung over a barbed-wire fence. From his clothes, he looked like a farmer or an agricultural labourer. He was partially disembowelled as if he had been gored by a bull or a boar, but he had been out there long enough for the carrion birds to have been at his eyes and genitals, so it was impossible to tell if the Beast had consumed any of him as well. Veitch inspected the corpse and the surrounding area for anything that might help him, but there was no spoor or other discernible sign. The only thing that troubled him was that the poor man’s blood had splattered randomly on the ground in a shape that resembled a screaming face. After spending time with Shavi he had grown reasonably adept at reading meaning in things that appeared to have none, and that image began to eat away at his subconscious. As he moved away his mind’s eye had already begun to paint a picture of the true appearance of the Questing Beast.
That night he made camp among the trees high up on the hillside where he had a clear view of the loch and the bleak southern slopes. The setting sun painted the water red and purple; it was once again so still the water gave the illusion of glass. The air was sweet with the aroma of pine and wild flowers, and an abiding peace lay over the landscape. Yet it was hard for him to rest knowing that the thing could come at him from any direction at any time; he had even started to think of it as invisible or as something that flew on silent wings. All he wanted was something solid to latch on to, something he could stab or shoot or hack at, and then he would be fine.
As he had done the other nights, he dined on chocolate, biscuits and crisps he’d taken from a mysteriously deserted garage in Fort Augustus; the sugar and the processed taste sickened him, but he would have felt ridiculous striding into a supermarket for something more sustaining in the armour bequeathed him by the Tuatha De Danann. He was almost too distracted to think of food. Whenever he rested, Ruth loomed heavy in his thoughts, her face, darkened by fear after her discovery of what she carried with her, a frequent, troubling image he never seemed able to shake. Spurred by Church’s right-thinking motivations, he had set out to help in the fight, but he knew his own motivation had been a quest for redemption for his past crimes. The chance to become a better person still weighed on him, but now, more than anything, he was doing it for her; to find some solution to heal her in the short term, to save her in the long term, whatever the cost to himself. Being driven by love was a strange experience for him and he was surprised how much he liked it.
As darkness fell, he stoked up the campfire for warmth during the cold night ahead, before taking time to groom the horse of which he had grown increasingly fond. When he had asked Melliflor for its name, the reply had been something indecipherable, so he had secretly decided to call it Thunder after the horse of some cowboy hero in an American comic he had read as a child. He would never tell the others something like that, but it gave him a deep, personal comfort. He got pleasure from treating it with affection, although he privately wished it were a little more responsive. It seemed unduly wary of him, almost as if it were scared, which he guessed must have come from whatever treatment had been meted out in the strange stables of the Court of the Yearning Heart. I can’t even get a horse to like nze, he thought as he stroked its flank; the notion was so ridiculous it made him laugh out loud.
It was Thunder who alerted him to danger as he settled down to sleep next to the fire under the fragrant canopy of a pine. It whinnied and stamped its hooves long before Veitch heard any sign, and he was up on his feet with the sword in his hands as the howl of fear came from somewhere near the road on his side of the loch. The cry was suddenly infused with pain, before being snapped off.
Veitch jumped on to Thunder and spurred him through the trees on the steep slopes down to the road. The horse was uneasy, but it responded to his heels and it didn’t take him long to find the mangled remains of a motorbike. There was a pool of blood on the tarmac, but no sign of any body. He dismounted and examined the road surface. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but the splatters of blood appeared to point in the direction of the inlet overlooked by the ruins of Castle Urquhart. Briefly, he stopped and listened, but the night was as quiet as ever. He wondered how swiftly the Beast could move; perhaps it was already miles away. Cautiously he climbed back on Thunder and headed in the direction indicated by the blood.
The clatter of the hooves echoed loudly in the quiet. It still surprised him to be riding down the middle of a road without seeing any sign of headlights in the deep night that hung over the water.
Ten minutes later he passed the still ruins of Urquhart Castle. There was no anxiety within him, just a quiet, intense concentration that took over his mind and permeated his being. His instinct told him his quarry was somewhere in the vicinity; there was a constant resonance vibrating inside him that he had come to trust: a warning to be as alert as he could be.
Around the bend in the road that led to Drumnadrochit he came across a few shreds of bloodied clothing. He jumped down to investigate without once lessening the sharp focus of his attention. He could hear nothing, smell nothing. The Beast left no sign in its passing, but Thunder seemed to sense something; its eyes rolled and it stamped its hooves again.
