by A. L. Sirois
Aubin rose, bowing as he did—a neat trick, Guilhem noted. “Yes, my lord,” the seneschal said. “It shall be as you wish.”
Guilhem, scowling, watched him hurry out of the room. A werewolf, no less! The thing would pop up now, as soon as he had returned home, just as he needed to concentrate on his immediate future and the question of his relationship with Duke Raymond of Toulouse—and Raymond’s son. With a sigh of regret, he mentally shelved the problem.
He stared with distaste down at the table, wishing he could likewise shelve the documents scattered thereon. I’d almost rather face a blasted werewolf than all these papers. My soul, but it’s boring! He cared nothing about repairs to harnesses and wagons, or how much to charge in cartage fees to transport the estate’s harvest of grain to Toulouse. Toulouse would be his soon enough. It would indeed seem that matters on his estate had gone well enough during his absence. He certainly wasn’t losing money. He had no doubt that Aubin had skimmed some gold off the top of the tax revenue, but that was perfectly understandable, not to say expected; and within the bounds of acceptable behavior. He would have been surprised had the man not been at least slightly larcenous.
He went to see Phillipa, who was in the kitchen speaking to the cook, and drew her off to one side. “My lady, have you heard reports of a werewolf hereabouts?”
She touched the golden cross at her throat. “Yea, all know of it,” she murmured.
“This is most troubling to me. Aubin now brings word of the discovery of a body, badly handled by some beast, in the forest not one thousand yards from the walls of this castle. The wounds are like those caused by a wolf.”
She gripped the cross, sucking in a breath. “So... so close?”
He nodded, his face grim. “I see I can delay this matter no longer.” He bowed quickly. “With your leave, then.”
* * *
Guilhem flung a heavy fur cloak over his shoulders and followed Aubin out of the castle. In the coldest winters wolves were known to slink up close to the dwellings of men in hope of making off with an unwary child or small animal, but despite the cold temperature winter had not yet sunk its fiercest talons into the Aquitaine. Even as they crossed the drawbridge, however, Guilhem saw that the sky had lowered even further. As he gazed up, a flake of snow wandered down past him.
Then another.
By the time Guilhem and Aubin made their way into the forest, snow was falling lazily out of the sky. The leaves were gone from the branches now and lay crackling underfoot. Much of the land around the castle had been cleared for crops and grazing, but the forest walls towered untouched beyond them, a seemingly eternal resource of wood for fires and wild game for the kitchen. His stronghold lay in a large clearing that grew a bit each year as trees were chopped down. But the march of civilization did not dispel the things that lurked within the forest; it merely drove them deeper into it.
“I fear we’re going to have to go on a quest to find the cursed beast,” he said as he tramped along with Aubin.
“It grows bold,” Aubin said.
“Aye.” Guilhem squinted up at the sky, caught in ragged slices of white-flecked grey between the clawed branches. “Perhaps this snow will do some of our work for us. If the creature attacks now, we’ll have its trail.”
Aubin glanced around, fear written plain on his face. Guilhem noted this with hidden amusement. Aubin was at home with his scrolls and volumes, not out here in the dreariness of the primeval forest.
“I remember when we killed that dragon,” Guilhem said, deliberately keeping his tone light. “Of course, it wasn’t much of a dragon, was it; only as big as a couple of hogsheads of wine. Eh?”
Aubin muttered an assent.
“All the really big ones are long gone now. Why, in my grandfather’s day, they say, the worms used to fly in from the south, betimes, and lay waste to acres before the bowmen could take ‘em down.” He sighed. “Huge things, y’know. Bigger than four carts, some of them. Pity you can’t eat dragon flesh. A dragon like that, it would’ve fed the castle for a fortnight. Ah well, at least we have that one’s head in the conservatory, the small one we killed. A splendid trophy.”
“Yes... s-splendid,” Aubin said in a faint voice.
Just ahead lay the crumbled remains of an ancient tower, built by a long forgotten king in a time so remote no man could remember it. Around them the snow had grown thicker, swirling, deadening what little sound there was and promising to be the first significant fall of the season.
