Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

The Economist & The Dragon

Originally published by Buzzymag.com.

The dragon Vermikalathyxak sighed in relief as her claw finally dislodged the splintered human femur that had been embedded between two of her teeth. She spat the bone out to clatter down the congealed mound of human bone and gristle by her side.

A huge belch expanded up her gullet, erupting in a puff of gas from her maw. She ignited it, flame scattering shards of light from the multitude of gemstones embedded in the walls.

She glared down at the dented iron stars and the torn woollen robes scattered across the floor. Clerics always gave her gas. It was all that rich food and wine the gluttons consumed—it made them terribly fatty when compared to the lean peasant meat she was used to. Not only had they given her gas, but now she had a headache due to all that shrill praying she’d had to endure while dragoning them down one by one.

She couldn’t help herself. She knew that she should just leave them alone since she was forever vowing to eat healthier, but they were tasty, slow food, requiring little to no effort to catch and peel. Not like knights in full metal plate; those took forever to peel without ruining all that expensive shiny armour. The company of would-be dragon slayers’ armour, weapons and possessions had been carefully stripped from the corpses and sorted out into neat piles on the floor. She had to tear her eyes away from the small mesmerising pile of jewellery off to one side, where it glittering enticingly, reflecting the light from the torches scattered around the cavern.

Scratch, scritch, scratch.

She lifted her head and bared her fangs, tail lashing as she scanned the cavern looking for the source of the strange noise. Nothing moved. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary: rock formations, piles of glistening bones, stacks of loot, and a half dozen uneaten dead humans. After a while she settled down onto her haunches, assuming that perhaps it was just an especially unwise rat.

Scratchscritchscritchscritchscratchscritch—there it was again, but quicker this time. A scuff on stone, then a single gold coin clinked and rolled across the floor. She looked again, looked harder…and found her eyes sliding away from something. A deep rumble within her chest echoed around the cavern. She tried again, and again her eyes seemed to slide over something, as if refusing to see it.

She drew her head back and hissed, the flame sacs at the back of her throat swelling with venom. Her head shot forward, maw gaping. Rapid muscle contractions in the roof of her mouth sparked her fulmenforge into life, igniting the jet of liquid. One corner of the cavern turned into a roaring inferno. Liquid flame dripped down into pools of dragon-fire. Acrid black smoke churned up amongst the stalactites.

A human voice yelped in shock, accompanied by a clatter of wood on rock. Charred and smouldering scroll cases rolled across the floor. She glared over in the direction of the sound. Smoke outlined a human shape.

“Come out or I shall roast you, little thief,” she said, concentrating on him. There was a pause, and then a balding, bespectacled man of medium height and forgettable aspect was suddenly standing there. Her eyes threatened to slide away again, but as long as she focused on him intently he remained visible. His beard was non-existent and he was wore a plain grey tunic and breeches rather than a robe woven through with potent arcane wards. A belt of pouches circled his waist with quills, scrolls, and bizarrely, a small abacus. In one hand, instead of a magic staff, he clutched a sheaf of what appeared to be vellum pages. In his other he held a stick of charcoal between thumb and forefinger, still scribbling away frantically across the vellum—scritch, scratch, scritch.

"What are you doing, thief? I see you now."

He blinked, seeming startled as her eyes followed him, then he glanced at all her loot. "I’m conducting a SWOT analysis—the Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities, and Threat of your, ah, business enterprise. I’m calculating your net worth and expenses, cataloguing your material assets, and putting the finishing touches on a ten year growth plan."

"What kind of wizard are you?" she demanded, opening her maw to reveal fangs larger that the man’s head. She tilted her head and studied him. She couldn’t see so much as a hint of magic sparkling around his body. He seemed entirely mundane. How very dull, she thought.

He swallowed. "I am, ah…an economist, actually," he said.

There was a long moment of stunned silence.

He cleared his throat. "My apologies. I was assured that invisibility potion would allow me to hide and leave you undisturbed until I was fully prepared to present my proposal."

A barking laugh dripped flame down her chin. "Invisible, yes, but I am not deaf, human.”

"Ahhh, I see!" he said, looking down at his entirely visible body. He frowned and began absently tapping his lip with the charcoal stick, smudging black all over his lips and chin. Then he looked up into her eyes and she watched as realisation dawned. He was entirely visible. "Oh," he said, sweat beading on his forehead. He stayed very, very still.

She settled down onto her belly, staring at him, unblinking, giving him the old should I eat you or not look. "What is an economist doing here of all places?"

He swallowed and wiped the gathering sweat from his forehead. "I’m currently writing a paper on dragonomics. And I’ve come here to put a mutually beneficial business proposal to you." He waved the pages clutched in his hand at her, all lines, numbers and tiny cramped writing.

She was intrigued. Her sire had always warned her not to play with her food, but then she was at that sort of age—in the mid-teen centuries—where a dragon gets rebellious. A purr of pleasure rumbled in her chest. "Dragonomics? what do you mean by that, little human? I give you three minutes to convince me of your proposal before I eat you up." She shifted to get comfy, folding her wings to her flanks.

He loosed a sigh and relaxed, taking that as a sign he was not in imminent danger of digestion. Suddenly he looked deadly serious. He might have almost looked dangerous, if only it hadn’t been like a very serious mouse standing before a giant and incredibly bored feline. The charcoal smudged all over his face didn’t help matters. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth to begin—

“Are you not disgusted at my devouring your kind?" she interrupted. "Are you not angry?”

He was flustered, trying hard not to shake. “Uh, well, they were trying to kill you in your own home, so I guess that it was a valid case of self-defence.”

She blinked slowly, letting him sweat while she mulled over his answer. “A surprisingly fair opinion, for a man-thing,” she said, finally.

My name is Geoffrey," he said.

She blinked slowly in amusement, flicked her tail from side to side.

"And you are of course, Verma…vermikatha…uh, Ver—"

"Vermikalathyxak," she rumbled, tail lashing violently. She lowered her head down to his height. "In your kind’s old tongue—" she snorted "—it would translate most accurately as Annmarie. Better you call me that than for me to suffer yet more of your kind’s monkey-speak butchering of my true name."

"Annemarie it is then,” he said. “Right, well, dragonomics is the study of the socioeconomic impact of a draconic variable on an area, and—”

“Socioeconomic is a very arrogant term to use,” she said. “Should it not be homoeconomic to take account of your human-centric viewpoint, which undoubtedly excludes any other race from your societal research?”

“Well…yes, perhaps you are correct,” he said, pondering it. “We economists generally do use it to refer to human-only societal economics.” He shifted from foot to foot. “Besides, we tend to use homoeconomic to, ah, refer to a particular subset of humans.”

She worried at a rogue splinter of bone in her gum with the sensitive forks of her tongue. “Humans! You think that you did everything first. There were gay dragons before your race even existed. In my sixteen centuries I have come across myriad wondrous dragons, each different from the last. I assure you, dragons have tried more than your entire race’s petty imagination can conceive of. There are even some distasteful young dragons that choose to—” she let a lick of flame rise from her maw, “—dally with humans. Can you conceive of anything more horrid than that? Never mind the sheer physics involved in such a thing…”

“Fascinating,” he said.

She looked at him sharply, but as far as she could tell he seemed to find it genuinely interesting. "One minute up," she said, dropping her jaw in a grin.

He jumped and started sweating again, licking suddenly dry lips. “Right, to get back to the point,” he said. “In this case, I am studying the economic impact of your presence on the surrounding villages in this Black Hills region of Astelon."

"I see," she said, her voice flat and hard. "You are preparing yet another reason why dragons need to be exterminated. Have your kind not had their fill of hatred?" She closed one great eye in a wink.

His eyes bulged. “Heavens no!” he said, hands flapping wildly. “Your presence actually has a remarkably positive effect on the local economy.”

“It does, does it?”

He pointed down to the uneaten corpses, each of which had twinned tattoos on their wrists—the mark of successful dragon slayers.

"For a long time now we economists have been aware of the short term economic benefits of tattooed two-wrists in any given area. On average, an organised dragon hunt spends ten days narrowing down the location of a dragon’s lair, another five to prepare for the assault, and then perhaps fifteen on rest and recovery afterward. A full month’s boost to the local economy. Anyway, back to my business plan. As I was saying—"

"A boost to the local economy? How so?"