From the shape of the clump of clothing he could at least discern the direction in which the Beast had been travelling when the remnants were dropped. It was moving towards the area where the road was darkest and the trees clustered claustrophobically close. Back on Thunder, he gently urged it on; slowly, slowly, eyes constantly searching the surroundings. He rounded the small bay; ahead, the road moved off towards Inverness.
From the corner of his eye he caught a sudden movement in the trees away to his left. It was a darkness deeper than the surrounding shadows, moving so quickly it disturbed him.
He spurred Thunder into the trees, his crossbow held over the crook of his arm, his finger poised on the trigger. At that point there was little opportunity to manoeuvre among the trees. The movement of the branches in the faint breeze made odd shifts in the ambient light that at times made him feel something was creeping up on him. His heart pounding, he kept glancing all around to reassure himself.
Another movement, again away to his left. Was it trying to circle him, come up from behind? He suddenly realised it was a mistake to be in such a constricted space and he quickly sent Thunder back on to the road. From some where came the sound which Tom had described as forty hounds baying. That didn’t even begin to capture the bone-chilling noise which now drifted out across the deserted countryside: high-pitched and filled with an abiding hunger, it didn’t sound like anything earthly at all.
Something shifted back up the road. This time he was ready. In an instant his mind weighed up all the evidence, projected the pa
th of the Beast; he aimed the crossbow, loosed the bolt. It shot into the shadows, bringing what could have been a squeal of pain. His teeth went on edge. He spurred Thunder on while managing to use the crank to draw the crossbow for another shot.
There was no sign of the Beast at the point where he had hit it, but he hadn’t expected to bring it down with just one bolt. But there were dark splatters on the tarmac which smelled like charred batteries. So it could bleed, he thought. It could be hurt. That was all he needed to know.
It was heading back towards the castle ruins which rose up like bleached bones in the cold moonlight. Once it got on to the rugged, irregular promontory jutting into the icy waters, he would have it cornered. Could he take it out with just a crossbow and a sword? His blood thundered with the thrill of the hunt. He thought he probably could.
The car park for the castle was lit for tourists who would probably never come again. Across the shadowed edge of it the deeper darkness moved. Veitch got another impression of something big and dangerous. He loosed another bolt. It rattled across the car park, slammed into the fleeing rear of the creature. Another squeal of pain. It was proving easier than he thought.
His horse trotted down the steep path from the car park that eventually ran across an open stretch of grassland up to the castle’s defensive ditch. At the drawbridge he dismounted and left Thunder next to a light. He had more freedom to move and react quickly on foot.
The castle was ruined, but still robust enough to glimpse the majesty of the fortress that had looked out over the loch, in one form or another, since the Pictish kings ruled the land in the Dark Ages. The grey stone of the impenetrable walls stretched out on either side, while the still-standing tower loomed like a sentinel away to his left.
There was more ichor splashed across the path that ran under the gatehouse; it looked like the Beast had been seriously injured. Veitch reclaimed the two bolts that had been knocked loose and prepared for another shot.
He could hear movement within the castle compound. He entered through the gatehouse slowly, aware that the enclosed space, with its dips and hillocks and many ruined buildings, could be a dangerous maze. Cautiously he scanned the area. There were too many places in which the Beast could hide.
Another sound sent him sprinting up the steps across the grass to the Upper Bailey. From this vantage point he had a view across the castle and the loch beyond. Nothing moved. Sooner or later it would give itself away, especially if it was badly injured, he told himself; but it was possible, if he was clever enough, to herd it to the area around the tower where it would have no escape.
He spent a few minutes convincing himself it was nowhere in the Upper Bailey and then he advanced slowly towards the hulking ruins of the chapel, Great Hall and kitchens. A brief wind swept up from the black water, singing in his ears.
But as he crossed into the Nether Bailey a figure erupted out of the periphery of his vision. He had only the briefest instant to register what was happening and then he was flying through the air. The landing stunned him for a second, but his sense of self-preservation took over and he shook himself awake. He lay on the grass in the shadow of the North Lodge; nothing moved near him. There was a chill wetness across his chest. When he looked down he saw his jacket and shirt lay in ribbons and there were three deep gashes cut into his flesh. The blood was pumping out through his ruptured armour. Desperately he tried to staunch it with a torn-off piece of his shirt, but as he tended to himself there was another blur of movement. His head snapped round so sharply he thought his neck had broken. Stars flashed across his vision; then the pain came, thundering out in a wave across his temples. By the time he had caught himself, his eyes were filling with liquid. He wiped them clear with the back of his hand, glanced down, saw the dark smear, dripping on his trousers.
