Joshua Patterson

           

             He was born in a storm with a look of madness in his right eye. At least that’s what all the stories say. Stonedin Village was small like most small places in that small doings could be made very big and big things just weren’t talked about. But if one had a few spare coins and oiled the throat of old Caleb Cartwright with Melcom’s thick brown ale, he’d hold forth about the goings on up at the castle. Tales to give grown men uneasy rest and keep boys up all night listening for howls on the wind.

            But it wasn’t a kind thing to do to poor old Caleb for he was a kindly soul and did not lightly tell tales of his betters—at least that’s what he’d maintain the morning after while nursing a mug of tea and a pounding head at Melcom’s.

            His betters, of course, were the Lagroens of Heundin Castle. More specifically, Lord Cillin Lagroen, Duke of Heundin Castle and the lands surrounding it, including Stonedin Village. That he was queer went without saying, but his affinity for his dead father’s hounds was the stuff of legend. The great red beasts certainly seemed blessed with long life, for it had been twelve long years since the previous duke, Hural Lagroen, had leaped or fallen or been pushed (depending on who was doing the telling) to his death from his tower, and his pack had been full grown even then.

            Who would have suspected that poor Caleb Cartwright would have ended up in the middle of everything about to transpire? He was the least likely person to be a hero and, even afterward, he would stoutly—as stout as Caleb could be, which wasn’t very—maintain that the events to follow had very little to do with him.

            Stonedin had been a peaceful village, tucked into a remote corner of a kingdom more concerned with defending its borders than a cluster of stone houses huddled against the cliff where its ramshackle castle stood. Had been peaceful at least until its duke took the mason’s daughter for his bride. It was unheard of! Preposterous! But it happened all the same.

            The son of Cyroeil, Cillin Lagroen was born in a storm as Caleb Cartwright had recounted. In a coach from Whitebridge he slew his mother as he entered the world. Who knew what pain he inflicted on his gentle mother amid the wind and lashing rain.

            When the coachman flung open the door of the coach on their arrival, he found Cyroeil dead and the infant, drenched in blood, laughing on the floor.

            Cillin’s father, Hural Lagroen, hearing the tragic news, took to his tower, refusing to see the baby that had killed his gentle wife. And there he stayed. The coachman, his only servant, ascended the long, crooked stairs with meals twice a day, until one day Hural, Lord Lagroen was no longer there, having taken a shortcut to the courtyard: straight down.

Raised by an old nurse and the coachman, Cillin ran wild. His guardians were neither young nor parents and had no idea how to raise a boy. He had no playmates but his father’s hounds, a pack of great red beasts that hunted feral in the Dimwood. It was a matter for the king to attend to, but he was far away and occupied with more serious issues.

Cillin would vanish for days at a time through a gap in the crumbling wall of the keep, hounds at his sides. The tales went that he learned hound form, running on four legs, a black hound amidst the red hides of his father’s pack. No one could say for certain if that were true—it sounded like a drunken tale out of one of Stonedin’s taverns. Wild, the boy might have been. Out of control, certainly, but there seemed little magical about him.

Cairn’s daughter taken by the duke! Poor Maire. No one knew what horrors lay in store for her in Heundin Castle, but Cairn was beside himself with anger and worry. A powerful man, the mason, after years of shaping stone to his will, but what could one simple man do when his duke arrives at his door with a pack of slavering hounds? Naught! Naught but rage in vain.

Word spread quickly. In no time it seemed Cairn’s humble house was filled with friends, angry ones. There was talk of revolt though none seriously considered it. It was the talk of impotent men. All knew the futility of attempting the castle’s defenses; the dark rumours of the duke’s true nature coloured all speech. The room brimmed with unspoken fear. Only Cairn, wild with grief, spoke seriously of storming the castle.

