by Lee C Conley
The Hound in the Mists
The dawn light brought another mist. It crept over the rocks and scrub with its swirling and seemingly ghostly tendrils. Other than a few nearby gorse bushes, only the Waystone could be seen. The great stone, looming faintly into view as the moorland about lay shrouded in the white haze.
The slopes in front of them were still barely visible. The trail ahead, winding back up into the passes, weaving between huge rocks and outcrops, as it disappeared up into the mists of the hidden peaks above.
The torches had burned out. Some were still smoking as sentries stood nearby gazing out into mists. Arnulf sat before a dwindling fire with his fur cloak wrapped about him. He pondered the day ahead with apprehension.
He had not slept. Few had, for fear of dreams of staggering dead men and the lurking things of the night. He had a fear that he would return to the pass only to find the bodies of those they had slain, only one day past, had gone. He feared, too, that the bodies of the men slain in the night, or of the girl, were to be found gone with the morning light. He shuddered. So many fears gnawed at him, stealing his sleep. What terrible thing had the gods sent him into?
Dawn came, and with it was discovered the bodies of the dead. Still laid behind the rocks, buried in the shallow pit topped with stones, still dead. Arnulf was relieved. Old Night had claimed their spirits back into his cold realm.
Although with the dawn light, Arnulf was now troubled by a new sinister tiding. The warrior, Olad, had mysteriously disappeared without trace. The sentries claimed to have not seen him go. None amongst them had seen him leave or seen anything else. Arnulf was troubled.
The reinforcements who came with Erran had brought fresh bread in the wagons from home. Some of the warriors sat around a rekindled cook fire and shared a loaf. Arnulf and Fergus talked quietly of the passes that lay ahead.
‘None among us have ever ventured further along the trail than where the path forks off up to the watch post,’ said Arnulf.
Fergus nodded slowly, and then said, ‘The trail into the passes beyond is seldom trodden, only by those few brave explorers or mad men seeking adventure. I have never spoken with anyone who claims to have been up there. But I bet some of the locals may have ventured into it, even if not far.’
‘Aye. Shame there is none to be found,’ said Arnulf with a frown. ‘The ancient trail has been unused for centuries. If what the folk say is true, it allegedly passes through the treacherous high valleys that lie amongst the peaks of The Spine. It is said a path through can be found.’
‘Aye, I have heard of it, through to the frontier and the western Mark of Arnar. But it is also said that the trail is littered with bones and the ghosts of those who failed,’ said Fergus with a grimace. He continued, ‘I know of no man in living memory who has dared to travel too far along the trail past the path to the watch post. The ways are lost. But still, the stories have endured, haven’t they? In truth, who knows what we will find up there?’
Casting a long glance up through the mists, Arnulf said, ‘There are tales, still lingering, I have heard them myself. Tales of snowy high caves where giants and spirits dwell, of crumbling ruins and evil things stalking the night. You know, the local folk tales we heard as children whilst sat around the fires on cold winter dead moons. I have heard the men tell those same stories around the fires up at the watch post. It is all we have to go by.’
Fergus smiled weakly. ‘Well, we will be famous upon our return, my friend. The great adventurers. Arnulf and Fergus and their brave warriors.’
‘I thought you were already famous, the great Fergus of Weirdell,’ said Arnulf mockingly, managing a smile.
Fergus grunted in amusement and smiled.
They sat in silence a moment until Fergus went on. He frowned and said, ‘This matter of my man, Olad, is quite unsettling. Where is he?’
‘I wish I knew, Fergus. But indeed, it is troubling.’
Astrid stood nearby their fire, not intruding but protectively close. ‘Still no sign of him, lord,’ she reported after obviously overhearing them. ‘I’ll send out some riders to search nearby.’
‘And still no one saw anything?’ enquired Fergus.
She shook her head. ‘They’re all talking about it, though,’ she said with a nod to the encamped warriors around them. ‘There’s talk of him being snatched as we slept. Heard just as much of him sneaking off and running for it, too. But no one saw for sure.’
‘I didn’t know him,’ said Arnulf, ‘but he did not seem the man to desert.’
