The Crimson Brand

by Brian Knight

  These were the things that hatched from the stone eggs.

  Homunculi.

  Not the most intelligent of creatures. Primitive social structure, a unique spoken language based on intuition and emotion, no written language, but intensely loyal to their master, whoever their master happened to be.

  They would be a problem, but Ronan wasn’t going to let them turn him back. If anything, the presence of the homunculi made his business more urgent. He had to get close, watch them. He had to find out what they were looking for, or what they might have already found.

  * * *

  Ronan passed beneath the fence and through a gap in the first wall of the maze, squeezing between an overturned chest freezer and the empty shell of a washing machine, before he saw his first homunculus up close. It streaked past his hiding place, moving like a bald, gray monkey. It had a stout little torso; short, thin legs with large flat feet; and long thin arms with large hands. It ran hunched forward, balancing on its fists as much as its feet. One of those fists was clenched around the tied end of a burlap sack that bounced along in its wake. The contents clanked and rattled against the stony, uneven path.

  It ran away from the center of the maze toward the junkyard’s wide-open gravel parking lot. Ronan waited until the little monster was almost out of sight, then followed.

  He kept close to the junk walls, ready to slip out of sight at the slightest hint of trouble, and followed just quickly enough to keep pace. The homunculi owned this maze now. The only advantage Ronan had left was stealth, and he wasn’t going to give that up unless it became necessary.

  The shadows deepened as Ronan neared the outer rings of the maze, putting the lights and activity at the center far behind him, and then a new light blazed to life around the next bend, startling a bark out of Ronan.

  The homunculus squawked in alarm, and the pounding of its large feet against the path signaled its return.

  Ronan was in the open, exposed with no niche in the junk wall to slip through, nowhere to hide. He sighed and closed his eyes, calling on the last trick of concealment left to him. He relaxed his consciousness—not an easy thing to do under stress but he had had a lot of practice—released his grip on the physical world around him, and felt it slip away beneath him. Ronan became as insubstantial as smoke, as ephemeral as a passing thought. His body melted away to mist and settled to the ground.

  The little monster came around the corner, skidding in the dirt, its bag left behind and its fists raised as if preparing to fight. For a moment it stared straight through what remained of Ronan, then it turned its large bald head from side to side, scanning the open path. It sniffed deeply, scenting the air.

  For a time Ronan existed on a knife’s edge, balanced between worlds. A slip either way would be disastrous, either bringing him back into this world or sending him tumbling into the other, out of reach of the girls at a time they needed him most. The balance was not easy; an uncontrolled thought could easily blow him out of this world like a dead leaf in a strong breeze. An unchecked emotion could draw him back into it fully. The longer he balanced, the harder the act became.

  At last the monster resumed its journey through the maze, and Ronan focused on the one thought he knew would not fail to gather him again into the body he had worn for so long.

  I must return to the hollow and warn the girls.

  Ronan stayed still for a moment, settling into his bones and giving the little gray man a chance to get a bit further ahead before resuming the chase.

  The maze appeared to end around the next corner, opening onto a large front lot flanked by gently rising hills, one of bulldozed and rotting garbage, the other of recently moved earth on which the garbage man’s trailer sat, a blemish on the landscape.

  Ronan saw this through a man-sized gap in the maze’s tall outer wall and realized how well hidden the garbage man’s labyrinth must have been from the other side of that small gap. It would look like nothing more or less than a small mountain of junk.

  For a moment the little gray man paused at the exit. It scratched its bald head, then retreated a step, scanning left, then right, like a child contemplating an unexpected and unfamiliar fork in the road home. Though there seemed to be no fork, no path left or right, it gathered up the bag again and scampered toward the right-hand wall. A moment later it disappeared, and Ronan followed.

  There were indeed paths to the left and right of the exit, only evident if viewed straight on. They were even narrower than the cramped exit; a man would have to squeeze himself through to continue. They were wide enough to accommodate the homunculus and Ronan, who took up his silent chase again. Their path ended around the next turn, and Ronan readied himself to retreat, sure the homunculus had lost its way and would turn back toward him.