"Oh, well, simply really." He held up his hands and began ticking off fingers. "That covers: food, grog and board for the men, general supplies, blacksmith work, horse feed, prostitutes, local guides and labour." He looked distracted, his eyes glazed. "And then there is the brief influx of gold after a successful hunt. Of course most of the valuable body parts: scale, bone, blood and venom all leave Astelon and the profits go back…to…er, their homelands…" his voice died off as her hissing grew louder and her tail slammed off the wall of the cavern, crushing stone and gem to powder.

He swallowed. His face went pale and a bead of sweat wound down his forehead and across his cheek. "I assure you, Annemarie, short term profit goes against my plans for this area. My proposal will end this waste, a renewable resource so to speak."

"Speak," she said. "Be quick, lest I decide to swallow you whole right now."

He nodded energetically. "While researching this group of dragon slayers, three things became apparent."

"Firstly, none of the villages in the Black Hills show any sign of dragon attack. Not even an old rumour of such from the elders. Their standard of living actually exceeds that of similar areas. Secondly, there seems to be a thriving second-hand goods market hereabouts." He looked pointedly at the piles of armour and weapons.

Vermikalathyxak shifted on her haunches.

"Thirdly, the local villagers’ livestock herds seem unusually large and remarkably healthy considering the dietary requirements of a fifty tonne drag-"

"Forty-two tonne," she corrected, letting flame drip form her maw. "Do I look like some fattened, waddling beast to you?"

"Ah, I apologise unreservedly," Geoffrey said. "No offense was intended. I stand corrected. You are just so magnificent that you seem all the larger to me."

Before she could reply to his pleasing yet shameless flattery he continued his speech.

"Which indicates the likelihood that you either have your own herds in some secret valley in the hills, or that you import food via the villages. The relative wealth of local villages and the roaring trade in second-hand armour and weapons would seem to indicate the later. Perhaps both."

He looked her in the eye. "Am I correct?"

She growled at him. "Yes. But how exactly will you being an annoying know-it-all stop me eating you right here and now? Oh, and two minutes have now expired."

He squeaked, and then looked around at her shed scales and at the piles of loot. "Yes, well, it’s very simple—I propose we form our own corporation which will benefit everybody in Astelon. With my ingenious business plan I am positive that you will see the benefits of partnership."

He looked down at the remains of the dragon slayers. "Well, maybe not everybody benefits. But then Astelon has never been known for its dragon slayers."

"And just what do you think about these slayers," she said, toying with him by blowing smoke and flame towards him. "Sympathy for your fellow man?"

"No, no, not at all," he blustered. "I was most impressed with the way you dealt with those hunters from Estadol. I’d always imagined that their magical protections and wards against dragonfire would result in an epic battle of spear and sword against claw. As I was saying, I estimate that with my plans here I can treble your profit marg—"

"Impressed you say?"

He coughed. "Ah, well, I hadn’t actually considered the benefits to a dragon living in a cave system where the limited space and restricted ventilation could result in an entire company of hunters choking to death from smoke and fumes." He eyed the Cleric’s torn robes on the ground and looked like he wanted to throw up. "Well, most of a company dying from smoke. Clerics do tend to bring up the rear."

Her rumbling laughter echoed through the cavern.

Geoffrey smiled, shook his head. "Genius. There are no wards against smoke and fumes. I had wondered why you hadn’t built your lair atop inaccessible mountains. I mean, how exactly could a fully armoured knight get up there never mind try to slay you? Dragons can fly after all, so it would make sense to me. In any case, as I was saying, my ten-year business plan will show you increased productivity by—"

“Perhaps you felt that a bloated—” she let smoke and flame burst from her maw, “—fifty-tonne dragon such as myself could not possibly fly so high and had to crawl into a cave?” She chomped down on one of the human corpses, crunching noisily. Flame dripped from her maw amidst a rain of blood.

He swallowed, wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “I…I am sorry, I did not mean to say that—”

She spat out bones at his feet, and then she stared at him until he flinched and looked away. “Fifty tonnes…” she hissed, voice low and dripping with malice. The malice was entirely spurious—not that a human could ever tell the difference on a dragon’s face or tongue; they were such crude, blunt creatures. She found it amusing to toy with him. “I would strongly suggest you refrain from any more insults, little mouse.”

His head jerked up and down so quickly that she thought his brittle little neck might snap. A purr of amusement rumbled in her throat. Her eyes narrowed with malicious glee. “So, are you done with your proposal yet?"

He jumped, suddenly realised how much of his precious time had just been wasted. "Sorry. I was just…I meant…” he took a deep, calming breath and then cleared his throat. “To get back to business, I am not sure if you are aware, but Astelon has never had good relations with the larger kingdoms of Estadol and Brandell. Border skirmishes and raids into Astelon are all too common, and our army is woefully underequipped and overstretched.”

A twinkle appeared in his eye. "Which is where we economists come in. We cannot win militarily so we must seek to dominate economically. I feel that dragonomics is the answer to both of our problems.” He looked around at the bones and piles of equipment. "I’m sure that Astelon’s king would not take it amiss if these foreign dragon slaying companies were to come back empty-handed, or even better, not at all. Each dragon they slay boosts their economies. And of course, they kill your kind to make their gold."

Dragonfire dripped, sizzling to the stone from bared fangs. "I am listening. But best be quick."

"I know that you must have some sort of agreement in place with the peasants hereabouts, but with my help this can become big business—maximized profits and minimized expenses. Think of it—advanced warning for yourself, disinformation, perhaps even some subtle assistance. It can’t be too hard to serve the dragon hunters tainted food, so that they get the squats. The services of Astelon wizards could also be arranged if you would like; I know of several wizards that specialize in dispelling and protection wards who would be agreeable for the opportunity to earn some extra gold. I’m sure you would find them most helpful."

She winced, remembering the times when lightning bolts had shrieked through her body.

"And for what?" Geoffrey continued. "Merely a fifty-percent share of all profits from thwarting your killers and the sale of recovered materials. In return you would allow me to arrange the distribution and sale of anything you would be willing to spare: any scales you shed, fire-resistant spit or dragonfire you feel like selling. There is also a market for dragon urine in the Bright Isles. I understand that they use it as an aphrodisiac. The gold will flow in! We will be rich."

She hissed at him.

"No, no. It will be a good thing for you." he said, holding his hands up. "I promise. It could eventually mean the end of humans hating and hunting your kind. Dragons would become a valuable and sustainable resource." He gave her a sly look, "assuming of course that we keep dragons well-fed and supplied with anything and everything that you need."

He frowned, as if something just occurred to him. "Of course, you would all have to swear off eating people who were not trying to kill you. Or ravaging herds without paying the farmers. With my genius at the helm we could even expand this out on a lucrative franchise basis."

He set down his business plan and held out his hand to her. “I know what you are going to say, Annemarie. It is true! You will be richer and more successful than in your wildest dreams!” His eyes almost glowed with avarice.

“Your three minutes are up,” she said. There was a crunch of cartilage as her jaws snapped shut on his bare arm, then she drew her head back, stripping the flesh from his arm, much like a Cleric eating a shish-kebab.

“Bland,” she mumbled, swallowing. Her sire would have lectured her about talking with her mouth full, but then he was far from here, and she was not amongst polite company. The economist stared in dumb horror as the bloody bones of his arm flopped to his side, hanging by shreds of flesh and tendon. He drew breath to scream, mouth gaping.

Her paw slammed down, crushing him to the stone. With one claw she cut the clothes from his flesh and then swallowed him whole.

“Keep me as fattened, dumb cattle would you?” she said, licking blood from her maw. “You forgot one thing—nobody likes a smug banker. Besides, I did say you had three minutes before I ate you up. Should have listened to the small details more closely.”

She stretched dainty claws out and carefully picked up the pages of vellum, holding them up to her eyes. Such tiny writing. She looked over his business plan and found it very well thought out. She burped, tasted economist again. "Consider me convinced." She settled down to read it all thoroughly.