            His powerful hands bunched into fists as solid as boulders. “It can be done!” he said, voice rumbling like a rockslide. “We can go in through the west gate. Ismil tore it down before he died for fear it would collapse.” His friends glanced at each other uneasily. None wanted to argue with him but no one was eager to attack their lord either. Cairn saw their looks. His hands fell to his sides. “Aye. It’s madness. I know it well.”

            “’Tis all madness. The whole business smacks o’ it,” Emlys the miller said sourly. “That family’s ever been so.”

            Thorberg Thatcher made the sign to ward off evil, a quick circular motion over his heart. “Shouldn’t speak of the lord so.”

            Emlys shot him a withering glance. “‘Tis common enough knowledge. Everyone thinks it. Just no one’s got the guts to say it outright.”

            The room dissolved into angry voices again.

            In the corner, Caleb Cartwright cleared his scrawny throat. All eyes turned to him and his white head seemed to shrink between his bony shoulders. “Ah, when next I go up to the castle one of ye could hide in me cart.” He supplied vegetables and provisions to the duke with a rickety old contraption whose two wheels seemed determined to head in opposite directions.

            Emlys snorted. “More like to rattle apart with several stone of manflesh in it.”

            Caleb wilted, but Cairn was deep in thought. Finally, he said, “Nay. It’s no use. What could one man of us do against the duke and his hounds? We don’t know what else lives up there.” Defeat was written in the slump of his broad shoulders. “My little raven,” he murmured. “What is he doing to you?”

            No response came out of the darkness where the castle’s looming presence cast more of a shadow than night seemed wont to do.

            “So there’s nothing for it,” said Cairn hopelessly.

            Emlys shook his head, setting aside his customary sharp tongue. “I fought in the war, as you all know.” Thorberg groaned. Emlys was ever willing to regale anyone who would listen with tales of his bravery. “To attack the keep with what men we could muster would be madness.” The others exchanged relieved glances. “There’s but one sword in town,” added Emlys. “And I own it. We must wait for spring and appeal to the king’s representative when he arrives.”

            Cairn sank into a chair, covered his head with his hands. “Spring may be too late,” he whispered to the floor.

            Came a noise outside the window.

            “Hsst!” Emlys leapt to his feet. “Someone was listening. Quick, lads! Outside and find the culprit!” There was a rush for the door and six men, including Emlys rushed out into the night.

            Caleb sat looking lost and uncomfortable in the other men’s absence. “A nasty business,” he said mournfully.

            Cairn stared into the fire. “Aye.”

            “Sure is a pretty lass, Maire.”

            “The prettiest.”

            The fire danced and silence wrapped the room in a blanket of gloom.

            The others trickled back. Last among them was Emlys. “Naught but moon and wind,” he grumbled.

            “Thought I saw something down by the Windling,” offered Thorberg.

            Emlys glowered. “Why didn’t you go after it, man?”

            The thatcher swallowed uneasily. “Looked like a hound.”

            “Moonlight and shadow,” Emlys shook his head. “Scared as a rabbit.”

            “Let be,” rumbled Cairn.

 

            But it was no moon and wind at Cairn’s window at all—both were present, don’t mistake me, but they were not to blame for the noise. Nor were they responsible for the pattering of feet down the path by Windling Stream. Nay, it was young Swefn, the sole son of Gendryn the smith who leaned his slim frame against the old willow tree, loud breaths drowned by the chuckle of the Windling. His pale, tousled head hung but his heart was like to burst from the news he’d just overheard. His elders were going to do nothing about the duke’s abduction of Maire. Just wait for spring, five long months away, to do anything while the duke had Maire at his mercy, doing gods knew what to her in all that time!

            Even her father, mighty Cairn Stonemason, had bowed his thick neck to fate. No one but Swefn, it seemed, had the belly to save her. He was fifteen summers—old enough to wield a sword as Emlys had done. Old enough to kill a man for evil deeds.

            Something hardened in Swefn’s young heart. He’d grown up with Maire, played willy nill with her, kissed her when she let him. He’d loved her for as long as he could remember and, even if her own father abandoned her, he would not.