  Instead the little gray man approached an old, badly abused refrigerator and pulled it open. The inside was filthy with years of neglect, and completely empty. The little gray man stepped inside, hoisting the bag over its shoulder; and, as the door began to swing shut, Ronan watched the homunculus disappear through the floor. With only the slightest hesitation, Ronan dashed toward the old refrigerator and through the door just before it closed.

  * * *

  The refrigerator was not a magic door, just a hidden one. Where the floor should have been there was a tunnel that sloped downward perhaps fifty feet before leveling off. Even Ronan, whose eyes were better adapted for the dark than any human’s, could barely see where he was going in the near-perfect darkness. There was light ahead, but it was diffuse, the source hidden.

  The earthen tunnel was wide and rounded, the soil rich with rot and so compact that it was almost like stone. The familiar stink was strong, masking even the stench of decay that marked this place. The tunnel was a burrow—one of a type he’d seen before.

  Ronan continued, weighted down by a dread so intense it felt like physical illness. He hoped his assumptions about the homunculi’s presence here were correct. This journey was already a dangerous one; he’d hate for it to be pointless as well. He passed splits in the tunnel, any of which his quarry might have taken. The only reassurance he had that he was on the right path was the weak, distant light.

  The path began a gentle but perceptible upward slant, then the light that had teased him from a distance came into view. A chamber loomed ahead, small, but seeming cathedral-like after the dark confines of the tunnel. The light floated inches beneath a smooth, low ceiling. Beneath it, two homunculi were busy sifting through a hill of charred debris. They stood knee-deep in rubble, charred wood, shards of shattered soot-blackened glass, and half-melted trinkets. The gray man Ronan had followed dragged his bag to them and upended it at their feet, laughing at the dismay evident on their wide faces. A moment later he retreated in Ronan’s direction, bent low against a rain of flying debris and howling in anger.

  Ronan retreated back through the tunnel just ahead of the gray man, the others’ laughter echoing down to him. He found one of the side tunnels and backed into it in time to avoid being run over by the fleeing monster, who was still bent low with his hands over the top of his head. When Ronan made his way back to the chamber, the other two were at work.

  He crouched low, just outside the reach of the bright, floating light, and watched.

  Rubbish and rubble flew in all directions as the homunculi worked. Twice they paused to consider items of interest: a half-melted belt buckle; the pointy steel toe of an incinerated boot. Ronan’s breath stopped for a moment and his ears perked up as one of them investigated a cracked, soot-covered mirror. The creature gave a short chirp of excitement and placed the mirror in a wooden crate between them before resuming its search.

  Ronan turned his attention to the crate, wondering what other items the little gray men had stowed in it, wondering if he’d be able to steal them without being found out.

  Ronan remained in place, knowing that more of the little monsters could come through at any time but also knowing that if he let the box of relics out of his sight
that he might never find it again. Unable to move forward and take them, unwilling to retreat.

  One of the gray men cocked back an arm to hurl something, and the other caught it by the wrist and snatched the object away. It was a small box, covered with soot, but Ronan saw a gleam of bright red where the homunculus’s hand had rubbed the black away.

  They fought over the find, almost dropping the box in their struggle. The second one clutched it to his chest and slapped the first across the back of its head, knocking him face first into the debris. Cackling laughter, it rubbed more soot away to reveal a small square of opalescent red stone.

  The object was familiar to Ronan. He’d seen it before, years before, and in another world.

  The stone began to split, a dark crack that started near the top and spread all the way around, revealing a lid. It was a box, and Ronan remembered where he had seen it.

  The gray man opened the lid.

