The House of the Wolf

by Basil Copper

  What was remarkable was the utter obliviousness of most of the Congress party to what was taking place, literally before their eyes. It was better so, though the Count had a fearful responsibility in the matter. In his natural desire to avoid distress and something like a panic in Lugos and within his own household, he was risking the lives of his guests; though it was true that they knew of the wolf menace and were on their guard against natural dangers.

  He turned slightly, his eyes stinging from the wind, waiting for Abercrombie to come up. The doctor seemed to have lost none of his vigour, though the long gash on his forehead testified to his ordeal of the day before. He had a personal score to settle; Coleridge could not deny that. For if the wolf had disabled or killed Coleridge, the big Scot would most certainly have died too in the darkness of the oubliette.

  But he would keep close by him; he had promised the Count. He reached into his pocket for the silver flask of cognac his host had insisted they carry. Abercrombie put it to his lips with a grunt of satisfaction, handing it back to his companion. Coleridge wiped the rim of the flask and drank in his turn. The biting cold was erased as the flood of warmth invaded his extremities. He screwed on the cap of the flask and replaced it in his pocket, smiling at Abercrombie’s expression.

  The Count was beckoning now, and the two men detached themselves from the line to their left and crunched their way over toward him. Coleridge’s rifle-case seemed inordinately heavy, and he again felt the faintest twinge from his injured shoulder. The Count smiled encouragingly at Abercrombie.

  ‘If there is the slightest doubt of your fitness, one of my men will escort you back to the Castle.’

  Abercrombie shook his bearded head.

  ‘I have just assured the professor I am all right.’

  Homolky bowed slightly.

  ‘As you wish.’

  He turned to Coleridge.

  ‘I would like you to take charge of the left flank, Professor. I myself will take the right. Between us we should ensure the success of the hunt.’

  Coleridge felt disappointment. He had promised the Countess he would stay close to her husband. But he could not fulfil that promise unless he first told the Count his reason. He felt resentment growing within him at the impossible position in which he was being placed. But one look at his colleagues, almost indistinguishable in their heavy fur clothing, brought reassurance.

  For he had heard Sullivan was an excellent shot. And he noticed that the big bearded servant who always seemed to hover at the Count’s elbow was there also, with a fearsome looking long-barrelled rifle which he had already removed from its case. The Count would be safe enough.

  But would his own nerve hold sufficiently to protect himself and Abercrombie from any possible harm? In the difficult terrain over which they would be operating, they might become separated. There was always that possibility.

  The Count extended a friendly nod and drew back into the line. Coleridge had just time to see Anton give him a formal military salute before the two wings disengaged, each man remaining about ten yards apart. Coleridge stood firm at the wing and waved Abercrombie back. His own section spread out until the farthest men had disappeared.

  The guns stretched for over a mile across the ground. All they had to do now was to walk slowly forward and keep their eyes open. The Count had earlier told them that no-one in the line was to shoot until he himself had first fired. And they were not to kill the animals indiscriminately but only those large males which resembled the black wolf they were hunting.

  Rakosi’s party were beating some five miles back. As soon as the beasts were being driven forward on to the guns, Rakosi would alert them with a pattern of three shots.

  In front, the ground descended into a sort of ravine from which a thick stubble of bare undergrowth and tree-boles protruded, then it rose again with woodland until the blue, hard line of the mountains began beyond. It was a difficult landscape, and Coleridge intended to keep close to his companions.

  Apart from the natural dangers from the animals they were hunting, it would be easy to turn one’s ankle in among the boulders, and anyone foolish enough to be disabled and out of earshot of companions could face a miserable death from frostbite and starvation; particularly as there were so few hours of daylight in these latitudes.

  Coleridge turned back as the line stood steady, from horizon to horizon, waiting for the signal. Behind them the black mass of Lugos huddled round the base of its hill, with small scribbles of smoke rising from its chimneys into the sullen sky. Far above, on the heights, Castle Homolky glistened in its frosty overcoat, resembling some grotesque iced cake more than ever, Coleridge thought.

  He turned back, breaking out the rifle from the case and loading it quickly, keeping his gloves on. He had just time to secure the safety-catch, noting that Abercrombie at his left was doing the same.

  Then the Count had raised his hand and was striding out across the rough surface of the frozen snow. The rest of the line followed suit. Breath smoking from his mouth, his heart pumping steadily in his chest, Coleridge walked forward, his eyes half-closed against the wind. The darkness of the ravine with its icy tree-boles marched up to meet them.

  The three shots, when they came, seemed to split the darkened sky, reverberating and echoing across the mountainside until it appeared as though Rakosi’s troop had fired a fusillade. Coleridge could hear the hounds now, their shrill voices carried strongly by the wind, then fading to silence as it quickly changed direction.

  The line went steadily forward. The signal obviously meant that some beasts had been started toward the guns. But they could still be a long way off, and though wolves could run at tremendous speeds for twenty miles or more, they were familiar with such hunting procedures as the Count was employing today and they would proceed with caution, especially as they were still within the woods.

