by Megan Derr
"Indeed," Devlin retorted, "and I am destined for sainthood." He stared into his teacup. "Something is odd, where the draugr are concerned. I also do not like that Father Winsted has shown up; his presence never bodes well. I will not risk Midnight in this venture."
"As you wish," Barra said peaceably, though it was clear he still disagreed with Devlin's decision. He held out a bowl filled with thick, warm soup. "Have a bite to eat, then, before you get back to work. That and a bit of rest and I haven't a doubt you'll solve the mystery before another day has passed."
"Let us hope you are correct," Devlin said and accepted the fragrant soup.
Several hours later, he felt game enough to begin the next stage of the investigation.
The greatest difficulty in being a nightwalker were the hours—especially when one was a duke and had normal matters in addition to duties decidedly abnormal. In his case, there was also Midnight to consider, who could not walk about in sunlight.
It meant his life was composed of snatching sleep where he might, and oft times that meant sleeping through the morning and early afternoon. He was, fortunately, considered an eccentric—peculiar sleeping habits only made him more so.
By the time he was fed, rested, and ready to face the world once more, it was just past two in the afternoon. Beyond the windows of his rooms, the sky was overcast and gloomy. Barra had already warned him it felt far more like winter than autumn and had dressed him accordingly.
Today he was dressed in black and deepest red—hardly subtle, but as his presence here was already well noted, subtlety was not a requirement. He let Barra do as he pleased, only fussing for form's sake.
"Ready, Your Grace," Barra said from where he stood near the door, dressed himself for the inclement weather.
"Excellent," Devlin replied and shrugged into his great coat, settling the heavy folds into place before taking up the gloves Barra had set out, pulling on the supple black leather and flexing his hands to settle them just so. "Let us depart," he said at last. "The pond first, I think. I want to see if some manner of clue managed to survive the good Father's holy fire."
"Aye, Your Grace," Barra said as he opened the door, following behind Devlin and locking it up. "It's doubtful, of course. That angel was poorly made but strong."
Devlin grimaced, balling one leather-clad hand into a fist. "Yes, they dump their will into the power and very little else. A pity. Angels are beautiful when properly made. It is something of a lost art these days, I fear. Neither here nor there at the moment."
He nodded absently to the people clustered together in the main hall downstairs, ignoring their gawking, and led the way out into the street.
In stark contrast to the previous night, the streets were filled with people rushing about on errands, off to visit friends or family. Nightwalkers were here and there doing what could be done during the light of day, savoring it, no doubt, for many nightwalkers simply could not pass for normal in sunlight.
Plenty of staring followed in his wake, but Devlin ignored them all, his attention solely for the pond, the draugr.
Unfortunately, the pond turned up nothing. He found a trace of ashes at the pond's edge, but not even his considerable skill could pull any worthwhile information from it.
When priests destroyed something, they did the job thoroughly. Devlin had to concede that much, if reluctantly.
He frowned in thought, looking out over the pond at the surrounding land: hills and fields, a rolling landscape of dark green fields and stone walls, rock, and jagged shrubbery. Combined with the dark clouds overhead and the chill in the air, it was both reminiscent of his family home and the stuff of nightmares.
"The first three came from that direction," he said, pointing toward the mountains. "I doubt they came from dragon country, for surely those bloody knights would have bestirred themselves to tend to a few draugr, but there may be something afield we cannot see here."
Barra nodded. "Shall I shift, Your Grace? I'm picking up smells aplenty, but I could pick up more."
"Do so, then," Devlin replied.
Nodding again, Barra went perfectly still—then bent over and fell to all fours. By the time he touched the ground, he was no longer a man but a large wolf with russet fur. His green eyes were all the more vibrant in this form.
He chuffed and nudged Devlin's hand, then darted off, nose to the ground as he explored. There was a delicateness to him that no werewolf naturally possessed. A rough lot, werewolves; a nightwalker race more than happy to cling to their savage, wild ways rather than settled into even a modicum of civility.