Fergus grunted. ‘No, he isn’t,’ he agreed. ‘At least…I wouldn’t have thought so.’
‘If he has been taken…’
‘Don’t,’ said Fergus, waving Arnulf off. ‘After yesterday, I don’t know what to think.’ He shook his head. ‘He has probably run to save his skin.’
‘He saw terrible things in the darkness last night, as did we all,’ ventured Arnulf, ‘but he spent time with that little girl. Perhaps seeing what he saw drove him to flee, to break his oath to you. Perhaps he had seen enough, or the fear made his mind slip. If he is found, will you punish him?’
‘I must. Wouldn’t you?’
Arnulf nodded but said nothing, thinking of the wounded guardsman who he let run at the Waystone.
‘I cannot let that go, breaking his oath,’ growled Fergus. ‘It is not good to look weak in front of my warriors. He must be punished…’ He looked off into the misty passes. ‘I have a feeling we will find him…but I dare not think how,’ said Fergus grimly.
The men had begun to make ready before dawn broke. They were all eager to leave after the night’s events, even if that meant heading up the old watch path and into the unknown of the high passes.
The outriders spurred off in front to scout the path ahead and the others trudged up the trail in their wake. Some of the men led their horses and walked alongside the others. Erran and two of the men rode off with the scouts.
Arnulf watched them ride off with their round shields slung, each painted with the crimson great axe of his sigil. His hand found the head of his great axe which hung from the side of his horse’s saddle, and he absently ran his fingers over the engraved steel as he rode. He looked up into the sky; the sun was but a low glow coming through the swirling mists above.
Fergus rode beside him, laughing and talking, the events of the night forgotten in the dawn hue. He felt better. In the daylight, it now seemed as if the night had all been a terrible dream from all the ale. He shuddered to remember it.
The watch path twisted up through the great misty cliffs and into the bleak scrub of the high valleys that led to the passes.
***
Arnulf felt strangely relieved when he reined in his horse over the pile of twisted dismembered bodies that his men had left at the roadside the morning before, still where he had left them. The crows flapped around cawing angrily at the horsemen, waiting to return to their grim feast. A single Rhann took flight from amongst the hopping crows. The great black wings flapped effortlessly as the Rhann circled its way into the sky, followed by its smaller crow brethren, to await their return to their feast of the dead.
Fergus took a spear from a nearby guardsman and used it to push one of bodies off the pile so it lay sprawled on the ground.
‘So, these are your dead men, Arnulf?’ said Fergus as he poked the corpse with the spear point. ‘They are certainly dead,’ he said with a smile. ‘Not a local man that I’ve ever seen,’ said Fergus. ‘And what is this?’ he said, prodding at another. Fergus looked closer. He saw strange symbols and glyphs carved deep into the dead flesh. Fergus shuddered and said, ‘Are these runes? I don’t recognise the markings.’
Arnulf shrugged and shook his head.
Fergus drew back from the stench of rot that hung heavy around them.
‘I don’t know but the markings have not healed. Look here, they are open and fresh but they have not bled,’ said Arnulf. ‘And I swear to you, these men were walking until we hew them down yest
erday. But look, some of these men look dead a week…and that smell.’
He gave Fergus a grave look, and then said, ‘Come, let’s move on. I cannot bear that stench much longer.’
Arnulf kicked his horse away from the gruesome monument left at side of the trail.
Arnulf sent men back to the watch post with orders to report back with any news, while others rode off in small groups cautiously searching the trails ahead. Some brave few rode as far as the high snowy peaks before turning back. They reported finding nothing other than the glimpse of a strange carved stone, which they dared not approach too closely for it was surely haunted. They rode back triumphantly, having gone farther than any other man in memory. But all seemed quiet. None wished to linger long in the passes, and so the warriors urged their lords to make their way back down the trail to the familiar ways below.
The two lords sat upon their horses beside the trail, surrounded by their warriors, deciding the best course of action. To venture further, or whether to turn back, and again make camp below.