Some time later the clatter of cart wheels outside the caves announced the arrival of the human village elder, Gunther. He shuffled in and knelt on the stone, head bowed. “Oh mighty and beautiful Annmarie. Would now be a good time to clean up and take the goods to market?”

That economist, whatever his name had been—she’d forgotten already—had actually stumbled upon something intriguing. Of course, he’d had entirely the wrong idea of who would be in charge. He really should have studied dragons more thoroughly; if he had, then he might have realised that almost all dragons had great pride and a burning need for independence.

Now that the middle-man was out of the way…“Gunther,” she said. “It is time we had a long talk about economics. with my genius, I have come up with a few new ideas to increase profit margins.” The business plan called for a motivated and loyal workforce however—“With great generosity I am offering the villagers five percent of all profits…”

His eyes brimmed over with tears of joy.

Head Games

Orginally published by Swords and Sorcery Magazine

Seven corpses lined the side of the alley, heaped atop pig shit and kitchen slops. Stained blankets did little to conceal the lumps of butchered human meat beneath. A black-clad warden wearing the red sash of a captain stood in the middle of the bloody mess, his back to me, hand resting on the pommel of the sword at his waist. I pried the bent rollup from my lips and yawned tabac smoke, scratching at my chin, bristles rasping. They had hauled me out of a warm bed and sent me trudging halfway across the bloody city for this?

I tched. Seven was a quiet night for the Warrens—it was called the cess-pit of Setharis for a damn good reason. I stuck the rollup back between my teeth and picked my way forward, shards of pottery crunching underfoot, decaying tenements groaning and creaking on either side. Why had the Arcanum ordered their loathed tyrant to a murder scene? None of those oh-so-worthy magi, poncing about in silken robes, were comfortable with the idea that I could use my Gift to get into their heads. But I had to do as the Inner Circle demanded, unless I felt like being back out on the streets opening my veins for mageblood addicts to get high on a touch of magic—or worse, I could start using my Gift too much.

The warden turned, scowled. My mood plummeted. "Walker,” he spat. "Of all magi, why did they have to send you?" Captain Matthias Meldrum of the city wardens regarded me with that familiar mix of contempt and utter disgust he reserved solely for me. Considering he was in the scummiest part of Setharis and ankle-deep in a pile of human intestines and grey-green offal, I thought it a little unfair. His moustache was trimmed and waxed in the very latest fashion, but for once he wasn’t wearing his dress uniform all edged in gold thread, instead plain black tunic and trousers.

"Guess you’ve pissed somebody off," I said in a cloud of smoke. "Good to see you too, Meldrum.” Pompous prick.

Opposite the corpses, a hole gaped in the tenement wall. As I studied the scene Meldrum studied me, hand twitching around the hilt of his sword. Worrying, that. I peered through the crumbled hole into a flooded cellar.

A pair of ashen-faced wardens carrying wicker baskets filled with glistening organs hailed themselves up from the gloom and slopped the contents out into the alley, looking ready to empty their guts too.

"You are a waste of time, Walker," Meldrum said. "I called for a seer. What use is a sot like you?”

I grinned, pointed to his shiny new boots. "You have a kidney on your foot. You’re welcome."

He grimaced, shook it off.

"You called for a magus," I said, spreading my arms wide. "Now you have a magus."

He groaned and lifted a bloodstained glove to massage his temples, leaving streaks. Ha! Still, at least he’d deigned get his own precious hands dirty down amongst filthy peasants.

I was a Docklander and these were my folk, every last filthy, thieving, one of them. It might be my home, but I didn’t really belong any more. Here or anywhere else. Still…somebody had to give a rat’s arse about them, and nobody else was going to. "What have you found?"

Meldrum sighed, moving from corpse to corpse peeling back cloth. "Seven men, butchered." He’d done his best at putting them back together, but bits were clearly missing—an arm here, a foot there, internal organs, an entire torso. However, I noted no heads had been taken.

"When were they found?”

"The doorway to this cellar collapsed a week ago. Somebody finally got around to reporting the bodies to my men last night. All I can say with certainty is that they have been in there for more than seven days."

It was a strange answer. Meldrum was precise and methodical, and far more knowledgeable about how long somebody had been rotting than the likes of me. There had to be a good reason he had asked the Arcanum to send a magus.

"What do you expect me to do about a few poxy murders?” I asked. “I’m no thief-taker.” I wasn’t allowed to rifle through people’s minds without high-level authorisation, and all I could do otherwise was produce a waft of air or a few feeble sparks of flame.

He ground his teeth. "There is no natural decay."

Ah. I blinked. He was right—the air was free of the stink of rotting flesh. The victims looked as if they’d been killed only a few moments ago: no bloated and rat-gnawed flesh or swarms of fat black flies dancing from corpse to corpse.

I swallowed, mouth gone dry, then opened up my Gift. Magic quivered like illicit orgasm through my flesh, washing away any trace of hangover, tempting me with power and pleasure. I forced myself to set aside magic’s seductions. I didn’t want to end up warped and twisted like that poor wretch of a pyromancer the Arcanum had put down last week. He had lost control of his emotions and let his magic run unchecked. By the time they got to him it was far too late: his Gift had torn and magic flooded through to warp mind and flesh. With inhuman logic it had begun moulding his body into a better host for the Worm of Magic, that fucking parasite that tempted us every time we opened ourselves up. For the Gifted, using magic was easy, but surviving was hard.

I knelt down and pressed my hand to one man’s forehead, ignoring the glassy stare. The skin felt waxy and lukewarm but that didn’t bother me; any child of Docklands grew up with uncle death and auntie murder. I didn’t have to touch the corpse to use my power; I just didn’t want anybody to know that. I wasn’t trusted as it was. I probed deeper.

Nausea roared through me. I lurched to my feet, spun to Meldrum, clutched his arm and doubled over dry-retching.

"Another late night with too much ale, magus?" Meldrum said, every ounce of personal distaste forced into one little word.

I spat gunk, then looked up, taking a deep calming breath. “Yes, as it happens," I said. "But that’s not why. Meldrum, I…the victims…they’re not dead."

His brow furrowed, eyes flicking between me and the dismembered bodies like I was cracked. "Of course they are.”

"The decay, man! There is none because they’re not dead. Not fully.”

A horrified look stole over him. "Do they still feel? Are they aware?"

I shook my head. "No. That I’m sure of. Feels more like…" How to explain it to a mundane? "They seem to be frozen mid-death. They’re not quite dead, but bloody-well not alive either."

He shuddered, closing his eyes for a moment. "Scant mercy. What else?"

It seemed I’d been the perfect choice for this task. And here I had thought myself the last magus they would ever entrust with official Arcanum work. Ancient tales of hoary old tyrants still lurked in people’s nightmares.

As the bodies were not quite dead, with a bit of luck their minds might still be readable. I crouched down and pressed a finger to the man’s forehead, trying to ignore the stink of corrupt magic. I had never encountered something so foul, but I recognised the source; every magus was trained to.

"Blood sorcery," I whispered.

"Damn,” Meldrum said. “Burn it all, that is the last thing I need."

The first victim’s mind was like glass, my probes unable to find much purchase. It was usually a simple task to read mundanes, like netting fish of thoughts. I carefully felt my way in. His mind was frozen, a record of his last moments. A woman’s skin, soft under his hands. Lust. Confusion. Fear. Pain. A glimpse of her face, twisted in dark ecstasy.

The others yielded similarly rotten fruit.

I straightened up, back killing me. The two sick-looking wardens eyed me warily, as if I were a venomous snake reared to strike. I pulled a silver coin from my sleeve and flicked it out into their snatching hands. "Go get a drink, lads. Be back in half an hour." They couldn’t wait to get out of this abattoir.

Meldrum waited until they were out of earshot. "How much will this hurt, Walker?"

I chewed on my lip, looked him right in the eye. “Do you want justice, or to keep your arse out of the fire?"

"So, it is like that. Nobility or Arcanum?"

"Nobility.” The lesser of two disastrous options. Not that the two weren’t intertwined in some weird sexual union, each trying to shaft the other.

He broke eye contact, mulling it over while staring at the seven dismembered men. He sighed. "Justice."

I hated to admit it, but his answer didn’t surprise me. “Lady Ilea, head of High House Graske.”