If a wolf could be pretty, that was certainly Barra.
Unfortunately, it was a trait held against him. Devlin had, in fact, encountered Barra when he was being attacked by full-blooded werewolves. He had sent the wolves fleeing for their lives, then taken Barra home—partly out of concern, but partly out of curiosity.
Someway, somehow, Barra had never left.
Barra let out an excited bark, then bolted. Devlin chased after him, running fast enough to keep sight but not foolish enough to try and keep up.
They moved steadily through the countryside, pausing here and there as Barra turned up burial mound after burial mound. Some were more obvious than others, and far too many of them were empty. Still more seemed undisturbed, and Devlin warded them as best he could.
He wished he could say that would be sufficient, especially as it always had been before, but something told him matters would not be so simple this time.
Casting a ward over the last, he recalled his runes and replaced them in his jacket. Looking around, he saw more time had passed than he had realized and they were right at the mountains now. Returning to the village would take them hours, likely. Evening was already beginning to encroach.
Damn it. He should have taken more care.
He hoped his wards would hold because to be out here when the moon rose and the draugr with it…
Shaking his head, he dismissed worries about which he could presently do nothing and looked for Barra. Currently he roamed the field, nose still to the ground, pausing every now and then to chuff at Devlin, friendly easy noises that said he was enjoying their work and felt they were making progress.
Abruptly, he whimpered and bolted toward Devlin, tangling in his legs before sinking to lie at his feet, whining softly and plaintively. Devlin frowned and knelt, stroking and petting. What in the devil would frighten and cow Barra so? Especially to the point he did not shift back into his mostly human form.
The question was answered even as he silently asked it when two figures stepped out of the scrub of trees lining the mountain side.
One was human, tall and broad and handsome in a fierce way. His hair was dark gold, eyes shadowed, his features the kind that one associated with ancient portraits of noble kings and lofty lords. He was dressed entirely in black, save for hints of a deep violet waistcoat. His jacket fell to mid-thigh, only half the prominent metal buttons done up, leaving the bottom half open—likely for the man to better access the sword hanging low on his left hip.
He walked with a confidence—an arrogance—that not even Devlin possessed, most of it seemingly due to the creature moving with the sinuous grace of a predator alongside him. Despite the fading light, the creature's dark silver scales gleamed, and its amber eyes glowed. It growled low as they drew near Devlin and Barra, tail lashing back and forth with restless grace.
"Who are you, who dares to trespass upon the land of Clan Pendragon?" the man demanded coldly.
Devlin stood slowly, careful not to alarm the growling dragon. He met the man's eyes, which proved to be dark brown, without flinching. "Who are you, who dares to demand a name without giving your own? I have not trespassed quite yet and will not tolerate such blatant rudeness."
The man grunted, annoyed but conceding the point. "I am Neirin du Lac, knight of the Clan du Lac, in service to Clan Pendragon." He dropped one hand to rest it lightly upon the head of the dragon. "This is Troyes. I ask aga
in, witch, who are you?"
Before he could speak, Barra shifted back to his mostly human form. Standing straight, despite the fact he was clearly unsettled by the fearsome dragon, he said, "He is Lord Devlin White, eleventh Duke of Winterbourne."
Neirin's brows went up. "Winterbourne? What brings a rune master of such notoriety this far? Have you business with Pendragon?"
"No," Devlin said. "I was asked by Lord Tamor and Dracula North to investigate a draugr problem in this vicinity. Unless it spills over into dragon country, I cannot think I should need to put your people to any trouble. I drew close only because my assistant followed their scent this far."
The dragon growled again, more loudly, head swinging up to look at the transformed Barra. Neirin did likewise, eyes looking pointedly at the delicately pointed ears. "Yes," he said, voice dripping with distaste and disapproval. "What manner of mongrel are you? Obviously wolf, and the ears are decidedly elfin… peculiar indeed."