The talk was cut short as an eerie howl sounded from the depths of the shadowy trees nearby. The men wheeled about to face the noise. Those nearest the trees from which it came, backed away slowly with their spears levelled at the shadows beyond. The mournful howl seemed to last a long time and was followed by an equally long eerie silence.
Only the leaves could be heard rustling in the trees. None wanted to break the silence, all awaiting some terrible creature of legend to come bounding towards them. But none came.
Fergus finally broke the silence.
‘You men,’ he said, beckoning towards some of his warriors. ‘Search the trees a way, scare off that beast, was probably a wolf.’ The warriors looked nervously at one another. ‘What! Are you afraid?’ snarled Fergus. ‘Do most of you not give thanks to the wolf god, Varg?’ he said looking at their nervous faces. He laughed. ‘Fine. With me, Astrid. We search the trees.’ Fergus nudged his horse off the trail and into the trees. He drew his sword and shook his head at his men as he led the Death Nymph and her warriors into the undergrowth.
Arnulf concealed a smile, and then kicked his horse after Fergus with a nod to Hafgan. Hafgan gestured to the other men to follow and so they also filed between the twisted trees after the others.
Arnulf heard a shout ahead. He urged his horse onwards, followed closely by Hafgan. The horses picked their way nimbly through the trees and shortly came out into the open. He found himself in a small clearing that was dominated by large craggy rocks, many of them taller than the surrounding trees.
Fergus and some of his men were already there, dismounted and stood about something on the floor. As Arnulf drew nearer he saw there were two bodies laid there. One appeared to be a terribly wounded old man, impaled by the shaft of a long spear. The other had the familiar looking harness of a guardsman.
‘Branik, lord,’ said Hafgan from behind, confirming Arnulf’s fears.
‘He’s one of mine,’ said Arnulf gravely as Fergus turned towards him. ‘He rode out with Hagen, and now they’re both dead.’ Arnulf frowned, ‘And still no sign of the other.’
‘He took the miller’s boy, lord. The lad named Darek,’ said Hafgan.
Arnulf looked at Hafgan and saw young Erran had reined in beside him and stared down at Branik.
‘He might be about somewhere, Arnulf…or taken?’ said the young warrior.
‘Look here!’ shouted a warrior across the clearing. The man was pointing towards the corpse of a horse that appeared to have been slain while still tethered to a tree and had been torn open, its grisly innards strewn about.
Arnulf started to walk his horse towards the grim discovery, but the beast would not budge. He tugged at the reins, but his horse simply snorted and stamped its hooves, backing away.
‘The horses are spooked, lord. They don’t like seeing one of their own laid dead,’ ventured Erran. ‘My Pa’s horses were the same. I seen it before, won’t go near a dead one.’
They tethered their horses to one of the nearby trees and proceeded on foot to fulfil their morbid curiosity.
Other men were emerging from the trees, drawn by the shouts of those in the clearing. The newcomers joined the rest as they stood staring down at the fallen guardsman and the mysterious old man. The warriors had already begun to search about amongst the rocks. It was not long before they came upon the remains of a small deserted encampment. And what seemed to be a path winding off still further into the trees.
‘This track has been recently travelled,’ said Hafgan, noting the wheel ruts and the broken foliage beside the track.
Arnulf dismounted and bent over the fire pit. It was cold but had been used recently.
‘Whoever was here left in a hurry, lord,’ said Hafgan. ‘They didn’t take anything with them. Perhaps they are nearby?’
Fergus strode over. ‘Or, perhaps they are slain and piled beside the trail back there,’ he said.
Arnulf looked about. ‘I don’t know, old friend. It is possible, but what of young Darek’s fate? And still no sign of Olad.’
‘Olad probably fled back to Weirdell, Arnulf,’ snapped Fergus. ‘We will not find him here high in the passes. He knew nothing of this place, this I assure you.’
Another howl came through the trees, this time seeming much closer. The men, picking through the campsite for anything of worth, were brought to a standstill. They all stood watching the trees, searching for the source of the eerie howling. Arnulf stared off down the shadowy track that led further into the trees. He thought he saw movement, or were his eyes tricked by the gloom.