He rubbed his forehead and I could almost feel his headache beginning. "Damn and blast," he said, echoing my own feelings on the matter, but with less odious bodily functions and rabid animals. He considered me gutter-scum, but knew me well enough to realise I wasn’t joking.

We stood in silent dread until the two wardens returned to keep an eye on the alley, then hastily made our way up the hill and through the gatehouse to the Old Town.

Meldrum insisted on stopping at his barracks to wash and change before daring to darken the doorways of a High House. He was right, but that didn’t stop me bitching about it—Ilea had murdered seven men, so I wasn’t inclined to be polite; I would have happily trailed chunks of congealed corpse and chicken shit through their halls. Still, Meldrum had enough clout to make life difficult for me if I didn’t do things his way.

I scratched at the starched collar of my borrowed shirt, feeling out of place in the pure white linen and high-necked grey warden jacket he’d foisted on me. Meldrum’s formal uniform was all pressed and crisp, oiled black leather boots and brass buttons sparkling even on a dingy afternoon. I got into the right mindset for my role as official lackey: chest puffed out, deliberate movements, cold eyes and colder hearts, and not one iota of imagination. I snapped off a crisp salute. "Ready, Sir!"

He scowled, then smoothed out his moustache, checked and re-sheathed the sword at his hip. He insisted on doing this on the low-down, all quiet and subtle instead of men charging into the seat of High House and detaining everybody. I had thought Meldrum was having apoplexy when I suggested it. Instead we would first have a quiet word with the head of the house, Lady Ilea. It was almost like he didn’t entirely trust me…

We made our way west along wide streets lined with marble columns and ornate facades. As we drew closer to our destination the buildings grew older, grimmer, the ornate palaces of the merely rich giving way to the older, brooding fortresses of the High Houses. Finally we reached the immaculate gardens surrounding House Grakse.

Rumour held that beneath the ancient five-story house of black basalt secret tunnels burrowed deep into the rock. As a child I had once been trapped in the catacombs below the city. I shuddered on the inside, hoping that no trace of my fear made its way out onto my mask of official lackey. I stamped down old terrors and focused on the building ahead. Pitted gargoyles leered down from the spires and buttresses, drooling rainwater, not at all sinister.

"So what’s the dirt on Graske?" I said, voice sounding surprisingly calm as we marched to great iron-bound doorway. “I know Lady Ilea recently became head of the house. Don’t know much else about her. We don’t exactly move in the same rarefied circles.”

Meldrum was fidgeting and starting to sweat. The prospect of arresting the head of High House could do that to you. "Lady Ilea is mageborn,” he said. “Some small talent with healing magics, but not Gifted enough for entry to the Arcanum. Otherwise she was the perfect child. Perhaps too perfect. There have been unpleasant whispers, but until now I had thought them to be the usual nonsense spread by circling sharks looking to marry into money and position, however diminished.” Even I knew that Graske’s power and influence had crumbled. Still, the old Houses would close ranks to crush everything that disrespected their names.

I couldn’t care less for dirty politics between nobles and mages, but with the Lord of a High House dying gossip was everywhere. The simple truth was that even mages a damn sight more powerful than me could trip and break their necks falling down stairs. It was stupid and it was humbling, so of course people invented vile conspiracies. If blood sorcery hadn’t been involved I would not even have considered the official route. There were ways and means to fix such thorny problems, and I was more dangerous than the Arcanum could ever know.

Meldrum was out of his depth, treading dangerous, shark-infested waters, and he knew it. Only stubborn pride kept him moving forward. He was nervous and fearful when he needed to be focused, angry even. I was good at making people angry. "All I remember about Ilea,” I said, “is that she had a nice arse.”

He spun, stabbed a finger at me. "Do not piss me about, Walker. If you let your vile tongue run free in there, they will have your head on a spike. And I will help them. You will keep your mouth shut and follow my lead. Are we clear?"

I lifted my hands, mimicked offense. "Me? I’m the very definition of respectable. I’m shocked you would even imply such boorish behaviour." His eyes narrowed and I rolled mine. "Fine."

He shot me silent threat as we reached the door. He thumped a expensive brass door knocker that had the face of a constipated lion. I slipped in line behind him, looking all dangerous and professional-like.

A dull-eyed maidservant opened the door. She looked at us without visible emotion, body language telling me nothing, which—after recent exertions—made my Gift itch to crack open her mind. I didn’t like not being able to read people. But that way was a slippery slope: if now, then why not next time; why not a little mental adjustment here and there, just small things…at first…until soon it would be difficult, maybe even impossible to stop. That way led madness, addiction, and death. Or worse.

"Captain Meldrum of the Wardens," he said. "We are here to see Lady Ilea Graske on official business."

The maidservant ushered us in to an opulent reception hall. At the far wall a swordsman in chain hauberk and fancy red cloak stood guard by a door, his back straight, eyes fixed, unmoving as any statue. The nobility lived in another world from me, all marble columns, imported Ahramish rugs, and servants arranged like furniture. Any one of the tapestries or paintings that adorned these walls could have fed an entire Docklands tenement for their whole damn lives. The maidservant shuffled through the guarded doorway.

The guard barely seemed alive he was so still. I leant in close to Meldrum. "Don’t these folk seem a bit off to you?" He glared at me. I shut up. Tempting as it was to open up my Gift and search for signs of blood sorcery, this was a High House and they always had sniffers employed to sense any use of magic—better to keep that particular loaded dice up my sleeve.

Eventually Ilea herself appeared in the doorway, tall and willowy, wearing a green silk dress that complimented long glossy red hair. Her eyes had dark circles below them that powders did little to hide, and she had that sort of exhausted look common to people with tortured consciences, of people with something to hide. Much like myself. Nor did she have young children running her ragged day and night.

"My Lady Ilea," Meldum said in his best courtly voice, lacking all the harsh tones he reserved for me; not that I blamed him—it was my fault he felt that way, even though he couldn’t remember why. He bowed to her. I followed suit in a clumsy attempt at etiquette.

"Captain Meldrum," she replied, a vague smile on her lips, her eyes a touch too wide and staring. "It has been too long since we last danced. Lady Barton’s ball I believe. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?" She ignored me utterly. I was just part of the furniture.

Meldrum cleared his throat, glancing at the swordsman. "My lady, perhaps we should discuss this in private." Something flickered behind her gaze, too quick to catch. Fear? Excitement?

She led us past the silent, motionless guard, through the door and down a hallway. The building was deserted when it should have been bustling with servants. She stopped at a heavy iron-bound door and fitted a key into the lock. “I must pay my respects to my dear father and then I will do whatever you require.” Meldrum nodded stiffly.

The door swung open to reveal a room with a stone staircase in the centre spiralling down into darkness. I swallowed, not liking it one bit. She waved Meldrum through. I glared a warning at him but the idiot didn’t even think twice, courtly politeness requiring him to accept her invitation. The fool definitely did not trust my words. Me, I trusted nobility about as much as feral dogs. There was no way I would risk her slamming the door behind me, locking us in hated darkness.

"After you, my lady," I said, holding back the heavy door. She lifted a flickering lantern from a wall hook and stepped past me, a beguiling floral scent in her wake. I wedged a coin between door and jamb to keep it open, and then followed her in. She led us down winding stairs. Down and down, further than I had thought, further than I had feared. The stairs finally opened out into a large cavern hewn from the black rock below Old Town. Lanterns and glow-gems on stands cast small circles of light to dull my terror. Even so, I was starting to sweat at the thought of a mountain of rock pressing down on me. My armoury of coping tactics did little to calm me.

The crypt was old and vast, hundreds of elaborate urns containing the ashes of her ancestors lining the walls. Every magus was destined to burn. Magic filled us, in flesh, blood, and bone and it could live on after death. Either that or end up sold by black traders of bone and blood. Ilea walked deeper into the darkness. An uneasiness washed through me—a hint of magic in use.

The clink of a coin tumbling down the stairwell caused me to look back—just in time to hear the echoing boom of the heavy door slamming shut. I knew it would be locked. The hairs on the back of my neck rose.

Ilea approached a high-backed wooden throne becoming visible in her lantern-light. "They have come," she said. "Just as I said they might, Father."