  A radiant black light spilled from the open box, mesmerizing the gray man. It stood, frozen in place for a moment, looking like an exceptionally ugly garden gnome. Ronan felt the light tug at him and forced himself to resist it and remain still. At last the homunculus moved, first just the index finger of one hand, curling up from the clenched fist to point at the box. Then the fist began to inch toward the opening, the source of the bright purple light. It put its long finger inside and touched what was hidden within.

  It was as if a shadow fell over the homunculus; its gray skin darkened to a deeper gray, then to black. Only its wide golden eyes stayed the same, staring in shock from a head growing ever less substantial, a shadow. Then it screamed, a sound of terror that filled the small chamber and overflowed into the intersecting tunnels. The edges of its body contracted until it was an indistinct blob with eyes, then the eyes vanished, and it drew itself in to a single black point before winking out of existence.

  The little red box hovered in the air for a moment. The lid closed, the stone sealing itself into a solid, singular piece again, killing the black light before it fell to the rubble-covered floor.

  The remaining gray man struggled to extract himself from the knee-deep wreckage, then bounded to its feet, arms spread wide and its large hands fisted. He leapt around in screeching panic, searching for his companion, then bolted for the opposite tunnel and out of sight.

  Ronan knew he wouldn’t get another chance like this and acted without pause. Sprinting from cover, he crossed to the center of the chamber in a single leap and caught the bottom of the empty bag in his teeth. He dragged it to the crate and began to search.

  His first hurried glance over the contents was not rewarding. Most of the collected items were worthless junk, but the final doorway relic was among the clutter.

  He retrieved it, along with a cracked, soot-covered mirror; an old silver pocket watch he suspected of having unnatural powers; and a cloak pin with a blue/black cat’s eye gem in the center that conjured a heavy fog when he carefully plucked it up with his teeth.

  It’s days like this when I miss having hands, he thought. You really never appreciate your thumbs until you lose them.

  He bagged the pilfered items and turned his wary attention back to the little red box.

  It was beautifully fashioned, the Blood Opal it was carved from valuable beyond calculation, but what lay within was perhaps the most dangerous item Ronan had ever encountered.

  The Chaos Relic, a remnant of the broken worlds.

  An ancient and terrible thing that had lately fallen into the protective custody of the strange man Erasmus and now seemed had fallen out of it.

  Now he knew how the lone avian had acquired his treasure trove of relics.

  But what of Erasmus?

  Ronan retrieved the Blood Opal box from the rubble and dropped it into the bag. He had lingered too long. It was time to go.

  No sooner had he retreated into the tunnel than the sound of franticly chattering homunculi reached him, some from far ahead, others from closer behind. They burst into the chamber behind him, barely giving him enough time to slip into the darkness. A moment later he ducked into the first side passage in time to avoid being trampled by two more coming from the other direction.

  He waited, wanting them well past him before he resumed his race to the tunnel exit.

  A new voice joined the loud, plaintive chattering of the homunculi in the chamber. “Why does it smell like dog in here?”

  It was a dry whipcrack of a voice, devoid of any emotion except mild impatience. If Ronan had any doubt about the source of the troubling scent that had lingered in the junkyard these past weeks, that voice would have banished it.

  Turoc was here, close enough for his bitter electric scent to overpower the stench of ruin and rot that filled the place.

  And now the old serpent had his scent.

  Ronan broke cover and ran through the darkness as fast as he could, abandoning stealth for speed, hoping the way to the hidden entrance was as straightforward as he remembered.

  There must have been many more branching tunnels than he’d noticed on his way in; he heard echoes of shouts through each one he passed. Either they all intersected, or each was occupied. A homunculus burst from a tunnel ahead of him, and he slammed it into the ground before it even had the time to notice him approaching. The end of the bag almost slipped from his mouth, and he clenched down on it harder with his teeth as he put on an extra burst of speed to distance himself from the stunned creature.

  Only seconds after leaving the homunculi face first in the dirt, he heard renewed shouting from too close behind that signaled the beginning of active pursuit. Many large feet pounded the ground behind him, and a constant stream of excited chattering told him how fast they were gaining.