“The body lies a few paces beyond yon tower,” Aubin said.
Guilhem opened his mouth to reply when a long, black arm shot out of the ruined doorway, snatching Aubin up from the ground. Guilhem shouted as the huge hand crushed the seneschal, cutting short his screams. All that could be heard amid the gentle snowfall was the sickening sound of bones snapping.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IN WHICH GUILHEM SEEKS ADVICE FROM A WITCH
The duke stared slack-jawed as the hand dropped the mashed, bleeding body. Little flames flickered along the arm’s length. The ifrit squeezed itself out of the tower.
“Rather close quarters,” the horror said, in its thick voice. “But t’will serve, t’will serve.” It grinned at him, showing a dismaying number of pointed teeth.
“You!” Guilhem clenched his fists so tightly that he felt his nails pierce his flesh. “What are you doing here?”
“You know I am a native of Araby,” it replied, staring up at the dancing snowflakes. “After you released me, I was about to fly home when I thought to myself, ‘Why not tour these lands?’ And what better place to start than the home of the fairy friend responsible for my freedom? I’m put off by Bohemia, as I am sure you can understand. France, on the other hand, I find appealing. Cold, but appealing.”
The ifrit rose to its full height and stretched. Its wings scooped the dim light. “So this is snow,” it said in wonder, brushing the accumulation off its shoulders. “Fascinating! And, you know, quite lovely. We’ve nothing like it in Araby. Rather diverting.”
Guilhem, knowing the thing wouldn’t hurt him, folded his arms. “I take it you are the source of the werewolf rumors.”
It made a deprecating gesture. “Such was not my intent,” it said. “Mind you, there is a werewolf or two within a few dozen miles of here, but I’m afraid your neighbors have made an error. Understandable, of course, give the similarity in our modus operandi; but an error nevertheless.”
“Listen, I can’t have this,” Guilhem said. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to go back where you came from. Does your heart not yearn for the burning sands of your home?”
“I haven’t got a heart.” The demon placed its taloned hands on its knees and leaned down, bringing its fanged face close to his. “And I’m by no means ready to leave. I find that I’m having a good time. The taste of your countrymen’s flesh is new to me, and I confess I find it most palatable. Perhaps it’s all the wine you people consume that marinates you so nicely.”
While Guilhem was trying to think of a way to respond, the ifrit continued speaking. “You know that with each passing moment I absorb more knowledge of these lands? It’s a talent we ifrits have,” it said, modestly. “Too, there’s a persisting effluvium of memory in the blood of your fellows. It renders your racial history accessible to me. I daresay you know you’re the descendent of the Visigoths that overran this region centuries ago? That fellow Charlemagne designated two of your ancestors: Torson, and Raymond Raphinel. Of course, he was a Carolingian and not a Visigoth, but you must be aware of that.”
“How can you know of the great Charlemagne?”
The ifrit made casual gesture. “He was in Baghdad a few hundred years back, sometime around 800 by your calendar. The caliph himself, Harun al-Rashid, gave him an elephant, you know. And a clock.”
“No, I didn’t know that. I—wait!” Guilhem waved his hands as though to disperse a foul odor. “I don’t give a fig for Charlemagne or clocks or elephants or any of that nonsense. You�
�ve got to stop preying on my people. Return home.” His eyes narrowed. “I’m asking you as a fairy friend.”
“I thank you for your courtesy, but I’m under no obligation to obey, you know.”
“Did I not free you? This is what you can do to repay me.”
The ifrit laughed a gelatinous laugh. “Oh, my dear fellow, I promise you that I will certainly take my leave of your realm, but in my own time. I’m enjoying myself, as I say.” It gazed up into the snowy sky. “Fancy, frozen water! Delightful. I can’t get over it.”
Guilhem, quivering with anger and well-founded fear, stood for a few moments longer, he stared down at the ground and saw the thin white sugaring of snow stained red from the blood dripping from his injured palms. Without another word, he turned and stomped back to his castle. Aubin had had a wife and daughter, and he now had the unpleasant task, made doubly so by the fact that it was the Yule season, of notifying them of his death. He also had to find a new seneschal.