I shot Meldrum a glance. "Father? I thought—" His horrified expression caused my eyes to snap forward. Ilea knelt down by the side of the chair. A naked man sat there, his mismatched body covered in a patchwork of neatly stitched wounds. The limbs and torso were smooth with youth whereas the aged and stern face was framed by straggly grey hair. She stared up at him with adoring eyes. His hand lifted to stroke her cheek.

Oh. Cockrot.

Lord Graske’s eyelids slid back, revealing pits of septic green light. Unbound magic churned in the empty sockets.

Meldrum gagged. "Dear gods, she must have bribed a Keeper to look away while she stole the head. They cremated a headless corpse."

She smiled. "Arranged at tremendous expense, but gold holds no lustre without my beloved father at my side."

She had used blood sorcery and dark rituals to build him a new body, but it was not her father anymore, nor was it even human; it was merely a revenant host for the Worm of Magic, a puppet on magical strings going through the motions of memory. It took all the willpower I had not to piss myself and run off screaming.

I opened my Gift wide, drawing in power. A miasma of magical corruption filled the room like a palpable entity, a rotting thing with writhing tendrils of despair. The was that it wasn’t an alien thing, but darkness born of all too human loss and pain. It forcing needles of pain into my Gifted mind. The urge to vomit slid up my throat. My guts churned, body screaming danger even as the Worm of Magic whispered salvation if only I would just give in.

I struggled to focus on Ilea. “How many have you murdered for that thing?” I said, voice cracking.

She shrugged. “Their weak flesh wears out so very quickly. The servants were not enough, so I procured more in Docklands. What does it matter, nobody will miss their sort.” She looked at me, eyes feverish, smile crazed. "Father needs flesh. He says that yours should last longer.”

My mental feelers reached out. Her thoughts crawled with the corruptions of blood sorcery. Its dark influence writhed between her and the revenant along an umbilical of magic, an old connection put in place long before Lord Graske’s death.

"Such a dutiful daughter," The revenant croaked, stroking her head with a jerking hand.

"You shall not take him from me." She hissed, pulling a small knife from a hidden sheathe somewhere inside her dress. Thick milky fluid glistened along the edge. Poison.

I growled. "Beyond twisted." I gathered my power and punched into her mind. It wasn’t difficult; her resistance to outside influence was already corroded away to nothing. She slumped down unconscious. Her lantern clattered to the floor, flickering fitfully, light dimming.

Meldrum drew his sword. He darted forward without hesitation, blade arcing towards the revenant’s head.

It surged upright, eyes flaring, arm lifting to block the blow. Meldrum’s blade hacked down, leaving a bloodless wound and the limb hanging by shreds of muscle and skin. It ignored the damage and leapt at him, yellowed teeth going for his throat. The revenant slammed into him, knocking him to the floor. They rolled, the revenant coming up on top. Somehow Meldrum managed to get his sword between the thing’s jaws. Teeth squealed along steel as he held it back from his face with blind panic more than skill.

I swallowed my fear and charged. The thing was patchwork mishmash, held together by little more than stitches; I hoped. My boot slammed into its head. Pain lanced through my foot. It didn’t fly off as I’d hoped, but the revenant did roll aside. Its eyes locked onto my own and a whirlpool of despair sucked me into abyssal gaze.

The dark closed in, tonnes of rock, crushing terror. My grip on magic slipped, the pillars of control cracked and beginning to crumble. I sagged, shaking with the effort of keeping my Gift from tearing open.

Gods burn it; I wasn’t a terrified child anymore! I refused to succumb to blind gibbering fear. I was piss-poor at vulgar magic. I gritted my teeth and forced my magic into tortured, unnatural forms, howling as I channelled a gust of elemental air. The lantern skidded across the floor into the thing’s face. Then came elemental fire—distilled pain—roaring through me into the wick, as much as I could take. Fire flared up to engulf the abomination, for a second, before the strain broke my control. I staggered back clutching my head, after-effects exploding in my mind. The revenant hissed, rising to its feet, hair and stitches alight, skin charring. It fixed churning pits of mindless hate on me and leapt.

Oh sh—

Meldrum’s sword flashed, crunched through vertebrae below its skull. The flaming body crumpled to the floor. The head, still horribly alive, bounced, once, twice, and came to a stop facing us, mouthing obscenities.

We paused for breath, exchanging looks in the dim light. "Be my guest," I gasped between pants of pain. The body twitched, starting to rise again.

I looked away and moments later came the crunch of sword through skull. Two dozen blows to make sure. By the time I looked back, all that was left of the late Lord Graske was smeared across the floor. The body didn’t move again, but with the head gone fluids started gushing from the wounds like a burst wineskin

Meldrum cursed, words more commonly heard in Docklands taverns. I hadn’t known he’d had that in him.

"The High Houses will be in an uproar," he said. "Not to mention the Arcanum." He snarled, punching Lord Graske’s throne over. "They will be furious. By evening this scandal will be all over the city." He looked down at Ilea. "The trial alone will be a nightmare. But Justice has to be done."

I couldn’t have that, couldn’t afford to make enemies of the High Houses. While on the surface they’d back our actions, we would still have sullied their good name, and that kind of thing was not forgotten or forgiven. Normally I would be cheering him on, more than willing to see all those vaunted names dragged through shit, but Meldrum, for all his faults, wasn’t a complete bastard. He didn’t deserve the shitstorm coming his way. More importantly, I was too involved this time. Some of that storm would be coming my way and I was already on my last legs as far as the Arcanum was concerned. No, it was better for everybody if this situation just went away.

I reached for Meldrum’s arm. He knew what I was and what I could do. He swayed out of reach and the point of his sword lifted towards my face. "What are you—"

But I didn’t need to touch him. His eyes glazed over as I slipped into his mind like I was fitting on an old glove; it was far from first time I had done this after all. The first time I had been young, just getting to grips with my power, and I messed it up, left fragments behind in a cack-handed attempt to cover my trail. No wonder the sight of me roused his ire—part of his subconscious still knew that I was dangerous, and even though those memories had been altered or scrubbed out I couldn’t seem to get rid of it all.

What to do with Ilea? Five days from now she could experience an overwhelming urge to jump from the tallest window. Her mind was probably too far gone, ruined by blood sorcery. A mercy, surely.

It would have been so easy. If only she hadn’t been yet another victim, one of her father’s making. I cursed and went to work on Ilea and Meldrum: adjusting memories, weaving a new narrative, something believable and innocuous. This was exactly the sort of thing that other mages feared, and why the Arcanum watched me for any misstep. Luckily they all thought I was just a wastrel and a drunk. I appeared to be as far from those tyrants of legend as was possible. It kept me alive.

Lord Graske was dead and gone, had been since the cremation. No blood sorcery or revenants. All we were doing was returning a stolen brooch that Meldrum found on one of the corpses and had identified as Ilea’s. Nothing worthy of any real examination, in fact everybody would actively avoid dwelling on it.

Meldrum didn’t pose much of a problem, but locking away Ilea’s memories of the murders and cutting away the corruption took longer than I feared. Her father’s deeply ingrained and twisted compulsions proved especially tenacious. By the time it was finished I was drenched in sweat and teetering on the edge of losing control. Even with this there was no guarantee she would ever be entirely sane. I would have to keep an eye on her.

I was taking no chances with her father. I opened an old sarcophagus and tossed all the body parts in, then took a spare oil lantern from the wall and torched the lot. When the flames died away I slid the stone lid back into place. Nobody would ever find his remains.

Ilea led us out, all a-daze.

At the front door she blinked and came back to herself, smiled and held out a hand for Meldrum to kiss. "I find myself very glad that you were on duty, my good Sir," she said. “Thank you for returning my brooch.”

Meldrum kissed her hand and then we were off, heading back down into the lower city. He turned a suspicious eye on me. "I knew you’d be useless. We have not found any leads on these murders." He noticed me shaking and sweating, and turned away in disgust. "Away and crawl back into your ale-cup. Why they sent you I shall never know." He snorted and strode off.

Why indeed. A sick sense of dread oozed over me. Who would send an uncouth wastrel like me when Meldrum had asked for a seer to tease answers from the stones? I didn’t think it blind chance. Somebody high up had been on to Ilea. But was that somebody also on to me? I decided to take Meldrum’s advice and head off in search of a drink. The stronger the better.