  Coleridge knew it was the Count’s intention to drive the animals on and catch them in the open, but it was obvious something had gone wrong with the timetable, as often happened on such occasions.

  It would be extremely dangerous if they came upon the wolves within the woodland, for in that situation it might well be that the hunters would become the hunted, and it would be difficult if not impossible to use the rifles among the trees.

  For that reason each man was equipped with a pistol and plentiful ammunition. Coleridge turned back and looked for Abercrombie. He was still a little concerned for him, but he was keeping up well, though they had been going for more than an hour. He was only a few yards behind the line, which was extremely ragged now. As always, individual guns, carried away by the excitement, forged ahead, while the less cautious or athletic tended to straggle behind.

  Although Coleridge was nominally in charge of the left flank, it was almost impossible to control a party of men strung out over a wide section of countryside, and he hoped for nothing more than reasonable coherence under the circumstances. He waited now for Abercrombie to come up and again offered him the flask. The big man took it gratefully and moistened his lips with the fiery liquid.

  ‘Thank you. Most welcome,’ he said drily, his eyes reddened and inflamed with the wind.

  Coleridge looked beyond him. To his relief he saw that the whole line had paused with him. Over on the right Homolky, a small black figure against the dazzle of the snow, waved also. They would rest for a minute or two and listen for the progress of the hunt.

  ‘You have not changed your opinion of this wolf?’ Coleridge asked.

  It was a question he could not resist.

  Abercrombie smiled, wiping his beard with the fur back of his glove.

  ‘My scientific mind is open to any well-argued propositions,’ he said cautiously. ‘You are talking of the beast in the cellar?’

  Coleridge nodded.

  ‘Of course.’

  Aber
crombie shrugged, putting down the butt of his rifle on the frozen ground, holding the barrel delicately in one gloved hand. He was so massive the weapon looked almost toylike by comparison.

  ‘I did not see it, of course. But the weather has been very severe. That beast could have taken refuge there in the natural course of things.’

  ‘It is possible,’ Coleridge agreed reluctantly. ‘But it had the grey patch on its back. It was the same animal which attacked me in the Castle corridor.’

  Abercrombie smiled again.

  ‘The one which tries door-handles?’ he said mockingly.

  Coleridge felt irritation rising within him, fought it down.

  ‘You have not seen it, Doctor. I have twice been in danger of my life from the brute. In theory it should have been killed yesterday, for I aimed at its head.’

  A silence fell between them, broken only by the faint barking of the dogs from over the bare shoulders of the hills.

  ‘There is another thing also,’ Coleridge went on. ‘As you may imagine, I have been thinking much about this matter recently. The wolf with the grey patch has been seen only by myself and Nadia. The black wolf we are hunting today had killed long before we came to the Castle. The other, which I am convinced killed poor Menlow, has manifested itself only since the beginning of the Congress.’

  Abercrombie looked at him blankly.

  ‘What are you suggesting? That one of our colleagues is a werewolf? The idea is preposterous.’

  Coleridge looked his companion deep in the eyes.

  ‘I did not say so. I am just stating a few facts.’

  He had a sudden recollection of the photograph in the silver frame on the old Countess’s desk. He drew in his breath. It was foolish of him not to have seen the possibility before. But this was not the time to discuss it. This evening perhaps, after they had returned to the Castle.

  He turned back to the line. The Count was moving forward again. Coleridge followed suit, conscious that his legs were beginning to ache. There was no doubt that the life of the scholar was not conducive to such strenuous activities. Again the girl’s image came before him and the bleak landscape. He dismissed it and peered carefully about him, half-closing his eyes against the piercing wind.

  They were descending into broken ground once more, and beyond it was something that looked like the mouth of a ravine; instinctively Coleridge increased his pace. He did not want to be caught in here. Abercrombie was going well, keeping abreast of him. As they descended and the light began to fade from the sky and the tree-branches to close above their heads, Coleridge realised with dismay that the area was more extensive and precipitous than he had imagined.

  More importantly, the rest of the line seemed to have spread out to skirt the wooded area, because he could not see anyone else in sight. He pointed this out to Abercrombie. The giant hesitated and then grunted belligerently.

  ‘We two are any match for the odd wolf which might find its way in here. And we should be through this in about twenty minutes or so. If we go back up and follow the others, we shall be a mile behind and unable to catch up.’

  Coleridge nodded. Abercrombie’s words made good sense. The two plunged on, balancing precariously on the icy ridges, sinking lower and lower into a twilight world where the gnarled boles of trees were frosted thick with ice and where great boulders hung awry across a winding path which twisted across the face of the hillside.

  They could still hear shouting, presumably from the line of guns, and once the sharp high notes of a horn which could only have emanated from the beaters’ party beyond the hills.

  Then the sounds ceased, except for the sharp crunch of their boots in the impacted snow, and they were crossing what was obviously a streambed where boulders, splintered boughs, and the dull gleam of ice made a nightmare tangle. Coleridge kept close to Abercrombie, but the rugged Scot seemed in excellent spirits and impervious to fatigue.

