him in place, as it was meant to do, despite the way he swayed drunkenly with every step the gelding took. Aldric straightened up as best he could. The wind was still sighing about his ears, and when he looked up past dark branches to the sky he could see stars. There was a vague threat of rain in the air; it was marginally warmer and the snow was turning slushy. At least that would make his tracks harder to follow…
Then the trees came to a sudden end and a valley yawned before him. Aldric tensed, knowing this place all too well, but with nowhere else to go he rode out from the tumbled light and shadow on to the upper slope. He glanced back painfully, listening for sounds of pursuit and hearing none. What might have been a fragile laugh formed in his throat, only to die in a gurgle when he saw what hung above the forest behind him.
Away to the north-east, above Dunrath, a bloated spiral cloud was swallowing the sky. Long tendrils stretched towards the forest until it resembled some vast hand extending taloned fingers southward to clutch and rend. A flicker passed through the cloud, throwing its coiling bulk into sharp relief—but no lightning Aldric had ever seen was that vivid, venomous green.
Raw fear welled within the youngster’s brain and was not dispelled when he tore his eyes from the convoluted sky. Something was disturbing the snow just by his gelding’s hoofs. Then the thing broke surface.
Starting backwards in horror, Aldric yelped and clenched his teeth against the stab of pain his sudden movement brought. Then he stared in disbelief. On the ground was what had once been a hand. It was long dead, rotten leather stretched taut over a claw of old brown bones. But it was moving. The Alban looked away, only to meet the empty eyesockets of a skull heaving itself from the earth. Its jaws worked, dribbling ancient mould across the clean snow, and pulpy white things squirmed in its hollow nostrils.
There was a sonorous droning in the air and a humming more felt than heard. Other shrivelled relics rose out of the past into the nightmare present until the whole valley was bubbling like putrescent broth. A vile stench clogged Aldric’s mouth and nose until, despite the scarf around his face, he hung retching over his saddlebow.
The hand he had first seen was thrashing more violently now. It had become fleshy, filling out with muscle even as he watched, and the reek of decay lessened somewhat. Then the hand twisted and clutched his horse’s foreleg, sending the animal rearing back with a neigh that was almost a shriek of outrage. Aldric was almost thrown and kept his seat more through adhesive willpower than any real skill. Trying impotently to quiet the shuddering roan, he looked down to see an almost exhumed body drag itself from the crumbling soil, then clung frantically to his saddle as the champing horse finally got the bit between its teeth and took off at full gallop.
Aldric reeled back and hammered the shaft in his back against a saddlebag. Red agony overwhelmed him and his mouth gaped wide, but long before any cry emerged he had slipped into the dark again.
Three
Parting the Veil
In the grey light of dawn Aldric regained consciousness to find his left arm cold and stiff, hard to move and painful when he tried. But pain meant life. When he was dead he would no longer feel pain; nor love, nor joy, nor laughter. Though in his present mood he might as well be dead, for he was sure that he would never laugh again in this life. The dead felt nothing—even when they moved, he recalled with a shiver. But he was not dead yet, nor helpless either.
He slid clumsily to the ground, supporting himself with a stirrup when his knees threatened to give way. With only one hand, opening a saddlebag posed problems surmounted only by effort, ingenuity and much use of his teeth. Within was dried meat and wheaten bread for himself, grain and a feeding-bag for the horse, and a bottle of wine. Water he had in plenty from the
Then the trees came to a sudden end and a valley yawned before him. Aldric tensed, knowing this place all too well, but with nowhere else to go he rode out from the tumbled light and shadow on to the upper slope. He glanced back painfully, listening for sounds of pursuit and hearing none. What might have been a fragile laugh formed in his throat, only to die in a gurgle when he saw what hung above the forest behind him.
Away to the north-east, above Dunrath, a bloated spiral cloud was swallowing the sky. Long tendrils stretched towards the forest until it resembled some vast hand extending taloned fingers southward to clutch and rend. A flicker passed through the cloud, throwing its coiling bulk into sharp relief—but no lightning Aldric had ever seen was that vivid, venomous green.
Raw fear welled within the youngster’s brain and was not dispelled when he tore his eyes from the convoluted sky. Something was disturbing the snow just by his gelding’s hoofs. Then the thing broke surface.
Starting backwards in horror, Aldric yelped and clenched his teeth against the stab of pain his sudden movement brought. Then he stared in disbelief. On the ground was what had once been a hand. It was long dead, rotten leather stretched taut over a claw of old brown bones. But it was moving. The Alban looked away, only to meet the empty eyesockets of a skull heaving itself from the earth. Its jaws worked, dribbling ancient mould across the clean snow, and pulpy white things squirmed in its hollow nostrils.
There was a sonorous droning in the air and a humming more felt than heard. Other shrivelled relics rose out of the past into the nightmare present until the whole valley was bubbling like putrescent broth. A vile stench clogged Aldric’s mouth and nose until, despite the scarf around his face, he hung retching over his saddlebow.
The hand he had first seen was thrashing more violently now. It had become fleshy, filling out with muscle even as he watched, and the reek of decay lessened somewhat. Then the hand twisted and clutched his horse’s foreleg, sending the animal rearing back with a neigh that was almost a shriek of outrage. Aldric was almost thrown and kept his seat more through adhesive willpower than any real skill. Trying impotently to quiet the shuddering roan, he looked down to see an almost exhumed body drag itself from the crumbling soil, then clung frantically to his saddle as the champing horse finally got the bit between its teeth and took off at full gallop.
Aldric reeled back and hammered the shaft in his back against a saddlebag. Red agony overwhelmed him and his mouth gaped wide, but long before any cry emerged he had slipped into the dark again.
Three
Parting the Veil
In the grey light of dawn Aldric regained consciousness to find his left arm cold and stiff, hard to move and painful when he tried. But pain meant life. When he was dead he would no longer feel pain; nor love, nor joy, nor laughter. Though in his present mood he might as well be dead, for he was sure that he would never laugh again in this life. The dead felt nothing—even when they moved, he recalled with a shiver. But he was not dead yet, nor helpless either.
He slid clumsily to the ground, supporting himself with a stirrup when his knees threatened to give way. With only one hand, opening a saddlebag posed problems surmounted only by effort, ingenuity and much use of his teeth. Within was dried meat and wheaten bread for himself, grain and a feeding-bag for the horse, and a bottle of wine. Water he had in plenty from the
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