            There was but one sword in town and it hung over Emlys’ hearth. The mill lay a little downstream with the miller’s house connected to it by a covered walkway. It was guarded only by the miller’s kind wife and a floppy white puppy they’d just acquired from the thatcher’s brood.

            To this end, young Swefn resolved himself as he peered in another window and observed Sadie dozing in her chair before the fire, the pup a white puff of fur on her lap.

            No one locked their doors in Stonedin, so it was a matter of no consequence to slip into the miller’s house and creep across the room.

            The fire popped and Swefn froze; Sadie did not stir. After a moment, he resumed his stealthy progress. Emlys’s sword hung in a battered scabbard, hilt flickering like enchantment in fire glow.

            Three quick steps and he was between the fire and Sadie. The sword was heavier than he expected. A soft sound made him turn. The pup regarded him with liquid eyes, tail wiggling.

            Swefn placed a finger over his lips, imploring it to make no further sound. The pup’s tail thumped on Sadie’s lap. Swefn took a slow step to one side. The pup lurched to its feet, following him with earnest eyes. Swefn took another step.

            The pup could stand it no longer. He yipped a question at the boy.

            Sadie’s eyes fluttered; Swefn abandoned stealth for speed and clattered from the house, trailed by Sadie’s scandalized shout and the shrill voice of her puppy.

            The cry went up as soon as Emlys returned home. A quick search revealed that not only had Emlys’ sword gone missing, but so had Gendryn Smith’s son.

           

Once there had been a gate opening on to the margins of Heundin Mere from the Heundin Castle walls. But years of neglect had rusted it open. The late  groundskeeper, Ismil, had dismantled the gate and its posts had crumbled into mere piles of aged granite netted in ivy.

                        Through the breach that had once been the west gate Swefn carried his assault with stolen sword and love for the stonemason’s daughter. His anger had carried him so far but never before had he dared the gate and he hesitated in the black shadow of the walls.

            Hounds resided within. The duke’s red beasts, heavy jawed and evil-eyed. Only once had he encountered them at close range, on a grey fall day when he’d ventured farther into the Dimwood than he’d ever gone. Back where the trees crouched close together and whose trunks were much thick, gnarled and striated with growth. Black moss hung like witch’s hair from ropy branches. The air hung still as though something had strangled it. But Swefn was a smith’s son, hale and hardy, and did not know fear. Ducking a curtain of moss, he dared the dark confines of the heart of Dimwood.

It was like night within and still as a grave. Small things snapped underfoot and, as he grew accustomed to the darkness, he perceived that what he trod upon was not branches but bones. It was an abattoir, an unholy slaughterhouse of woodland creatures.

Bones spread out from beneath his feet as far as he could see. The countless remains of forest creatures driven here, slain and, by the look of them, mauled and savaged. There was nothing so wanton in nature. No creature so vicious and wasteful. Only feral creatures wreaked such destruction. And the only feral animals Swefn knew were the count’s hounds.

Childhood stories returned to him and he shivered. The first knowledge of fear creeping up his spine. The count would disappear with his hounds at his heels. Howls in the Dimwood. Baying and unearthly screams. Don’t stray into the forest. You won’t come back.

 

Little Jilly went into the wood

And didn’t come back ‘cause she wasn’t very good.

 

So went the rhyme. He tried not to look at the bones too closely for what he feared might lie among the pale remains of weasels, squirrels and deer.  He had better slip away before they found him.

But something caught his eye deeper in. A gleam of reflected light. He found himself creeping toward it, shattering bones with every step. The air grew thick about him; his throat closed up and he fought to breathe. There was a menace to the air he could not easily describe. Later he would say that the air felt filled with blood and that something was watching him out of it.

He pushed through a mossy curtain, and there before him, on a crude, stained altar lay a black statue of a hound. Its eyes were set with obsidian, glinting even in that dark place. His foot struck something at the altar’s foot. A second statue, bloodstained and half-hidden by a boar’s skull, carved from some pale stone but set with the same obsidian eyes. Obeying some impulse, he swept both up and slipped them into his tunic. The air seethed and moss whipped at his eyes. An unearthly growl issued from the deep darkness rattling his bones.