The Shadow Under Scotland

Orginally published by The Lovecraft eZine

Morag rammed her dirk into the tabletop and rose to glower down at the wiry old man in highland plaid opposite. His bushy beard quivered with anger, hand dropping to the basket-hilted broadsword at his hip.

In the sudden silence a burning log cracked and shifted in the fireplace, spraying a cloud of sparks out into the Gloaming Inn’s front room.

Her calloused hand slammed down and she leaned forward to look him in the eye. Weather-beaten and hardened by toil, she was well used to handling her unruly flock, and bending this skinny old fool over her knee would pose no problem. "You’re a lying swine, Ewan MacDonald," she said. "And if you draw that sword I’ll take it off you and spank you with it. Still sore I wouldn’t marry you eh?"

He scowled, hand switching to adjust his plaids. The length of finest wool wrapped around his waist and pinned over his shoulder had been enough to suit the barrel-chested Ewan of thirty years ago, but now it just made the old fool seem lost amongst all that cloth.

"I don’t have your damned sheep, you thieving slattern,” he roared, spittle flying. “And just where have my cows gone? You tell me that! Did the faeries spirit them away during yesterday’s storm? I might be old, but I’ll be damned if I let an ugly old boot of a woman talk to me this way. I must have been mad to consider you."

Just as it seemed likely they would come to blows, from behind the bar Big John the innkeeper noisily cleared his throat. The hulking bald man stared at the knife buried in his table. "Are you going to pay for that then, Morag?"

She flushed, shot a smug-faced Ewan a look of distilled death, then wrenched the dirk from the wood. "Aye, I will."

Big John glowered at them both like they were unruly children. "If you are going to have a stramash then you take it outside. I won’t be clearing up blood and teeth; I can tell you that for—"

The front door slammed open.

Chill evening air gusted in as Calum Cameron staggered through, scarred face white as a sheet, a blood-drenched young Bessie Stewart looking as lifeless as a rag doll in his arms.

Morag gasped. “Lay the lass down on the table.” Calum set her down and she checked the girl’s pulse while he slumped down into a chair, panting for breath.

Big John reached under his counter, pulled out a cup and bottle of whisky, then limped over, wincing with ever step, to set it down in front of Calum and pour out a big dram.

Calum gulped the alcohol down in a single swallow, coughing as it burned a trail down his throat. "I was visiting my mam’s grave up at the auld kirk," he said. "Found Bessie atop what was left of St Columba’s cross. It must have cracked and fallen during yesterday’s storm. There’s…blood all over the churchyard.” He fished out a red knotted cord from beneath his shirt, his mother’s old charm against the evil eye. He held onto it for dear life and crossed himself for good measure.

Morag loosened the thong around Bessie’s neck that held a cheap iron cross. She pressed an ear to the girl’s chest, then checked her all over. “Not a scratch on her. Just fainted is all.”

Calum loosed a shuddering sigh. “Thank the Lord for that. I saw all that blood and thought the worst.”

Ewan put a hand on Calum’s shoulder. “What the devil happened up there?”

Calum shook his head. “If it’s not the girl’s blood, then what about the priest?” His eyes widened. “Wait, didn’t the lass birth a wee babe just two months back? She’d surely not have left him behind.”

Big John shivered. “You don’t think—”

“Don’t say it man,” Morag interrupted. “Not until we know one way or the other.”

A grim mood descended. Calum stood, charm still clutched in shaking hand. “Best we head on up there then. John, I never thought I’d have to say this, but…" He stared longingly at the bottle of whisky.

"I need my sword back."

Big John limped over to the back wall, unlocked the store room and began rummaging about inside. A minute later he came back with a long oilcloth bundle, dumped it down and cut the twine to reveal two basket-hilted broadswords in battered leather sheathes.

Calum slipped his hand into the steel guard of one of the broadswords, drew it and held it up to the light. He took a few practice swings. His arm seemed to remember the ways to kill a man all too easily. He stared at his old sword with obvious mixed feelings. Morag knew more than one man had died on that blade when the village men had signed up to fight the Border Reivers. That could not be an easy thing to face again.

Ewan drew his own sword, trying to look like he knew what he was doing, and failing. He licked his lips nervously. “Well, laddie, best we head off before night falls.”

Morag picked up the second sword. It felt lighter in her hand than killing steel had any right to be. She threw a few practice cuts, succeeding in putting Ewan to shame. Her late husband had been a fierce swordsman, before the pox claimed him. “Big John’s gout is flaring up,” she said. “So he can stay back and look after Bessie. You’ll not be going up there without me.”

She stared defiantly at Ewan as he opened his mouth to object. Then he closed it, shrugged, and said, “Aye, I expect we won’t.

“Best bar the doors until we get back,” she said.

Big John leant back behind his counter and pulled out an iron-bound club. “Nobody will be getting past me. You be taking care of yourself now.”

She snorted. “Any robber that lays a hand of me will find himself a gelding.”

The auld kirk that crouched atop the peak of the hill had been there longer than anybody knew, far longer than the village. It was a squat, ugly building, its insides carved all over with ancient images worn away to near-illegibility. The new priest, Father Ainsley, had been getting Bessie to sweep the place out and lay fresh heather every week before services, and lately it had seemed to lose some of its ill-favoured aspect. By the time they had climbed high enough to see it silhouetted against the dusky sky, Ewan was red-faced and puffing. The moon was full, yellow-tinged like old wax, and twilight gifted the purple heathered hills an otherworldly air.

The crosspiece of the old Celtic cross lay flat on the grass, splintered stump still jutting from blackened earth. Local legend said that the cross had been carved by St Columba’s own two hands just before he’d headed off up the great glen and down the river Ness to rebuke the loathsome beast o’the loch. The grass was charred in a circle five paces wide around the fallen cross.

"Lightning maybe," Ewan said.

A squealing noise from inside the old church. They spun, blades lifting, and crept towards the kirk. A feeling of being watched raised goose bumps on Morag’s arms, but the hill was deserted, just wind, grass, sheep droppings, and withered gorse bush for company. The old oak door was splintered and hanging from a single hinge. It squealed with each gust of wind. But that wasn’t the relief it should have been—dried blood and stinking gobbets of flesh had spattered across the doorway.

The hall had been ripped apart. Pews lay in splintered piles, crosses broken, cushions torn and bleeding feathers. Shredded brown-stained pages of the holy bible swirled in the breeze like a flock of carrion birds over pools of gore. The church silver lay untouched—and unstolen—in the ruins of the pulpit.

Morag crossed herself. "Who, or what, could have done this black deed?

“Wolves?" Ewan suggested, staring at the silver.

"The Devil’s work, so it is," Calum replied.

Morag pointed to a rust-red stain that smeared up the aisle to the altar stone tumbled onto its side, then disappeared down into a black space beneath.

“Looks like some sort of crypt,” Ewan said.

Morag found the church candles in an alcove behind the altar and recovered the priest’s flint and tinder box from the piles of debris. She sparked a fire, then handed them a fat candle each. They peered down into the gap. Narrow stone stairs descended into darkness, crudely cut from the solid rock beneath the kirk.

Calum edged away from the steps. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Ewan snorted. “Superstitious fool. A couple of starved brigands have taken root down there. Or a madman perhaps. I say we go down and flush them out."

"Fine," Calum said. "Don’t listen to me then." He stepped back, swung out an inviting arm. "Be my guest."

Ewan hesitated, but found himself caught by his own pride. He led the way as they descended in silence, step by careful step deep into the bones of the hill for what seemed like an age, the only sound the drip, drip, drip of water and the scuff of boot on stone. Niches hacked into the rock held grinning human skulls, but they quickly realised that the steps went far too deep for any crypt. Finally Ewan stumbled to a stop, the rhythm of descent broken by solid stone floor underfoot.

A moist warm breeze waxed and waned from somewhere ahead, caressing their faces like some sleeping giant’s breath. It reeked of stagnant pond choked with weed, one long since gone to mould and rot. Deeper darkness lurked beyond an archway carved all over with leering grotesque faces, each with a single staring eye where there should be two. Man-sized footprints crossed the dusty floor through the arch and then returned. A set of smaller prints made by bare feet followed the tracks.

