Deathscent

by Robin Jarvis

  Lord Richard considered the suggestion. Four mounts certainly constituted enough of a force with which to combat the terrible boar, so he gladly gave his permission.

  “My hunting days are long spent,” he excused himself, “but go, you four, and teach that devil his manners.”

  Henry could hardly remain in his saddle with excitement – to participate on a real hunt was an incredible treat.

  They would each need a stilling pole and so Adam dismounted to fetch them from the manor where they were kept. Returning to the yard he spared a moment for Suet, telling the agitated piglet to settle down. Then, when everyone had a long staff of steel-tipped yew in his hands, he was back on his pony and eager to be away.

  “Don’t tarry beyond dusk,” Lord Richard warned them. “That demon is danger enough in broad daylight.”

  With brave yells and shouts, the party set off and were soon galloping across the lawn to the edge of the woodland.

  “Rejoice whilst you may,” Lord Richard murmured. “For there’ll be little enough joy at court if I know Her Majesty.”

  Peering through the piggery fence, Suet had watched his master ride to the outlying wood, remembering all too well the terror which dwelt there. Letting out a woeful whine he marched restlessly behind the rails and nothing Lord Richard could say would soothe or quieten him.

  Slowing to a trot, the horse and ponies entered the trees and Brindle took the opportunity to ask Jack what the stilling poles were for. The seventeen-year-old chuckled; he had forgotten that Brindle knew nothing of this and was quick to explain.

  “Unlike ordinary mechanicals,” he began, “those intended as game possess many stilling crests. On every boar or stag there are two on each side of the beast’s body and a fifth in the centre of its head.”

  Brindle thought he understood. “Then we have only to strike one of those points and the device is rendered insensible, like the great pig mother in the kitchen?”

  “Too easy!” Jack answered. “What sport would there be in that? No, there must be three blows to still the creature, the first will inflame its fury, the second will slow it and the final one send it crashing to the ground. I hope your aim is as good as your horsemanship.”

  Brindle merely smiled in reply, then gave his attention to the surrounding woodland. The pungent smell of lush green growth pervaded everywhere and to him it was like riding through veils of glimmering, emerald mist. The lingering late blossoms laced the air with a dusty sweetness while the verdant carpet of fern and nettles underscored it with deep, shadowy odours. Leaf mould added earthy, seasoned layers, but permeating this agreeable scentscape was a repellent rankness which set his nose crinkling.

  “Where we going to find Old Scratch?” Adam’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  “Have to discover his lair,” Jack said sagely. “Flush him out, then …”

  “Witch spit!” Henry cried. “That horror might have lots of dens. There’s a quicker way to find him than poking into every hole from here to the other side of the estate.”

  “And what may that be?” the older boy asked.

  Henry spurred his pony past them and pointed a little way ahead to where a cloud of flies was buzzing about the low branches.

  “This is the same track Coggy and me used to escape from Old Scratch last night,” he told them. “And yon bluebottle dinner is the devil’s proudflesh that got caught.”

  Jack regarded the tattered grey mass, none the wiser. “How can that aid us?” he asked.

  “If we had a bratchet from the old world you’d know what to do,” the apprentice groaned in exasperation. “Well, we don’t have one of them hounds, we got better – we have our Lord Brindle.”

  Then Jack understood and was irked he had not thought of it before Henry Wattle. Turning to the Iribian, he asked, “Can you do it? Can you track our demon?”

  Brindle’s yellow eye was already gleaming and he forced himself to inhale the loathsome stink which hummed from the rancid shreds of proudflesh.

  Almost balking, he saw more clearly a noisome trail of the same filthy reek weaving an ugly skein through the emerald mists. “This way!” he declared, setting his stallion upon the malodorous course.

  While they were pushing deeper into the wood, Suet was fretting inside the piggery. Lord Richard had been unable to comfort him and the piglet’s plaintive squeaks were beginning to unsettle his nerves.

  “Hush now,” he said. “Your Cog Adam will be perfectly safe. He has Jack Flye with him and will return before evening falls.”