He ran until he came into brighter regions of the Dimwood. Air and light returned his courage and he felt positively heady as he walked back towards Stonedin.

The hounds were so great as they loped silently on sodden autumn carpets that he mistook them for deer. But they caught his scent and halted, ears pricked. Swefn had frozen in place, hand on tree, heart in his throat. The largest of them—a great black beast—whuffed, a deep, breathy command, and they came for him.

            He’d scrambled up the tree quick as a squirrel and stayed perched high in the branches until long after nightfall. But he’d never forget those yellow eyes staring up at him hungrily out of the darkness.

            The stories told of ten hounds in the pack, but he’d counted eleven that day. And the eleventh, the leader, had regarded him with a particular hunger, its dark muzzle raised after him as though drinking his fear.

            The memory made him falter and, for a terrible moment, he stood undecided with darkness before and behind.

           

“Our choice has been taken from us,” said Cairn to the men reassembled at his house. “Swefn Smiths-son has taken Emlys’ sword and presumably gone to the keep.”

            Gendryn the smith, a great bear of a man, black-bearded and many-scarred, glowered. Slow anger smoldered in his eyes. “He’ll have my hammer to reckon with if a hair on my son’s head is harmed.”

            “Get your hammer, then,” said Emlys. “For there’s little hope of seeing your boy again.”

            Gendryn shot him a black look but said nothing. Emlys nodded, “I thought not.” He stood up. “Someone must confront the count. Who will it be?” The room went deathly silent. “Right. If no one has the stomach for it, I’ll have to go to the keep myself. Waiting till spring is folly. Anything could happen before the king sent assistance. Besides, I want my sword back.” His gaze swept the assembled men.

            “Emlys—“ began Cairn.

            “I won’t hear anything more!” snapped Emlys. “I’m the only one who fought in the war. The duke’s a kitten compared to Orleuan Swordthanes.”

            “What do you intend?” asked Gendryn.

            Emlys paused at the door. “I suppose I’ll walk up to the door and ask for your children back.”

            When he’d gone, Gendryn said, “Old fool.”

            “And yet he’s gone and you’re here,” Cairn whispered to the fire.

            Emlys did not feel nearly as brave as he made himself out to be. As he walked the curving path to the keep he cursed his hot-headedness. The Swordthanes had been a lifetime ago; his battles had been fought long before his joints began to ache and his back had hunched. But he was a stubborn man. Something needed doing. The villagers were long on words but short on courage. As always.

            The moon was sinking behind whispering branches. The night breeze chilled his face as he left homes streaming light behind him, exchanging them for shifting shadows and a stony path. The last time he’d taken this way he’d held his father’s hand, barely waist high. The old duke had held a midsummer’s feast every year, but that had ended with Cillin’s violent birth and now the path was dark and overgrown.

            He stumbled on rocks, weeds caught at his legs like coarse fingers and now the wind moaned through the crenels of the castle walls. This is a task for heroes, not old men, he thought. Alone in the dark with weeds and wind for company, heading toward a mad duke who’d stolen the stonemason’s daughter, Emlys felt old and feeble.

            The gates loomed before him, black spears of iron bound together waiting to impale an imprudent climber. The metal stung his hands like ice as he tried them. They were, of course, locked, swaying slightly at his attempt.

            “Lord Lagroen!” he quavered, voice failing, weighed down by the bulk of the castle. The wind sang eerily on the walls. “Lord Lagroen!” This time he shouted louder, but the castle seemed deaf to his cries. No matter, he’d stand here until someone acknowledged him. He shouted and waited and time passed.

            An hour later he could barely croak, but his back was up. Nothing short of fire and lightning would drive him away now. “Lord Lagroen! Lord Lagroen!”