A large dark form appeared from the undergrowth along the track ahead. It stopped and turned to face them, its eyes glinting as they caught daylight amongst the shadows.
A murmur ran through the warriors as it slowly started moving towards them. The great shaggy beast moved on all fours and sniffed the ground cautiously with its long nose. It was some sort of huge hound, bigger than any he had seen.
Arnulf’s young house warrior Erran stepped forward, notching an arrow. Several others did the same but Arnulf raised his arm.
‘Wait. Only loose if it attacks,’ commanded Arnulf as he waved the bowmen down.
‘What are you doing, Arnulf?’ exclaimed Fergus. ‘It is a monster. We should kill it.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Arnulf, ‘but look, it fears us.’
The hound was slinking around the tree line eyeing them warily. It did not seem to wish to enter the open ground of the clearing or approach the cluster of men and their levelled spears.
Arnulf slowly walked forward and carefully knelt, not taking his eyes off the beast, and extended his open hand.
‘Be careful, Arnulf, it could savage you,’ said Fergus.
But Arnulf appeared not to heed his friend’s warnings. Instead, he slowly edged closer. The great hound sat on its haunches and watched him curiously. Arnulf saw no malice in its eyes, it seemed wary. But still, he did not let his guard down.
He moved closer but the great hound backed away and bared its teeth.
‘Look out, Arnulf,’ shouted Erran.
Arnulf’s hand moved towards the hilt of his knife, sheathed at his belt. But as he did, the hound responded with a low growl from its throat, and he moved his hand away. The great beast seemed satisfied and silenced, instead sat watching Arnulf intently.
Man and beast sat watching each other for a moment as the others looked on in silence. Arnulf extended his open hand towards the beast. The hound sniffed at it cautiously, before retreating a few steps back, and then slowly creeping back for another sniff.
‘Good dog,’ said Arnulf softly as the hound nuzzled at his hand and allowed him to scratch between its big shaggy ears.
Satisfied the hound would not attack, he took a moment to examine the beast. It was a big dog. Its coat, a tangle of matted grey hair. It had a long snout set with smouldering yellow eyes, framed by bushy brows and long shaggy ears.
The great dog took to sniffing abo
ut the floor. And so, Arnulf slowly rose and turned to the throng of men gathered behind watching.
‘I have never seen a beast like it,’ said Arnulf.
‘Indeed friend,’ replied Fergus watching the huge hound warily.
‘I don’t think he means us harm,’ said Arnulf. ‘He seems tame.’
The beast began to take an interest in his boots, sniffing at them intently.
‘How can we be sure?’ said Fergus.
‘We can’t,’ replied Arnulf, ‘but he seems friendly enough.’
‘I wonder what he’s doing up here?’ he said to himself.
‘Perhaps he belongs to one of the camp here,’ ventured Erran.
‘Belonged, lad,’ corrected Fergus with a dark laugh. ‘I’d wager his owner helped make your lord’s trailside monument back there.’ Fergus chuckled to himself.
‘So, what now, Arnulf?’ asked Fergus. ‘We found their camp and there can’t have been many of them, whoever they were, I’m fairly sure they are all piled back there beside the track down the pass.’
Arnulf looked troubled ‘Perhaps? But if so, still no sign of my man Darek or the other folk from Hern’s farmstead. Where are they?’
Fergus shrugged and spent a moment in thought.
‘You men! Keep searching the woods if there’s anyone left out here, I want them found,’ said Fergus, with a gesture to the surrounding trees that enclosed them.
‘I say we scour these woods for any sign of your man, and then find him or not, ride back for the Waystone and check at the other farms, perhaps they saw something. This track has been travelled. Someone must have seen the cart or something.’
Arnulf noticed the hound had gone. He looked about to find it sitting on his haunches amid the track where it first appeared.
‘And what of this track? It continues into the trees,’ said Arnulf. ‘It must lead somewhere.’
Fergus looked off up the gloomy cart track that wound off deeper into the trees. The hound turned and padded further down the track before stopping and turning his shaggy head back towards them. It’s piercing yellow eyes shining bright in the dim light coming through the trees.