  But Suet would not be placated and pawed at the fence post with his trotter.

  “Oh, you obstinate animal,” Lord Richard grumbled. “I thought you were supposed to be more intelligent now. Why will you not listen to me?”

  Staring at the distant woodland, the piglet continued to bleat, then gave a determined grunt. Pulling back from the fence, it glared at the barrier and rushed forward. A gentle shudder travelled through the railings as the little mechanical slammed into the post.

  “Ho there!” Lord Richard cried. “Desist from that. Your tiny skull is no match for this stout stake.”

  Suet ignored him and rammed into the post a second time.

  “You will crack yourself to splinters,” Richard Wutton said crossly. “Stop at once.”

  But the owner of the estate was not Suet’s master and so a third and a fourth blow rained against the fence, with the piglet taking a longer run up to it each time. After a fifth attempt had produced only the faintest wobble, Suet snorted belligerently then scooted into the brick sty.

  “You just stay in there till Cog Adam returns,” Lord Richard called after him. But an instant later the piglet was scampering out again, followed by Flitch and Old Temperance.

  Lord Richard hurriedly backed away as the large sow lowered her head and lumbered towards the fence as fast as her carved legs would allow. There was a tremendous snapping of wood as the post buckled before her thundering weight and the fence collapsed with a clatter of rails.

  Old Temperance gave a superior sounding grunt, then sauntered back into the piggery with a self-satisfied air. Her piglets squealed proudly. Suet gave her a grateful nudge with his snout then, before Lord Richard could stop him, darted out and hared across the lawn in search of his master.

  The sow’s deep voice rose in farewell but Suet had already vanished into the trees.

  Through the undergrowth the bronze hooves went pounding as the hunting party sought the scourge of Malmes-Wutton. They had ridden to the fringes of the woodland, where the trees grew in a gradually thinning margin behind the village. They were close to him now. The stench of rotting proudflesh hung thick about the dense bracken and concealing ferns. Jack and the apprentices no longer needed to rely upon Brindle’s keen senses; the evidence was plain for all to smell.

  A gloomy expanse of scrubland stretched between the sparse trees and the nearest cottage. Tangles of briar formed prickly dunes which rose darkly above the waving grasses and flowering nettles. It was a cheerless, bleak place, the perfect domain for the rage-fuelled mechanical and Adam began to wish he had remained behind.

  “I never reckoned on him lurking so close to the village,” he murmured.

  “Scratchy’s getting too bold,” Jack said firmly. “The sooner he’s dealt with, the better.”

  Gripping their stilling poles in readiness, they rode into the high grass, following the course of the boar’s heavy trampling until one of the larger hillocks of thistle and bramble reared in front of them. They looked in disgust at the fog of flies which swarmed above it.

  “Never did understand why the Almighty had to inflict them on us,” Jack muttered. “Why couldn’t they have been left in the old world, with snakes and frogs?”

  Brindle’s eye was watering. The stench was unbearable for him but he made his horse wade towards the sprawling clump of briar, tensing the muscles in his arm. The others came after. Within that mound of knotted barbs, several rough holes and caves had been made and
they suspected that inside one, hostile eyes were glowering and spying upon their every move.

  “How do we flush him out?” Adam asked, his voice not rising above a whisper.

  “Easy!” Henry suddenly yelled. “We shriek and beat the bushes till he can’t bear it no more!”

  Plunging his pony forward, the boy shouted and bawled, thrusting the steel tip of his pole deep into the thorns. “Awake, you hunchbacked devil!” he cried. “Give us some sport before we pull you apart.”

  Jack joined in, thrashing the staff through the spiky boughs and calling fierce threats.

  Watching them torment the great clump of thorns, Adam drew his pony to a standstill and held back. Something was wrong. He glanced quickly at Brindle to see why he was not taking part.

  But the Iribian was not even looking at the others – he was facing away to the left, towards an overgrown pile of lopped branches.

  “Your demon has more than one refuge,” he said.

  At once a fearsome roar boomed from within the mound of mossy logs and the frightening bulk of Old Scratch came tearing from its hollow interior. Jack and Henry brought their ponies up sharply as the wild boar came charging into the middle of the hunting party, eyes blazing with fury.