            At last a light flickered in a high window. He called one last time as relief flooded him. The window opened but he could see nothing in it. “I’ve come for the stonemason’s daughter and the smith’s son! Send them down!” He waited, but no reply issued from the window. “I’ll not leave until I see them, I swear it!”

            With a creak, the gates swung open though no one had come to unlock them. “I knew you’d see reason,” Emlys croaked and stepped within.

            He hadn’t taken three steps when a howl rose on the wind. Then another joined it, and another until the night was full of hounds’ voices. He stood frozen in place, fear seizing his heart.

 

            Swefn ducked behind a gatepost as howls rent the air close to him. Mystified, he watched as the entire pack appeared, loping eastward. One beast stopped suddenly and turned back. Eyes gleamed as it searched the darkness where Swefn crouched.

            The smith’s son trembled as he stared back, willing the animal away. He could hear it testing the air. It took a step closer, head lowering, weaving.

            Fierce barking broke out from the other side of the castle and it wheeled as suddenly as it had stopped and ran to join the others.

            Swefn sagged against the post, wringing with sweat. But a moment later he was running the last distance to the castle. If his luck held a door would be open and he wouldn’t have to waste precious moments breaking in.

The grass was thick and grey here. Objects lay strewn through it and he tripped, more concerned with watching for danger than what lay beneath his feet. He dropped the sword and scraped his hands badly. He scrabbled for the sword, eyes darting to see if the hounds had heard him. The barking continued muted now by the castle’s thick walls. He was safe. For the moment.

There was a door ahead and to the left, but it was bolted tight. He cursed and went in search of a window. He stumbled along the wall, feet catching in the tangled grass, crunching over broken glass. He found three of them, all locked. There was nothing for it. He drove the sword’s hilt through the glass of the nearest. 

Climbing inside, he ripped his tunic but he was within the castle. The room he found himself in vaulted three times his height and the walls appeared richly paneled though they were hard to make out in the darkness. Cloth-draped furniture loomed over him like wraiths, undulating like living things in the breeze that had come with him through the window.

Now to find Maire and save her from the duke’s predations. If he were an evil duke where would he take his maiden for ravishing? The highest room, of course. He found the door; it opened onto a hall. He had to find a stair and he’d be that much closer to finding his love. But the weight of all that stone pressed against him and he found himself short of breath. Nevertheless, he went on. Down the cobwebbed corridor towards fate.

           

The night was alive with hound shapes. Their eyes burned like cinders and their breath burned the air. They had the miller’s scent.

He turned, dumb with fear, and forced his legs to move. Hound’s breath rasped behind him as he fled back down the path.

The air rang with barking and his age began to tell on him despite his fear.  His breath came more like hoarse screams as he fled back towards the village. He ran clutching his burning chest.

He glanced beside him; a great hound shape loomed out of the darkness, teeth snapping. He lunged aside but his ankle twisted on the slope and he teetered on the edge.

“Damn you!” he cried and fell into the night.

The hound stopped at the edge and looked into the void where Emlys had vanished. More hounds joined him, lining the road. They stood gazing down, rumbling in their chests.

A distant smashing of glass rose from the castle grounds and they wheeled, claws skittering.

 

The occupants of Cairn’s house had spent their anger and silence reigned. One by one they slipped away, humiliated by their powerlessness. Caleb was the last to leave. He’d sat in the corner by the fire too numb to move. He felt a great desire to do something to help, but he was a timid man and it was beyond his strength to posit a solution. Cairn’s great form hunched before the fire, a silhouette of defeat. Caleb’s mouth opened and closed but there was nothing to say. Shuffling to the door, he looked back. Cairn had not moved. Head shrinking between his shoulders, Caleb went to fetch his cart where he had left it behind the house.

He stumbled over something as he walked and looked down. On the ground, lay a small pale statue of a hound. He shuddered and made the sign to ward off evil. He stared at it indecisively for a moment. It had an evil air about it. Against his better judgment, he picked it up and stared into its black glittering eyes. Something moved in their depths, he fancied. This was beyond him. He took it back to show it to Cairn, perhaps it was a sign left to warn him.