That last was made relatively easy by the fact that Aubin had an assistant, a monkish young man named Piers. Piers, despite being hard of hearing, was an accomplished scholar with a real talent for mathematics and geometry. He knew the business records of the estate almost as well as Aubin had. Guilhem visited him at the small hovel he shared with his mother and gave him the news of his promotion. Then he returned to his own rooms to think.
That evening he sat alone, drinking cup after cup of mulled wine, staring into the fireplace and trying to figure a way out of this predicament. He couldn’t force the ifrit to leave, and it had refused to oblige him despite his status as fairy friend. He was, therefore, left with little choice.
To combat a supernatural being, he needed someone experienced in such matters. Though having had much contact with denizens of Faerie, he nevertheless knew little of their habits and doings. He had in truth never wanted to know, preferring to distance himself from them as much as possible.
There was, in the forest not far from the duke’s castle, a woman who dwelt alone. She had appeared in the region a few years previously, from whence no one knew, and ensconced herself in an abandoned hovel that had once belonged to a woodcutter. Her name was Oriabel, and Guilhem had heard it whispered that she was a witch. Certainly some of the local women thought so, for, as Guilhem had heard, they occasionally crept off to Oriabel’s home to purchase love philters and charms, restorative elixirs for indifferent husbands, or advice concerning a difficult pregnancy. Had he been a more God-fearing man Guilhem might have had her hauled before an ecclesiastical court for interrogation; but as it was he had a laissez-faire attitude toward such things. It was true that, as Phillipa had said, he had had the Pope as a guest for Christmas some years ago, but that was only out a sense of obligation: it was his turn among the nobles to host the reform-minded Urban II, a Frankish native who even then was seeking to convince the warriors in his flock to take up the sword and the cross and depart on a crusade to free the Holy Land.
Guilhem managed at that time to be noncommittal about the mission. He simply wasn’t religious enough to truly care. He paid lip service to the church, and attended services, and professed belief, but his piety extended no further than that. Some might say that in surrendering to Phillipa’s blandishments on the same topic Guilhem was being hypocritical. Indeed, his late lieutenant and friend Henri had said as much, and in so many words.
Gloomy of mood, Guilhem raised his flagon in Henri’s memory. Beloved friend, do I need your counsel now more than ever I did.
He sighed, and put the empty stoup on the table beside his chair. It seemed that he would have to go to see the alleged witch and confer with her concerning the ifrit.
Rising unsteadily, he made his way to his chamber and collapsed on his bed without bothering to undress or even remove his boots. He did not hear Phillipa’s grunt of protest or hear her turn away from him in disgust.
* * *
Early the next morning, his head aching and his belly sour from the wine, Guilhem made his way through the snowy woods toward the witch-woman’s shack, situated some way into the woods in the opposite direction from the ifrit’s tower.
Less snow had fallen than had been expected, only two or three inches, and with no wind there had been no drifting, so he had little trouble finding Oriabel’s dwelling. To his surprise, however, the woman was not there.
The snow had stopped during the night, and the sun was burning away the remaining clouds, flinging veils of shifting light through the laden branches and striking brilliant flecks of fiery color from the snow piled thereon. One might expect to see a fairy or a sprite in such a magical setting, but if there were any in the vicinity they did not make their presence known to him.
Guilhem approached the little building. It was of wattle and daub construction, slightly larger and certainly sturdier than the houses the peasants built for themselves out of sticks, straw, and mud. The door was shut, but there was an unglazed window in one wall. He peered through it and saw an ungodly clutter: piles of trash, bottles, books, alembics, root vegetables hanging from the rafters, and cut branches piled haphazardly in one corner beside a cold hearth. The place looked abandoned.
“By my soul,” he breathed, turning away. Now what am I to do? She has gone, and with her any chance I have of ridding myself of this cursed Saracen abomination.
“Seek you Oriabel?” croaked a voice.
Startled, Guilhem turned about, seeking the speaker.
The voice tittered, a cold, rippling little laugh. “Up here.”