The blow had dazed him; everything seemed to be moving too slowly, fractured, as if a strobe had been activated. The terrible hunting cry rose up all around him, different this time, triumphant.
No, he thought. I had it.
A shimmer of activity, so quick he barely saw it. Somehow he managed to fire off a bolt. The Questing Beast avoided it with ease.
As it could have done before, he realised. How stupid was he? He searched for a path back to Thunder, the images coming in broken, stinging form; he had to get away, recover. But the blur of movement was going around too fast, circling, forcing him back. It had cut off all escape routes. He was trapped, his back coming up against a stone wall. Then he stumbled through the gap of the Water Gate and rolled over and over down a steep bank, coming up hard against more stone blocks beyond which was a small, pebbled beach and the dark, lapping water.
As his thoughts started to come free from his daze, he realised: the Questing Beast had shown a ferocious intelligence and cunning, recognising the danger from him, probably over the days he thought he had been stalking it. He had been treating it like a stupid beast; it had been waiting for the opportunity to neutralise him.
It lashed forward from the dark and retreated in the blink of an eye. A gout of blood erupted from his forearm.
The pain was lost in the wild reel of his thoughts. He tumbled over the stone blocks on to the beach; now there was only water at his back.
The Questing Beast knew he was wounded; fatally, he realised, the same time the word entered his head. He could feel his clothes heavy with blood. How much longer did he have? The fragility of his thoughts gave him an answer. He’d failed: himself, Ruth, all the others. His stupidity had come through as it always did.
The Beast no longer seemed to be hiding from him. Through the haze he could pick it out more clearly than he had before. Its shape was not fixed and did not settle down like the Tuatha De Danann did once his mind had formed an analog; it was as if it preceded form, shouting across the aeons from a time when there was only intelligence and emotion. He glimpsed writhing, serpentine coils, something hard and bony, something that moved like gelatin and lashed with the spike of a scorpion’s tail; felt, in one terrible moment, the cold, hard fury of its mind, as if it could reach out physically and strike him. This was bigger than him, better than him.
And then he realised, with some primal instinct, that it was gearing up for the final blow. He had little sense left through the pain; most of it was leaking out with his life’s blood. But he asked himself this question: how cunning was he?
How cunning?
Blackness formed a tunnel around the periphery of his vision. He dropped the crossbow, went down to his knees, blood pooling in his eyes; he only had his instinct to go on. He bowed his head, prepared himself for the final blow.
The Questing Beast came forward in a wave of night; it was as if the wind had teeth and was roaring at him.
Veitch threw himself down on his stomach. At the same time he somehow managed to pull the sword free and raised it above his head. He held it firm when he felt it bite deep, and even when the sheer force of the Questing Beast’s attack threatened to knock it from his grasp, he dug in and angled. The stink of charred batteries filled the air. The liquid swamped him in one awful deluge. The Questing Beast’s momentum carried it over his head, screaming so loudly his eardrums burst.
And then he was in a syrupy world of silence, didn’t hear the splash as the creature plummeted into the water. He turned on his back, saw stars and the moon; knew, in a damp, sad way, it would be the last time he would see them. He’d lost feeling in every part of his body. There were just his thoughts now, bursting like fireworks, slowly winding down.
The play of light on the lapping water was hypnotic. It was a good sight to see as the last sight. But it wasn’t the end, it wasn’t the end. The Beast wasn’t dead; not yet. The black shape was moving through the water like a stalking shark. Thoughts triggered, stumbled into each other and then ran away obliquely; and he wondered how many times in the past it had broken through before Otherworld sucked it back, slinking through the waves, creating ripples of mythology on flickering black and white frames.
Somehow his lids flickered open again, and this time he wondered if he was already dead, for the scene around him had changed dramatically. There was a flurry of activity. Melliflor was there with the rest of the Queen’s guard, oddly twisted spears catching the moonlight, and nets that billowed like the sails of a ship. And there was Tom looming over him, looking like Veitch had never seen him before; not stern nor angry, but caring and frightened, and in that instant he knew he was dead; or dreaming; or both.
The tunnel around his vision closed in tightly. And as everything faded into oblivion, his mind flashed back to that brief contact with the alien mind of the Questing Beast. It was a moment of sublime mystery, but there were some human reference points he could grasp: loneliness, a terrible yearning for another of its kind, long, long gone, lost in those early days when the world was new. That was why it was questing. Pain and hurt as brittle as glass; not a beast at all.
How awful, he thought. To be hunting it in that way. For it to be imprisoned by the Tuatha De Danann in the stinking bowels of their court. How awful and stupid and meaningless.
“You’ll be okay now.”