The Demon Lord by Peter Morwood

in annoyance. “Do not go into… that place,” he said, his voice low and intense.
    “Why not?” The annoyance did not colour the flat way in which Aldric asked his question, and that in itself was faintly ominous, as if something was being held in check—something which might be unleashed if the reply proved unsatisfactory.
    “Because… Because it was once a holy circle of the Flint Men, where they worshipped gods who were before the Gods.”
    Religion, thought Aldric, and almost smiled. Never debate a man’s religion, politics or taste in women.
    But then Evthan muttered, “Would that it still was, instead of being…” and let his words tail off in a way that Aldric did not like. Maybe it was more than just religion after all.
    “Instead of being what, Evthan?” he prompted.
    “Instead of being what it is now! Unhallowed and evil! Keep away from the ring of stones, Kourgath. Avoid it, as everyone else does.”
    “AH the more reason for me to look, then. I sense nothing evil about either the ring or the mound—and the dead have never done the living harm.” Even as the words left his mouth he knew that they had been spoken impulsively, and were a lie; for he remembered the
traugarin
raised out of death by Duergar the necromancer, and Kalarr cu Ruruc who had first died before the Clan Wars five centuries ago… “At least, the peaceful dead,” he amended quietly.
    “But why should the lord beneath the hill be at peace?” Evthan argued with inexorable logic. “His great sleep ended when
they
broke open his tomb.”
    “
They
... ?” The single soft word did not invite excuses. “Explain to me—who are
they
?”
    Evthan hesitated, then shrugged. Aldric caught the little movement. “Do you not know—or not wish to tell me?”
    “I know,” the hunter answered.
    “And, I think, so do I. Lord Crisen. The name which appears too many times without an adequate reason for it.”
    “He, and his father. Lord Geruath searched for ancient weapons—he collects them in his tower at Seghar as another man might gather works of art. But the other—”
    “Lord Crisen.”
    “—Sought other things.”
    “And did he find them?”
    Evthan’s teeth showed in a hard, tight smile. “Now, Kourgath—Aldric—how much would you expect a mere hunter to know of the private doings of his Overlord?” It was a roundabout way of saying that he would hear nothing more, and like it or not, the Alban accepted it without protest.
    “I should like to meet your Overlord—and his son,” was all he said.
    “And I should like to be there to see that meeting,” returned Evthan.
    “Perhaps you will. But for now I’ll be content to see this holy place—which may no longer be holy, but certainly grows more interesting by the moment.”
    “But I told you—” Evthan started to protest.
    “Nothing but a superstition which convinces me of nothing. But I’ll give the mound-king your respects if I should chance to meet him.” The hunter flinched at that and Aldric saw him flinch. Was it because of his own casual, thoughtless remark… or for some other reason? Soon, he promised inwardly, soon all the questions will be answered.
    He walked slowly out across the moonlit clearing, towards the mound—and from the shadows he was watched by unseen eyes.
----
    Things hidden by the long grass gave way beneath his soft-soled boots with sharp, dry cracking sounds. They were not twigs, not branches. Aldric knew what they were and twice he stopped, knelt, and lifted them into the thin wash of silvery light to see the objects better. It was something he would not have done in daylight, for this was viper country if ever he had seen it—on a hot day the big lethal snakes would have been out everywhere, basking. In the cool of the night they were all gone, leaving him alone to impudently fumble with old sacrificial bones. He found their very age a reassurance, and on both occasions that he took a closer look the remnants proved to be