Raising his head Guilhem saw, perched on a branch, an untidy ball of stuff that he at first took for an old squirrel’s nest, though it was smaller and green. A beady yellow eye stared down at him. It was, the duke realized, a bird of some sort.
“I didn’t see you,” Guilhem said.
The bird tittered again. “You are not very observant,” it said, in an annoying, supercilious tone. “I could understand you not noticing me in the summer when the leaves are out, but now...?” It ruffled its plumage. “I would think I stand out like pig in a cloister.”
“Be that as it may,” Guilhem said. “I do seek Oriabel. Has she gone?”
The bird emitted a squawk, which Guilhem was to learn was its equivalent of a shrug. “Only for the season,” it replied. “She has taken up residence in her common winter abode. Follow me, if you like. ‘Tis not far.”
So saying, it unfolded its wings and flapped off. Guilhem hurried after it, casting up sprays of snow from his boots as he scuffed through snow-covered fallen leaves and stumbled over hidden tree roots. The bird, whatever species it was, made no effort to wait for him but he kept its startlingly colored feathers in view as he followed its progress from tree to tree.
After about half an hour he saw ahead a cliff side, and in it the opening of a cave. Smoke trickled out of the cave’s mouth. Piled here and there around it were stacks of wood, a bucket or two, and several bundles of sticks. Perched atop one of these was the green bird.
Guilhem came to a halt, whipping his fur cap off and passing a hand across his forehead to wipe away the perspiration from his brisk trek. “Hail, Oriabel!” he called. “I would speak with thee.” He pulled his hat back down on his head.
There was no response from within the cave. Surely she was in residence, else there would be no fire burning within. Perhaps she was asleep. He called again, and this time he discerned some vague movement in the darkness beyond the cave’s entrance.
Long minutes dragged by while Guilhem awaited the witch-woman’s appearance. Growing impatient, he was about to call once more but the bird said, “She heard you. She will come out in her own time, duke.”
Guilhem eyed the bird in surprise. “You know who I am?”
Once more it tittered. “All know the famed Duke Guilhem IX, fairy-friend,” it said. Its tone was mocking. Guilhem was about to chastise the bird when the moving clot of darkness in the cave mouth gathered itself together and staggered out into the snowy day.
Or
iabel was of medium height, wrapped in a black robe, with pointed shoes on her feet. She walked with the aid of a staff. Her gait was unsteady, and her face bore a sour expression. Long, stringy black hair shot with silver cascaded over her shoulders in greasy waves. Guilhem had seen her before but only during Yule celebrations, when she came to the castle, drank much mead, sneered at the other guests, and departed early.
She was of indeterminate age, somewhere between twenty and fifty, if not older, with a squint in her left eye, and bad teeth. As she approached him, Guilhem caught the odor of wine. He frowned. Was she drunk?
“You’d drink too if you had to live in a filthy, stinking cave,” she growled as she stumped up to him and took a stance, both hands grasping her staff. As she straightened, her back cracked.
“How could you know what I was thinking?” he asked, then pressed his lips tight together.
“Among other things,” she said, “I am an augur. Signs and omens, from the flight pattern of a flock of birds to the movements of the stars, often tell me the likelihood of what shall come to pass.” She laughed. “I knew from my augury that the chances of your visiting me today were better than three in four.” She shrugged. “Good odds, wouldn’t you agree? But as to your thoughts... It’s obvious what they are, my lord.” She coughed, and went on coughing for some time. It was a horrid, wet sound, suggesting illness.
Concerned despite himself, Guilhem said, “Living in this cave cannot be good for you. Can you not find a warmer place?”
Gaining control of herself at last, Oriabel spat to one side and said, “My house has become too crowded with my belongings. By the time I realized that, it was too late in the year for me to arrange to have another built. Therefore, I have moved here for the winter.” She coughed once more. “You are right, though, my lord. The cold and draughts play merry hob with my health, but at least here I can put my hand on whatever object I seek among my belongings.” She chuckled. “And I find that a cup of wine or two keeps my blood flowing on these cold days.”