“Cairn, I – I found this on the ground. Perhaps you should—“

“Keep it.”

“But—“

Cairn’s massive hands clenched. “Caleb, please…”

Bowed in defeat, Caleb returned to his cart. He heistated, then slipped the statue into his belt pouch. “This is a bad business,” he whispered. Then he remembered the flour he had been taking up to the keep before all the trouble started. He shifted it anxiously. “You old oxbrain! The duke’ll have your hide if there’s no bread for breakfast. Fool, fool!” There was nothing for it but to take it there now, though he had little desire to go near the place. But perhaps he’d meet up with Emlys and they could go together. Sighing, he picked up the handles and began his slow, creaking way up into the night.

 

Shoulders bowed under the weight of his thoughts, Caleb mourned, “Ill has befallen my lady and I too old to right it. These old bones will bear another season, maybe two.” He raised his grizzled face to the moon imploring, “I have been faithful to you these many years when others have left you for a younger god. I have asked for nought but good weather and fertile soil in all that time, but now I ask for protection of my lady, Maire. May hand that seeks to harm her be turned against itself.” He found that his hand was clenched around the statue in his pouch.

Something moved on the road before him, large and sleek, its hide gleaming like ice in the faint light. Caleb drew his cart to a shuddering halt. “I am forsaken,” he whispered, heart pattering faster than his feet wished to carry him. “I have spoken ill of the lord. I am undone.”

The hound, a great silver beast, came toward him, its eyes dark caves in a snowy slope. It came so close he could smell the sweetness of its breath. The whuff of warm breath misted against his skin. The chattering of Caleb’s few remaining teeth rang out over the whispering of tree branches.

It cocked its head and regarding him with a great dark eye, held him with new moon darkness rimmed in full moon glory. Then it passed him by, nails scratching on the road and a rumble in its chest that shook the old man like a strong wind. He watched it go, a pale moonbeam ascending to the keep, his limbs shaking.

Quaking fingers found cart handles and Caleb continued back down toward the village his mind full of moonlight and sweet breath.

 

As Swefn ascended the stair, there was movement on the landing opposite and above him. It was Maire.

“Hst!” He waved to get her attention.

She turned, saw him and her face broke into a wide smile.

“What are you doing?” asked Swefn, pitching his voice low.

“What?” she replied gaily. “Thought you that I would lie a-swoon until my rescue arrived?” She gripped the rail and her smile was pure delight. “I knew you’d come.”

“How did you break free?”

 The door was old and rotten. I pried it open with—“ Her words cut short as a hound appeared on the landing between them.

Maire shot Swefn a frightened look, retreating as it stalked her. Swefn raced toward the landing, but a second beast emerged. Spying Swefn, its eyes flared and it crouched to spring.

He remembered the sword then. He’d never slain something in anger before, but he was a smith’s son and made of stern stuff.

The hound leaped, Swefn swung. His blow nearly severed the beast’s head. A howl rose above them as the brute fell dead—a long wail of fury and grief.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Swefn caught up with Maire and her stalker. Before it could react, he thrust the miller’s sword between its shoulders. Another howl rent the air, potent with madness.

Maire’s hand in his, he drew her swiftly back towards the earth, but a furious scrabbling of claws on stone stopped them in their tracks. The remaining pack members were surging up the stairs toward them.

Glancing desperately around, Swefn cried, “To the roof!”

 

Caleb yelped as a second howl sundered the night. “Old fool!” he berated himself, as he picked up his trembling pace back to Stonedin. “You have unleashed greater ill. This is why you should never meddle in doings greater than yourself.” Muttering, he stumbled and lurched homeward.

A groan from the side of the road brought him to a shuddering halt.

“Oh dear moonlit gods, what new devil approaches?” he moaned, clutching his scrawny chest. The groan came a second time. “My doom is upon me!”