  Ronan heard a rough whisper of something large and heavy moving quickly over the compacted dirt in an unseen corridor to his right, and a heavy rattling.

  He wasn’t going to make it out.

  Then the ground below him rose sharply, the smell of decay once again discernible above Turoc’s scent, and there was nowhere to go but up. Ronan jumped, his front paws hitting the old pitted metal of the refrigerator door, and it swung open to reveal a night growing lighter with the rising moon.

  Two homunculi stood outside the door to block his path.

  Ronan growled through a mouthful of dirty cloth and tensed his haunches to spring.

  Turoc’s stench blanketed him, and before he could leap, Ronan felt two long fangs sink into his side.

  Ronan screamed and fell. He lost the sack and was dragged backward by the teeth anchored in his body, scraping his ribs, puncturing one of his lungs.

  He couldn’t move. He could hardly breathe.

  And he couldn’t escape in his usual way. The fangs burrowing into him, the pain that seemed to flood every nerve of his body, the venom that paralyzed him, all made fading away impossible. He was stuck here now, mind and body, for better or worse. Probably worse.

  The fangs pulled free of his flesh and he felt blood gush from the wounds.

  “Ronan? Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” Rough hands seized Ronan by the scruff of the neck and spun him around. Moonlight fell on the face before him: long, curved fangs; shining golden eyes; and the horns that hooded them. The crimson brand between those horns. The mark of his master. “It is you!”

  Ronan felt a curse on his lips but didn’t have the strength to speak it aloud. Turoc seemed to read it in his eyes, though, and laughed.

  “Why are you angry with me? I’m not the one pretending to be dead ... hiding from old friends.”

  He lifted Ronan by his scruff and brought him closer, face-to-face. “Don’t be shy, old friend, speak your mind.”

  Ronan spoke, a whisper only Turoc could hear, and in a language only his old enemy would understand.

  Turoc snarled and flung Ronan back to the ground. “That was quite rude, old friend.”

  Ronan lay only inches from his dropped bag. He tried to stand, but the effort burned like fire in his every muscle.


  “Bring him,” Turoc said.

  The homunculi jumped down, landing on either side of Ronan. The one on his left, covered to its waste in soot and ash, upended the bag and dumped the contents into the dirt. He ignored the cloak pin, the watch, the mirror, and picked up the Blood Opal box and doorway relic. Then he pointed at Ronan and chittered a command at the others.

  Ronan felt himself lifted from the ground again before the pain overwhelmed him and merciful darkness engulfed him.

  Chapter 17

  Little Gray Man

  Penny went to bed early, emotionally drained and physically exhausted, and awoke early the next morning with the rising sun slanting through the open curtains of her window, sliding across her face in dusty bars. She lay there for a few minutes, basking in the warmth of the spring sunlight on her face, her eyes closed, her mind happily blank. Only the gentle squeaking of bedsprings reminded her that she had company. Katie, a much less exuberant sleeper than Zoe, was in the spare bed so often occupied by Zoe. Then Penny remembered that Zoe was just beneath her in the spare bedroom, where she’d been sleeping since noon the previous day. If she wasn’t awake by now, she would be soon.

  Reluctantly, Penny opened her eyes and turned toward Katie.

  Katie had rolled onto her side, away from the slanting shafts of light moving across her bed, and was sleeping as deeply as ever.

  “Kat?” Penny’s voice was slightly above a whisper, and when there was no response Penny decided to let her sleep.

  It was strange having Katie back in her life, beyond the stolen hours late at night in the hollow. Mr. West’s change of heart was as unexpected as it was sudden.

  Sweeping tangles of hair from her face, Penny rolled onto her side and slid her feet from under the cozy covers of her bed. Cringing a little as the soles of her feet hit the cool floorboards, she stood and walked to the window to close the curtain. She was awake now, but there was no reason Katie shouldn’t get a little more sleep.