Morag squatted down to examine the prints. "I’d say the smaller ones are more recent. A woman or a youngster.”

They moved onwards, finding themselves in a large natural cavern. Stalactites and stalagmites glistened in the candlelight, giving Morag the disquieting image of being inside some great beast’s maw. A pit gaped in the centre of the cavern, torn spider webs and trailing slimy moss shivering in the warm air that welled up from its black depths. Rubble and rotted wood circled the pit, and the rusted remnants of an iron grate lay off to one side.

Morag padded over. She carefully set down her candle and picked up a piece of carved stone the size of her hand. The dust around it was covered in boot prints. She ran her fingertips over the carvings, discovered bright edges from a fresh breakage.

"Looks like part of a cross," she said. "A smaller copy of St Columba’s above.”

A metallic glint from the stone caught Morag’s eye. She looked closer, scratched at the break with a dirty fingernail. "It has iron running through it. A queer sort of stone, this." She looked up to see Ewan and Calum staring at the walls beyond the pit.

The chamber’s walls had been carved and painted with a riot of symbols and images. Many were recognisably Christian but others seemed to be older pagan images and symbols. They hurt the eye, somehow seemed unsettling, unwholesome even. The Christian crosses overlaid the older cracked and faded images, and some areas of the wall had been gouged out entirely by hammer and chisel.

Morag dropped the fragment of cross, then ran her fingers down a series of lines incised into the wall. She’d seen old Pictish standing stones carved with similar lines and images—an ancient dead language some said. The paintings showed howling horse-headed kelpies dragging men below churning waters, and a sequence showed a dragon chasing down a group of people, then gulping them down its gullet. A stranger image still showed a one-eyed wizened crone climbing from, or into, a well with a pair of babies clutched in the crook of her skeletal arms.

“This is no damn crypt,” Calum hissed. “We’re in a faerie mound or a bloody pagan temple.”

“What rot,” Ewan said. “I grant its oddness, but that’s just peasant superstition. What else could it be?”

Calum barked a laugh. “Are you blind? It’s the old gods and the old ways. Look at the walls, man! This is where a cult tore out men’s hearts, and sacrificed babies to dread gods.”

Ewan sneered, opened his mouth to reply—

A shrill cry echoed up from the pit, drawing all eyes to the slick, dark hole.

“What was that?” Calum whispered.

The reek of rot washed up from the pit with the rhythmic exhalation of moist, warmer air. In the feeble candlelight the bottom was barely visible. It was no pit in truth, but the opening to another cave leading deeper still into the earth. They exchanged glances, then scanned the surrounding darkness.

A baby’s unmistakable cry wailed up from the depths.

"We can’t let the old stories scare us into believing in Bogles and Redcaps," Morag said. “And I know the lore as well as any." Her words said one thing but she suspected her pale face showed another. She sat, slipping her legs over the edge of the pit. "Lower me down.” She clamped the Broadsword between her teeth, freeing up her hands for Ewan and Calum to grab hold of. The men’s faces grew red with strain as they eased her down into the pit—she was no skinny little slip of a girl.

Her feet thumped down, snapping and crushing dry sticks beneath her. A horrid thought coalesced in her mind. "Give me a candle!"

She stretched up for the flickering candle, swallowed, and then looked down. Bones. She stood in a pile of animal bones. They’d all been stripped clean of flesh and cracked open to get at the marrow. "Found your cows, Ewan. My sheep too.” As she looked around she realised that there were far too many bones. Some still glistened with viscous fluids, but most were old and brittle.

She slipped. The candle fell, snuffed out, plunging her into darkness. Her heart thudded with sudden panic. She heard noises in the cave, bones shifting. “Quick! Give me another candle.”

"I’m coming," Calum said, sliding down. In an attempt to keep his candle and sword from dropping, he landed awkwardly and fell into the pile of bones. He lurched upright, panting, face beaded with sweat, swinging his sword to face every shadow cast by the flickering candles.

Something caught on her boot. She reached down, hissed, snatching her hand back. A human skull gaped at her, the side caved in. It was still slick with juices.

“Oh, Lord,” Calum said, staring.

"Calm yourself, laddie," she said. "Take a deep breath. We’ll not be leaving that poor wee lamb down here."

He took a deep shuddering breath. "I’ll not have a Macpherson say they’re braver than a Cameron!" he said, voice wavering with false bravado.

"You stay up there, Ewan," Morag said. "We’ll use your stupidly long plaids as a rope to climb out. Seems you did have a lick of sense about you after all."

Ewan blustered and moaned but faced by the practicalities there wasn’t much he could do about it. "Ach. Fine," he said. "You take care of her, Calum."

Calum grunted. Morag swore she could have almost heard him mutter that "The big ugly besom would be better taking care of me. Break an angry ram’s neck, so she would." She didn’t take offense. She’d never had a gaggle of men clamouring for her hand in marriage, and didn’t care one bit, but she did take pride in being as tough as old boots. She’d stare down a hungry wolf to protect her sheep, and stave the beast’s head in if she had to. And Calum Cameron knew that fine well.

His mouth twitched into a lopsided grin as lifted his sword in salute. "You coming?"

"Aye, I am,” she said. “You cheeky wee boy." Their joviality was forced, and dropped away as they picked their way down a narrow tunnel carpeted with bones, Calum having to stoop to avoid hitting his head. They followed the baby’s infrequent cries deeper into the cave, wincing with each clatter and crunch of bone underfoot. Darkness eventually gave way to a sickly green half-light, phosphoresce emanating from some sort of rotting mould that grew up the walls and clustered in crevices like burst boils weeping pus. The tunnel finally opening up, allowing Calum to stand straight.

An eerie melodious crooning whispered on the air, coming from just around the next bend in the cave. Morag exchanged glances with Calum, wondering if she looked as frightened as he did. A baby giggled, and that singsong voice began to trill a wordless melody of haunting beauty that resonated in the very depths of her soul. Other voices joined in chorus.

Morag’s eyelids drooped closed. She listened for what seemed like an age, praying for the song to never end. It called to her on some primal level, a lullaby warmth to sooth her aches and fears, and bear her aloft on half-forgotten dreams. As the song’s pitch rose, the melody quickened and some sixth sense—maybe a tough old boot of a shepherdess’ instinctive sense of danger to her flock—wrenched open her eyes. Calum’s eyes had glazed over, his jaw hung slack and his sword lay forgotten on the floor—beside her own. Both candles lay dead and cold on the stone. He jerked as the unseen voices hit a high note, his whole body spasmed, and then he darted forward.

Morag made a grab for his sleeve, but she was groggy from the effects of that strange song, and far too slow. He slipped past her, round the bend and out of sight. She lifted a hand to her forehead, finding herself burning up as she tried to blink away bleary vision. It was hard to see straight, hard to think. So tempting just to lie down and drift away into dreams…

She sucked in her cheek and bit down hard. Pain scoured away the mental fog.

She picked up her sword and ran after Calum as the song reached a crescendo. Then it cut off. She found herself at the entrance to a grand gallery with massive spikes of pulsing crystalline growths hanging from darkened heights. A luminescent lake filled the centre, hidden tides making the water slosh and gurgle. Hundreds of holes pitted every wall like she was inside some vast insect hive.

A handful of paces to the right, a baby started shrieking from a hollow carved into a great altar of black basalt. His soft pink flesh was slick with grey slime but otherwise blessedly unharmed. She started as the corner of her eye caught a glimpse of several large spindly shadows scuttling up the walls and into tunnels above.

Calum was on his knees at the feet of an emaciated, naked old woman. She bowed over him as if they were inexplicably kissing, faces hidden from view by the hag’s waist-length curtain of tangled white hair. The hag’s teats were shrivelled things against her protruding rib cage, but Calum’s hands groped with disturbing gusto. An eerie song emanated from the old crone, her gnarled hands lifting to cup his face with cracked yellowed fingernails more like talons.

"Calum!" Morag gasped.

The hag’s head lifted with a wet slurp, the ragged curtain of hair shifted aside. A single luminous golden eye leered out at her from the centre of the woman’s face. The crone straightened to her full height, Calum still on his knees, eyes closed, a look of sublime and complete joy on his face. Blood dribbled from a series of small puncture marks around his face.