  ‘I am well,’ was all he would say, and Coleridge decided to save his breath.

  They had left the frozen streambed now and were going uphill, tracing a zigzag course on the snow. Great belts of trees stretched to left and right and they found them useful, pulling themselves up by the boles of the saplings when the going underfoot got too rough. Once they paused for five minutes to catch their breath and then went on again, refreshed and conserving their energy.

  There was no sound from their companions; the only imposition upon the silence was a harsh metallic screeching from the far wood that might have been carrion-crow quarrelling. Coleridge looked at his watch anxiously during one of their halts, but Abercrombie dispelled his anxiety.

  ‘We have several hours of daylight yet. We shall be through this soon and able to sight the others.’

  Surely enough, a few minutes later they had climbed a bare ridge of thick snow which raised itself from the tree-line; they were in a sort of valley which led steeply to the right. In front of them the skirt of the mountain led upward, almost vertically, with thick bands of pine and fir.

  At the left-hand side was a thick sheet of ice which was almost a cliff-face, surmounted by more heavy forest at the summit. There was obviously only one way to go, and Coleridge led to the right, moving steadily downhill all the time between two big stands of trees. They were off the line of the hunt, but that could not be helped.

  Tumbled boulders were flung about in this bleak place, and the wind funnelled down from the far summit, making their ears numb and stinging the eyes. Coleridge could hear a faint howling in the distance, but whether it emanated from the hounds or from the prey they were seeking he could not make out. Abercrombie caught his eye and increased his pace a little.

  They were still going steeply downhill, the great rolling landscape leading them inexorably onward. To either side windswept slopes reared, crowned by thick clumps of dark trees. It was a drear sight, and gradually the light seemed to be leaching from the sky until they were in a condition of twilight. The howling was louder, and Coleridge’s companion looked anxiously about him.

  ‘Perhaps Rakosi has run them to ground,’ he said. ‘We would not have known down here.’

  ‘Which means they may be driving the wolves in our direction,’ said Coleridge grimly.

  They paused halfway down the slope, conscious of the dark gorge that gaped before them. It was full of blue-black twilight with the mouths of caves halfway up the rocky slopes. The hill on which they stood ran directly into this vast cleft, with cliffs at either side ascending vertically for about two hundred feet. A few yards more and they saw that the far end was barred by more frowning crags, impassable and coated with ice.

  The place was an enormous cul-de-sac from which there was no escape. As they stood undecided there came another mournful howling that was taken up from the thick forest that surrounded the entrance to the gorge and spread in a wide horseshoe to encompass all three sides of the valley.

  Abercrombie stared bleakly at the great shattered cleft before them.

  ‘The Place of the Skull,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 28: THE BEAR

  They picked their way down the slope, the freezing wind plucking at the skirts of their heavy clothing. Coleridge’s breath was reeking from his mouth, and his extremities felt numb despite the heavy flapped fur cap he wore. He rubbed his nose to make sure of his circulation; he did not want frostbite under any circumstances.

  They were in among the tangled mass of boulders now. It was shadowy here and a place with sinister connotations, but, as Abercrombie had pointed out, they had little choice. They were trapped and defenceless on the open slope, even with the rifles, if wolves should appear.

  But if they could climb up the side of the gorge they could at least hold off any marauding pack until help arrived. It was sound advice, and Coleridge hoped that they would have time to find a suitable refuge before the first of t
he beasts approached.

  That they would do so within minutes was obvious, as the whole object of the beat was to drive all the wolves in the vicinity on to the guns of the Count’s party.

  The dry rustling of branches in the wind seemed like the padding paws of the pack to the savant’s overheated imagination, and he was again grateful for the doctor’s presence. It was a fluke of circumstance, and ironic, as Coleridge was supposed to be taking care of Abercrombie in his semi-invalid condition.

  The two men walked quickly and in silence, occupied with brooding thoughts. They were through the boulders and came out on a fairly flat space before jumbled scree heralded a steep slope that led up to a series of caves under the lip of the gorge. The caves were at the end of the cul-de-sac and so commanded the whole view of the valley they were traversing. Abercrombie was leading now, and he gave a brief exclamation as they came out into the open.

  Coleridge hurried to his side and soon saw what had attracted his attention: heavy footprints, despite the thickness of the ice, which led to a dark huddled figure on the snow. The two men hurried forward after giving worried glances around the horizon. Nothing moved for the moment, but there would not be much time.

  The man was obviously dead; his neck was dislocated, judging by the bizarre angle at which it was inclined, and his clothes were torn and bloody. Handing his rifle to Coleridge, Abercrombie nevertheless knelt down and made a thorough examination. As the distorted face came into view, Coleridge was astonished to see it was that of the gypsy at the Fair to whom Nadia had given money.

  Abercrombie shook his head grimly and let the big man fall back to the snow.

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘But what is he doing here?’

  ‘Simple,’ Abercrombie shrugged. ‘Acting as a paid retainer for the Count’s party. A number of the gypsies were pressed into service. Perhaps he started off early hoping for an extra bounty if he shot the wolf we were seeking.’