Barra flinched as though struck and recoiled to stand behind Devlin.
Devlin immediately reached for his runes. "Your manners leave much to be desired, knight. Has your lot forgotten kindness, so consumed by being coldly superior? Is chivalry so dead?"
"I do not answer to you, rune master," Neirin replied curtly. "The clans act with a purpose, whether it is understood by outsiders or not. What is this about draugr? No such thing has been seen about here, and Troyes has not smelled them."
Troyes made a sharp barking sound. Devlin had never actually seen a dragon before and had assumed much of what he had heard to be overblown rumor. It would seem it had all been very much fact. The dragon was large, nearly the size of a small pony and half as long again. Beautiful as only deadly creatures could be, all teeth and scales and that wicked looking tail.
He startled as the dragon abruptly shifted into the form of a handsome, even pretty, young man with longish black hair and amber eyes. He was dressed much like Neirin, save for a blue waistcoat and boots that climbed to his thighs rather than stopping at his knees. He had no sword, but Devlin supposed he hardly required one.
Troyes's voice retained a hint of draconic growl as he said, "Smell moving death here. I could not before." His nose wrinkled, twitched. "Witch magic." He looked at Barra. "Wolf. Elf. Human."
Barra flinched again.
"Leave him in peace, dragon," Devlin snapped, "or I will show you that even an overgrown snake like you has cause to fear me."
The sound of a sword being drawn drew his attention back to Neirin. Devlin was impressed despite himself at the man's movements, his simple presence—arrogant and aggravating, but it would seem he had earned the right to be so, at least to some degree.
"Do not offer a challenge you are not fit to meet, rune master," Neirin said. "I promise you and your mongrel are no match for Troyes and me."
Devlin smirked. "Do not be so certain, knight. I have fought and survived far worse than you. Do not insult those who fall under my protection. Barra has done you no harm, and he is owed an apology."
"I owe nothing of the kind," Neirin replied. "I speak only the truth—he is a mongrel. My dragon only picked out the individual parts and named them. There was no insult given."
"Certainly I can see why no one continues to listen to your great fallen king," Devlin replied curtly. "I guess he has forgotten that once he too was a mongrel. Take yourself off, knight. I do not waste my time by fighting with presumptuous children. My concern is solely for the draugr, and as I doubt you will lend your assistance to the matter, best to be rid of you."
Neirin's eyes flashed with anger. "Now who is casting needless insults? If you insult my liege again, rune master, then you will get the fight you are obviously seeking. My assistance I would have lent, but I will not fight alongside a man so unworthy of it. Do not trespass upon the lands of Pendragon, rune master, for you will find no welcome."
With that, he sheathed his sword and turned sharply around, striding away with all the arrogance he had displayed walking toward them.
Barra spoke when they had finally vanished into the trees from which they had come. "Apologies, Your Grace. Never met anything like that before—I did not mean to present you so poorly to them."
"I felt no shame by your presence, Barra, and you well know it," Devlin replied, gripping his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. He smiled. "They were just angry that we are both prettier by far. Come on, then, let us explore a bit more before we return to the village. A gamble, but one we must take, for that damnable knight cost us precious time and we need whatever clues to this affair your nose can find."
"Aye, Your Grace," Barra said and shifted back to his wolf form.
Heartbeat
Dark fell hard and fast, and they should have made for the village far sooner than they did. They traveled swiftly but not, Devlin feared, swiftly enough.
Barra panted close by, though he was not running as fast as he could. There was strength in numbers, and he was too loyal to leave Devlin simply to reach safety sooner.
It was cold now, a bitterness to it that hinted at the coming winter.
"I sense no draugr," he said. "Barra?"
Barra growled, but in a way that indicated all was well for the moment.
Mist was curling all around them, but it did not have the feel of being magically summoned. He hoped it remained that way. They certainly would have to face draugr at some point, but he preferred to do it closer to the village should matters take a dire turn. Hopefully it was not much further.