The hair on the back of Morag’s neck rose. "What in God’s name are you?" Blood thumped in her ears as she advanced. "Get away from them, you foul creature."

The hag screeched, a feeling like a nail being driven into Morag’s skull, then leapt forward, hair flying back to reveal a horror of a face. Below that single great eye, the thing had a boneless sack of hide that opened out into a cone of quivering flesh studded with hundreds of tiny razor-teeth. Its maw looked like it could strip the flesh from a bone in seconds, and now it was spread to envelop Morag’s entire face.

Her broadsword whistled through the air. The thing’s flesh moved like water, flowing and sliding out of the way. It darted out of range quick as any fish. Morag realised her right arm stung. She glanced down to find red furrows raked in her flesh. Numbness spread from the wounds.

It crouched down on all fours, face hidden behind matted hair, tilting its head to study her, crooning softly. Morag’s head spun. The sword clattered to the floor, her arm gone limp. The creature cackled in an all too human way and something wormed itself into Morag’s mind, like cold fingers inside her skull. Adbertos?

She knew that old Celtic word: it meant a sacrifice.

Morag purposely wobbled on her feet, made her eyes glaze over to exaggerate the effects of its poison. The thing crabbed towards her and when she didn’t react it stretched that huge maw open, leaned forward.

With her other hand, Morag pulled her dirk from her belt and rammed the iron blade through the thing’s face-mouth. It squealed like a stuck pig, flesh hissing where iron touched flesh, then staggered back, pulling the blade from Morag’s hand.

"I’ll give you a sacrifice all right," Morag said, grabbing a hold of the thing’s hair. She yanked it forward to meet a head butt. Her forehead crushed its golden eye in a spray of ichor. A deathly shriek echoed through the cave, waking even Calum from his stupor. She let go and slammed a fist into it. “Your eye’s the sacrifice, you stinking old hag.” The thing squealed, flesh bubbling and cracking. It twitched, loosed one last scream, then lay still.

From hidden crevices and the entrances to dark tunnels a hundred baleful golden eyes blinked into life. More of them crawled from dark crevices and ledges—spindly limbs bending all wrong—and scuttled down the walls. The wailing of uncountable inhuman voices echoed throughout the vast cavern, combining into a single hateful shriek that held nothing of that earlier lullaby beauty.

The luminous lake water churned and heaved, some leviathan stirring beneath. A stench of rotting flesh clogged her nose as writhing tentacles burst from the surface. She wanted to run and hide, to cry and curl up into a ball, but some instinctive animal horror rooted her to the spot as the waters sloughed off a vast and oozing body.

"Run!" Calum screamed, scooping up the sleeping baby and staggering towards her. She didn’t need telling twice, tore her eyes away from the cavern boiling over with those ghastly things, and ran for her life.

As she lurched around the corner. Calum skidded to a stop. "Damnation," he cursed. "The sword!" He darted back.

The shrieking stopped, plunging the cavern into abrupt silence. Something vast and heavy slammed into walls. The cave shuddered around her, causing her to lose her footing and clutch the wet and luminous rock for support. The sound of crashing water and a stinking warm gust of moist air washed over her. With it came a crushing presence in the back of her mind, like being plunged into an icy loch.

Calum screamed; half hysterical laughter, half gut-wrenching naked terror. He lurched round the corner, sword point scraping along the floor behind him. His jaw hung slack, quivering strings of drool hanging from his chin. His eyes were wide and staring, leaking tears.

He shook his head violently. "Guh, n-n-no, the writhing god. The t-thing in the lake…" He cackled and slammed his face against the rock wall, began sobbing. He scraped his face along the wall, leaving a bloody smear.

Morag grabbed his by the collar and pulled him away. He stared at her through bloody tears, eyes glazed and uncomprehending. "We have to get this wee baby back to his mother," she said.

He slowly looked down at the baby blinking sleepily in the crook of his arm. A hint of sanity flickered back into his eyes.

Some vast bulk shifted in the cavern, and a morbid impulse made her turn to look back. She tried to move past him, had to see.

He barred her way. "Don’t." The horrified expression on his face buried any inclinations otherwise.

The hags began wailing again, and this time the stone drummed with hundreds of malformed feet. The two of them ran for the pit, heads bowed low as they crunched through the carpet of bones. Morag snatched up Calum’s discarded sword with her working hand. As old faerie lore said, iron was a bane to the things chasing them. The luminous glow gradually died away, leaving them plunging ahead into darkness. A rushing tide of slapping feet, clattering bone, and screeching voices filled the cave behind them.

Finally! Light! The warm welcoming glow candleight shone down from above.

"Ewan," she shouted, "Get us the hell out of here."

Calum ran to her, stuffed the baby down the front of her dress, wedged between belt and body.

"Get that wee one out," he said, grabbing her sword and moving back to block the cave. Blood ran freely down his chin where he’d bitten through his lower lip.

A length of plaid whipped down. She grabbed a hold with her good hand. Sweat poured off her, the things were close, had to be only seconds away. "Pull, Ewan, pull," she screamed. Ewan heaved and she was up and over, back into the light.

"Get up here, laddie," Ewan said. But they were too late.

Calum spun, screaming, as a grey tide washed over him. He chopped and slashed, things hissing in pain at the slightest touch of steel. Ichor steamed from the blade as he severed gray clawed hands. "The iron grate!" he shouted, ribbons of flesh being flayed from his exposed flesh.

Morag grunted, heaving the rusted iron grate back over to the pit. It crumbled, bits coming away in her hand. She prayed it would hold. By the time she looked back Calum was being dragged backwards into the darkness. He looked up at her with terrified eyes, his face twisting in agony. With the last of his strength he plunged both swords point-first down into the mass of bone and debris. And then he was gone.

They tried to rush out after her, only to shy back from the blades that barred their path. They screamed in agony, disappeared back into the darkness.

"Mmooorrraaaggg," Calum’s voice whispered from the darkness. "Don’t leavvve me. Come save meee. I am hurt. The faerie have gone away. Quickquick."

Sobbing, Morag heaved the iron grate back over the pit. The things hissed angrily and golden eyes glimmered from the darkness beyond the upright swords.

They were imprisoned again.

But that grate was almost rusted through, and the swords wouldn’t hold them for long.

Big John swung the door open, his grin of relief stillborn at the sight of her—a bloody, bedraggled mess with a face like death. His gaze darted past Ewan, searching, then back to her. She shook her head and trudged into the bright warmth of the inn. The baby yawned and blinked in her arms.

Bessie shot to her feat, red eyes overflowing with tears. She kissed the cross that hung around her neck before taking the baby.

"Thank you," Bessie sobbed. "I don’t know what I’d have done without my wee bairn." She clutched him to her chest. He started bawling his head off and struggling.

"What happened?" Big John said.

Ewan shuddered and buried his face in his hands. "There is something unholy living in caverns beneath the hill. Things that fear iron. The old myths…"

He stared at Ewan, at the practical old man who had always scoffed at peasant superstitions. Then he took a good long look at the claw wounds in Morag’s skin. His face paled.

"There was a rusted old grate covering the pit leading to their cavern," Morag said. "Father Ainsley must have moved it." She shivered and slumped into a chair. "But it’s almost rusted through. It won’t last long. We need every bit of iron in the village."

Big John began piling up pots, pans, fire pokers, his lucky iron horseshoe that hung over the door, everything he possessed that could be pried loose. The noise must have disturbed the baby, for he started wailing at the top of his voice.

"Hush. Hush my beautiful wee bairn," Bessie murmured, rocking him in her arms. It didn’t seem to help much. She clutched the cross at her throat, sending up a prayer of thanks as the baby screamed itself hoarse.

Ewan grabbed whatever he could carry. "We’ll get this up there and, by God, we will stop those things ever seeing the light of day."

Bessie pulled the cross from around her neck and held it out to Morag. "Take it. It’s good iron."

Morag nodded her thanks and went to add it to the growing pile. The baby ceased its wailing. She stiffened, swallowed, slowly turned back, held up the iron and stepped towards the child. The baby began to bawl again. She went cold, pinpricks all over her skin.