  Brindle stared at the creation in revulsion. He had not imagined anything so hideous. In the revealing light of day, Old Scratch was even more grotesque than Adam or Henry remembered. After catching its mantle of proudflesh the previous night, the boar had bitten and torn it clear. Now that discarded, sweaty grey mass lay in the brambles and that was what the flies were feasting upon.

  Free of that ragged veil, the rows of steel bristles spearing from the mechanical’s back appeared longer and more savage. The wild boar no longer resembled a deformed bride – he was a spectacle of pure terror and everyone abandoned the initial plan to still him and return the ichors to their correct balance. Old Scratch had exceeded that point long ago; for him there could be no redemption.

  Snarling and rattling with hatred, the fiend faced each of them in turn, his cloven hooves tapping the ground menacingly as if considering which to attack first.

  Then, inexplicably, the boar gave a defiant shriek, whipped about and stampeded into the trees behind.

  In an instant Jack Flye took command of himself. Old Scratch’s nightmare condition was entirely his fault and, with a yell of challenge bawling from his lips, he spurred his pony after the monster he had created. Brindle and the apprentices looked briefly at one another, then the chase began.

  Holding grimly to the reins with one hand and the pole with the other, Jack galloped in pursuit as Old Scratch zigzagged between the trees. The hunt was no longer a game to him. How could he be a master of motive science while that abomination still terrorised the estate? This hour would be the mechanical’s last and the seventeen-year-old had already vowed to smash the cordial vessels himself.

  Then Brindle was at his side, his face intent upon the darting, horrendous form ahead. United, the pair of them drove the wild boar to the very edge of Malmes-Wutton.

  Within Old Scratch’s ruptured rosewood body, the large bellows pumped fast and furious, and the crimson temper gushed through the feeder pipes as every gear and toothed wheel worked tirelessly. It had been a long time since any had been reckless enough to seek him out, but the low cunning that had always been in him knew how to deal with such audacity.

  At the extreme perimeter of the estate, a wall of solid, hewn rock crowned the entire island. It was this enormous barrier that the leaded firmament curved down into and from which the stone buttresses rose. With that immense wall at his back, Old Scratch could pick off the riders one by one as they fought their way through the bowed trees which grew there.

  Leaping the remaining distance, the wild boar spun around and his cruel, slanting eyes watched Jack and Brindle come battling through the thickets of twisted elms that reared crippled and bent beneath the low arch of the glass sky. Henry and Adam were not far behind and Old Scratch snorted in evil anticipation at the carnage that would be his.

  “I do not like this!” Brindle called to Jack. “There will not be room to raise our staffs. How are we to strike?”

  “I’ll manage,” Jack answered. “No game beast is going to outwit me. If I have to punch them stilling crests with my fists, I’ll have him!”

  Brindle was the first to see Old Scratch at bay. Above the wall the leaded panes blazed a fierce blue and the bright glare glittered over a pair of brass tusks as the devilish creation turned towards him.

  The Iribian tried to lift his pole but it struck the low glass overhead as he had feared. He edged his horse back into the trees as Jack’s pony came pushing through.

  “Leave it!” Brindle shouted. “It’s impossible here.”

  But Jack was determined. “Three hits and he’s gone forever,” he cried and to the Iribian’s surprise, the lad struck his staff against the nearest tree and snapped it in two.

  The wild boar shook its repugnant head. Then, with a trumpeting scream, launched itself at Jack’s pony.

  A tremendous crack shivered up the device’s foreleg as Old Scratch’s jagged snout rammed violently into it and Jack was nearly thrown from the saddle. The wild boar sprang back and prepared for another savage attack. Seeing this, Brindle drove between them, splintering his own staff in half with his bare hands and bringing the steel tip whistling through the air to strike a resounding blow against the beast’s side.

  But Old Scratch shifted and the pole missed the intended target by inches.

  Suddenly Henry and Adam came bursting from the buckled trees. “Brain him!” Henry yelled.