His hopes were dashed by Barra's low, warning growl—followed immediately by a shrill scream.
"Damn it," Devlin swore and promptly followed when Barra took off running, anxious not to lose him in the dark and mist.
The scream came again, definitely that of a woman, probably young. They found her in a small house a mile or so from the rough path they had been following—and he thought he glimpsed gravestones through the mist as the shadowy shape of the cottage itself came into view.
She was curled up in the doorway, screaming for dear life and clutching what looked like a rosary as three figures closed in on her.
Two of them were overlarge, the changes occurring too fast for the rotting carcasses and causing the flesh to swell and split, completely burst open in places. The smell would have made anyone else gag, but Devlin was far too used to it.
Barra threw his head back and howled. The sound was high, sharp, and piercing; it carried a hint of magic to it, the unique affinity all elves possessed for living things.
The draugr were far from living, but they likely remembered it and would be drawn to the power and life Barra offered up so prettily.
Turning away from the screaming woman, the draugr began moving toward Barra. Distracted by the howl, the pretty bait, they forgot to look for a hook.
Devlin cast his runes, one to each creature, three in total, and left four in his hand.
They burned, screams drowning out the woman's, then vanished.
He swore, loudly.
The woman's screams abruptly cut off.
"Barra," he said sharply, sensing more dead, wondering what had become of the woman. "Go find her."
The mist was a proper fog now, thick and dangerous—but he dare not waste his runes at the moment, for in the time it would take him to retrieve them, or simply draw new ones, the draugr would be upon him.
"Safe," Barra called out. "She got inside and has barricaded the door."
Devlin nodded, some of his tension easing. At least the woman was safe, and now they could work without having to protect her as well. "More are coming."
"Aye, Your Grace," Barra said. "I can smell at least six of them, and two are right bastards."
"Bloody hell," Devlin said and recalled the runes he had already thrown.
Barra frowned. "I smell the ocean, Your Grace."
Devlin shook his head. "Impossible. The sea is on the opposite side of the village. There cannot be sea draugr here! It has only been dark a few hours, and it wou
ld take them most of the night to travel such a distance. Confound it!"
Then the draugr were upon them, and these ones did not move slowly. No, these were more powerful, and six turned to seven, turned to eight, and every time he struck one, two more seemed to take its place.
None of them remained long enough to burn away. Shortly after the witch fire struck, they simply vanished and more appeared to take the place of those lost.
Land and sea, precisely as Barra had smelled.
Devlin cast his runes and realized he was out. He was beginning to tire. Dodging the large, heavy arm of an extremely swollen draugr already beginning to show scales, he knocked hard against the side of the house and realized abruptly he was far more tired than he had first surmised.
These draugr were not attacking aimlessly—these were no greedy beasts eager for life or desperate to protect their belongings. These were coordinated and attacking with some greater purpose. Being controlled.
Calling back his runes, Devlin held fast to them, depositing most of them in his velvet bag but keeping seven in hand. Lurching to his feet and drawing upon his remaining strength, he forced his mind to work.
One scaled draugr was suddenly two, and Devlin fumbled with his casting, too tired—
Then one gave a garbled, pained cry and tumbled to the ground.
He did not waste time in wondering, but cast his runes and watched it burst into flame and vanish.
The second did not get a chance to make a sound
Instead, its head was suddenly gone, torn away by a fearsome strength. The body fell to the ground and lay still.
He cast his runes again and watched in amazement as this time the body actually burned. The flames shifted steadily from deepest violet slowly down to basic orange until finally going out and leaving only a pile of ashes.
Barra growled, and Devlin followed the sound, swiftly burning two more decapitated bodies. When the last was done, he cast out his senses. He could feel no more draugr.
Save one. "I told you no," he said softly, knowing the barely audible words would be heard anyway.