A hand appeared gripping the earth and a human shape pulled itself slowly to the roadside. Caleb’s teeth began chattering. “A ghoul! Undead from the grey beyond! I am destroyed!”

“For pity’s sake, Caleb,” came the ghoul’s faint, irritated voice. “Stop jabbering and help me up.”

“Emlys!”

With Caleb’s help, the miller clambered onto the road. He held his head and groaned. Batting Caleb’s hands away, irritably, he asked, “The children, where are they?”

“Still in the castle, I should think.” Caleb’s face fell.

“Damnation.” Emlys’s shoulders slumped. “I’ve failed then.”

“I fear it’s worse than that,” said Caleb, shrinking beneath the weight of his deed. “Much worse.”

The miller’s eyes glinted in the dark. “Tell me.”

Haltingly, Caleb recounted what he’d done and what he’d encountered shortly thereafter. At Emlys’s request, he surrendered the pale figurine.

The miller turned it in his hands. “There are old tales about such things,” he said finally, returning it to Caleb. “I sense no evil in it. However, it is beyond my knowledge. Keep it safe.” Then, seeing Caleb’s dismay, he patted his shoulder. “Whatever you did this night you caused no greater harm.”

Caleb shot him a grateful look and retrieved his cart. Together the two old men resumed their journey bearing their strange news.

 

There was no door to the roof. The stairs led Swefn and Maire up through the ceiling to the parapet. They emerged onto the broad roof of the tower. What made matters worse, however, was that they were not alone. Baron Lagroen stood at the parapet, his haggard features livid.

“You!” he crouched against a crenel, wind pulling at his long cloak. “First you defile my home, now you come before me with bared steel!” He snarled, features seeming to flicker between hound and man in the poor light.

Unexpectedly it was Maire who replied. “That would be well said, sir, if you had not first taken me by force. Intrusion begets intrusion.” She blinked as though shocked by her own cheek.

Despite their peril, Swefn found himself grinning.

The count bared his teeth and came at them. Swefn stepped in front of Maire then, remembering the hounds behind them, pulled her beside him. Moments later the pack crested the stairs, furious and foaming.

“The old laws demand blood for blood. Two of you for two of mine. This is just.” The count dropped to all fours, face stretching into a muzzle, speech slurring. Behind them, the pack advanced stiff-legged.

Swefn became suddenly aware of a burning at his chest. Reaching into his tunic, he discovered the dark figurine he’d found that day in the Dimwood. It was almost too hot to grasp. Pulling it out, he held it up. The count and his hounds halted, as though an unseen force prevented them from moving closer. The wind wound between crenels, moaning.

“What have you there, boy?” asked the count warily.

“Oh, something I found a long time ago.”

“So you are the whelp who desecrated the shrine.” The hounds rumbled deep in their chests, hackles raised. “This makes for a tidy evening.” He stepped forward. Swefn hefted it and eyed the tower’s edge. The count halted. “If you destroy it, you will surely die.”

“Between certain death and certain death there is no choice,” retorted Swefn, meeting the count’s feral gaze.

“I will spare your life if you surrender the artifact. There is no need for both of us to suffer.”

Swefn stared at the count for a long moment. “I don’t believe you,” he said, and threw the figurine off the tower.

Count Lagroen howled in rage then fell still as the black statuette passed glittering beyond their sight. Down the height of the tower it tumbled, spinning and whirling until—

The count laughed. “Fool, it did not break! It would have been better for you if you had dashed it on these stones, but now I shall have my revenge and my property.” His form flickered wildly and he leapt forward with astonishing speed. Before Swefn could move, the count had him in his powerful grasp. The miller’s sword clattered to the floor.

The hounds surged toward Maire as Swefn struggled futilely. The count bared his teeth and his muzzled head plunged toward Swefn’s exposed neck. His pack’s sudden silence stopped him at the last second. Sensing something amiss, he glanced up.