  Jack pushed his pony forward and swung his arm back to deliver a punishing hit, but the boar leapt up and the vicious tusks wrenched the staff from the lad’s fist, almost dragging him to the ground.

  Bringing its ghastly head about, Old Scratch lunged and raked his tusks into the pony’s leg and Jack’s steed staggered backwards, juddering under the ferocity of the beast’s assault.

  In that cramped, low space, hemmed in by the tortured trees, there was no room for Henry and Adam to lunge into the fray. With Brindle already there they could do nothing but stare at the scene in horror.

  “Get back – get away from it!” Adam called to Jack.

  Jack Flye’s pony was shuddering wildly. It would not respond to any command and reeled to and fro as the demon of Malmes-Wutton lashed and gouged, shredding the device’s leg until only a splintered stalk remained.

  A hideous splintering of wood signalled the end and the pony collapsed, falling sideways on to the ground. Old Scratch let loose a triumphant bellow. Jack called out in fear as his mount went crashing down.

  Then Brindle’s strong hand came reaching across to seize him under the arm and before he knew what had occurred, Jack Flye found himself seated behind him. Swiftly the Iribian leaned over the stallion’s neck and whispered into its metal ears. The steel horse bucked beneath them and gave an almighty kick with both hind legs.

  Bronze hooves cannoned into Old Scratch’s side. The wild boar screamed horribly and was hurled into the air – away from the wall. Against the trunk of a gnarled tree the malignant demon went crashing and every leaf rustled upon the quaking boughs. The monster fell, close to where Adam and Henry sat upon their ponies, landing on his back, his steel spikes knifing into the ground.

  “Now!” Brindle shouted to the apprentices while Old Scratch struggled to right himself. “Still the beast!”

  Adam was the nearest. Lifting his pole, he aimed at one of the Wutton crests.

  “Three times!” Henry yelled at him.

  The boy stabbed downward and the crest pushed into Old Scratch’s malformed casing. The creature bellowed more fiercely than ever, his trotters flailing madly as he jerked and jolted in his desperate efforts to rip up his spikes and escape.

  Again Adam raised the steel-tipped pole but, even as he plunged it down, a high squealing filled the woodland and the blow went wide.

 
; “You missed!” Henry scolded.

  Adam o’the Cogs turned in his saddle and stared back through the trees. The shrill squeals were almost upon them, and then Suet came rushing from the undergrowth.

  “Adam!” Jack bawled at him. “Do it quickly!”

  Flustered, the boy tried to ignore the piglet which was capering around the thrashing wild boar, yapping angrily. But when he lifted the pole again, it was too late.

  Snorting with rage, Old Scratch wrenched himself free, sprang upright and went raging into the wood.

  “Coggy!” Henry growled. “You let him go. You had him – two more hits and it’d be over.”

  Adam stammered an apology but no one would listen. A fearful look was graven into Brindle’s face. “We must pursue that creature,” the Iribian declared grimly. “He is now more deadly than ever. Did you not say that the first blow would inflame his fury?”

  Jack nodded slowly. “Aye,” he uttered in a dread-filled whisper as the awful realisation sank in. “The crimson ichor will begin to froth and foam. Old Scratch is as near a true demon now as ever he could be. If he reaches the village …”

  They had already wasted too much time. Without another word, Brindle spurred the stallion into action. Still bearing them both, the metal horse sprang into the trees.

  Giving Adam a despairing look, Henry chased after.

  Suet ran around the legs of Adam’s pony, imploring to be picked up. “See what you’ve done!” the boy shouted down at him.

  The piglet yelped as though hit and sucked his snout in sharply.

  “You just stay there!” Adam cried. “You’re naught but a nuisance! I wish I’d never given you that black bile! Stay away from me!” With that he dug his heels into the pony’s flanks and charged after the others.

  Suet grunted unhappily to himself, not understanding why his master was so cross. His little snout slid sorrowfully out as he gazed after the boy disappearing into the woodland. Then the sound of hooves faded and the only noise to be heard was the anguished wheezing of Jack’s fallen pony.