A bone-shaking growl preceded the great white hound’s arrival. It shouldered through the pack as though they were chaff. They scattered before it, tails tucked between legs. It ignored them completely, dark eyes fixed on the count. Swefn fell as the count completed his transformation, fixated on the white hound.

The count and the pale hound hurled themselves at each other and it seemed the very stones of the castle trembled beneath their struggle.

“Quick!” Swefn retrieved the sword and grabbed Maire’s hand with his free one. They dashed down the stairs, taking advantage of the confusion.

“The figurine,” gasped Maire. “Only thing that will kill that—monster.”

Swefn shot her a smile. He’d been thinking that very thing.

Above them, baying broke out. The pack had regained its wits and were in full cry after the youths.

They raced down the steps hand in hand, but it was starkly obvious that the hounds would catch them before they escaped outside. Swefn knew he could dispatch one or two, but half a dozen beasts were beyond his power. Cursing himself for throwing the figurine off the tower, he tried to run faster.

They gained the ground floor, but the pack was on them. They could feel hot breath on their necks. There was nothing for it but to fight. Pulling Maire into the hallway they had entered by, Swefn determined to make his last stand in its narrow confines.

Torchlight flared and he caught a muddle of shapes as he crashed into a mountain of flesh coming out the door. He fell as the first of the hounds burst through.

Came a flurry of movement, a downrush of air and, with a tremendous whomp, the hound nearest him was crushed beneath a massive hammer. A hammer he knew well. His father’s. Gendryn the smith stood barring the doorway, a light like forge fire in his eyes as he looked down at his son. Behind him was Cairn, face set like granite.

Emlys was there too—head bandaged, jaw set grimly. And, most surprising of all, Caleb Cartwright, clutching a torch in one hand and the pale figurine in the other.

“Behind me, boy,” said Gendryn gruffly, fending of another hound’s slashing jaws. “You’ve done your share.”

“But we need the other figurine,” said Maire breathlessly. “Outside.”

“We have to destroy it,” said Swefn.

His father raised his hammer. “Will this do?”

Swefn broke into a grin.

Cairn took the smith’s place at the door. He was unarmed.

“Father!” screamed Maire, as he waded into the onrush of teeth and nails.

Cairn laughed, catching two hounds in his massive arms and hurling them aside. His fists, solid as boulders, laid about him, dealing punishing blows. “Go, daughter. Finish it!”

Swefn returned the sword to Emlys with a rueful smile. The miller tousled his hair and stepped dour-handed into the fray.

Outside, the wind tore at their balance and it took some minutes of fumbling to locate the figurine. Atop the tower, fearsome sounds of the struggle penetrated even the fierceness of the wind. Locating a flat rock, Swefn laid the figurine upon it and looked to his father.

Gendryn handed him the hammer saying simply, “This is your task.”

Swefn swung with all his might. The blow stunned him. For a moment, he thought it was not enough. But then the dark statue cracked. With it came a hiss of escaping air and a foul odor.

There came a clap like thunder and the keep shook. A piteous wail fell from the heights and died at their feet. The wind ceased and silence reigned.

Slowly, without a word spoken, they all crept to the top of the keep. The count’s savaged body lay crumpled to one side, but of the pale hound there was no sign. Maire gripped Swefn’s hand nervously.

Cairn turned. “It seems the peril has passed.”

“The air feels different,” said Emlys.

“Cleaner.” This from Caleb.

The stonemason raised his mighty arms and began to laugh. After a moment, the others joined him, an outpouring of gladness and relief.

When they had quieted, he said, “Well, what are we waiting for? We have a betrothal to arrange, eh, Gendryn?”

Maire shrieked and threw herself into her father’s arms. Gendryn hugged his blushing son tightly with one arm. The others looked on approvingly.

Thus ended the long of reign of the Lagroen family. What followed was—everyone agreed—an age of unprecedented peace and prosperity in Stonedin. Harvests were ample, children numerous and the forest swiftly healed itself.