Dark Angels

“I suppose they beat you,” said the man with tolerant scorn.

Wolf burned. He remembered the bold and powerful shapes of horse and rider tearing into the trees. How could someone like that ever understand? He burst out, “Maybe they did! But that’s not why! I’m not fit for that life. It’s like being shut up in a box. A stone box. And outside, everything’s going on — without me.”

“A stone box!” the man muttered. “Now that I can understand. Where are you running to? Home?”

“I have no home. My father’s dead.”

There was a moment of silence. They were standing in shadows as black as well water, and Wolf couldn’t see the man’s face. “Who are you, lord?” he asked, shivering.

“My name is Hugo fitz Warin.”

“Lord Hugo?” Wolf stammered slightly “Hugo of the Red M-mound?”

The man stretched his arms wide. “Hugo of the Red Mound — Hugo of La Motte Rouge — Huw of Domen Goch. See? I too can speak in tongues. Lord of everything that creeps or runs or flies between Crow Moor and Devil’s Edge. Anything else you want to know, my young wolf in shepherd’s clothing?”

Every single person at the abbey had heard of Hugo fitz Warin, troubadour and knight crusader, as famous for his love songs as for his courage. “Lord Hugo?” Wolf drew a reverent breath. “You took the Cross. You went to the Holy Land with the king and the archbishop. You fought at the siege of Acre!” And that song that had got him into so much trouble with Brother Thomas had been one of Lord Hugo’s.

“I did all those things,” the man agreed grimly, “and I’m still waiting to hear why you ran off with Argos — my dog.”

“Oh!” Wolf came out of a dream of beautiful ladies, battles, broken lances, blood-red pennants and dying Saracens. “That was because of the elf—”

The blow took him by surprise, cracking him across the side of the head. Lord Hugo seemed to grow, like a great bear bristling with black fur. “Are you making fun of me, boy?”

“No, sir!” Wolf couldn’t understand this sudden fury. He backed, rubbing his stinging ear. “The elf,” he gabbled, “the one you were hunting.”

“What elf?”

“But,” Wolf squeaked. He swallowed and began again. “I thought you’d seen it, running down the hill. Didn’t you? It was following me. And it got caught up in the hunt, like me, between the dogs and the wolves.” The recollection of his awful journey over the mountain overcame him, and he blurted everything out: “I heard the horns blowing, and I thought the Devil was coming, like the stories say. And there was this thing, bobbing about in the heather — I thought it was a demon coming after me because I’d run away from the abbey. And afterwards it must have been creeping around your fire: your dog saw it and went after it — and I went with him.”

“You snivelling little clerk,” Hugo said after a pause. “Trying to make yourself interesting by telling lies.”

“I’m not lying!” Wolf’s voice rose again.

“So where is this elf now?”

“Back there.” Wolf twisted, pointing. “In a cave under the cliff.”

“Show me.”

“But—”

“I want you to show me!”

“All right! I will!” Wolf tried to clap the lid back on his temper. It was madness to shout at this lord, who could have him hanged. He added more moderately, “Do you want to call your men, sir? They could bring torches…”

“So you can claim they scared it away? If anything’s there at all? No,” said Hugo. A heavy hand landed on Wolf’s shoulder, steering him deeper into the thicket. “We’ll do this together. And if you’ve lied to me…” Wolf heard a scrape of metal. His heart started off at a rapid scamper. Hugo had drawn his knife.

It couldn’t be far, the cave: but at first he couldn’t find it. They stumbled about, linked by Hugo’s firm grip on Wolf’s shoulder, ducking under the scratching twigs. The sky was a grainy grey above the black branches. There was a patter of rain like aerial feet running over the treetops. That could be elves. But it rattled down on them in large, cold drops.

Wolf shook with excitement. He was afraid of failure. Not just because of the knife; what really bothered him was that Hugo would think he had lied. And he hadn’t; he’d seen an elf. He forgot his doubts. Lord Hugo wanted an elf, and an elf it must be.

But he was mortally afraid of losing his way —making a fool out of this great lord, this crusader. Hugo had listened. He might be hot-tempered, he might lose patience. If he wanted, he could cut Wolf’s throat and leave him lying, and no one would ever know. But he listened. And he’s giving me a chance to show I spoke the truth. He’s rough, hut he’s fair. And here’s me, Wolf walking beside Lord Hugo of the Red Mound, looking for an elf.

It felt like something out of an old song.

They pushed onwards, upwards. The soft ground got steeper, and there was the sour, pungent smell Wolf remembered from before. His heart lifted. Here was the place, the tumbled stones at the bottom of the cliff, and the clump of nettles. He strained his eyes. And there was the cave: a black crack under a shelf of rock.

“Here,” he whispered in triumph.

“That? That’s one of the old mines.” Hugo shook his shoulder. “So where’s the elf?”

“I don’t know.” And he didn’t; in dismay he realised that the elf might have come scuttling out by now. “Somewhere inside,” he said hopefully.

“Easy to say,” Hugo began. But the greyhound, which had followed them back through the wood, let out a strangled whine and dashed past. It disappeared into the dark hole. The glimmer of its white coat went out like a snuffed candle.

“You see?” Wolf pulled free from Hugo’s hand. He scrambled over the stones and dropped on all fours, peering under the dripping lip of rock. Just past the entrance the darkness was absolute. From further in, perhaps not far, came a knock, click and rattle of tumbling rocks. And the dog barked, a flat sound like a muffled handclap.

“Splendour of God.” Hugo was close behind him. “There’s something there after all. Argos!” He leaned over Wolf, calling into the darkness. “Argos!” He whistled, but the dog didn’t come. He leaned in further. “Eluned?” he called, and Wolf was startled by the change in him. He sounded eager, desperate, imploring. “Eluned, are you there? Oh, where are you?” He listened with his whole body, as if straining for an answer, but the cave seemed to eat the sound and there wasn’t even an echo. He grabbed at Wolf.

“This elf — what was it like? Did it look like a woman?”

Wolf longed to say yes, for plainly this was what Hugo hoped to hear. “No… it looked like a child. But the face —” he shivered “— it’s all red down one side, like a dark stain.” He checked his memory. “It could be a girl, but only a very young one. A little, naked child.”

“An elf-child. A fay.” Hugo blew out a long, strained breath. “And you think it’s in there still?”

“Yes, sir. And the dog knows.”

“That could be anything. A badger.”

“I told you, I saw its face.” Its sharp, frightened face.

It began to rain properly: earnest, steady, soaking rain that would go on all night. Hugo stood, staring at the cave. “Is it possible?” It was a rough whisper, full of doubt and wonder. “That’s the gate of Elfland? That hole?”

“I’ll go in,” Wolf said impulsively. Sudden excitement boiled through him. He’d do it. He’d do anything to impress Hugo, prove himself right, show that he wasn’t a snivelling little clerk. “I’ll go in and scare it out. And I’ll find your dog. I’ll do it now.” Now — this very minute, while his blood was up — without thinking twice.

“In the dark?” Hugo’s voice rang with disbelief. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Watch this, Wolf thought. He hitched up his robe and ducked under the rim of the cave.

“Wolf…”

Wolf looked back, expecting a word of encouragement. Hugo was a black shape against the grey. “If you’ve been lying to me, don’t even think about coming back out.”

“I’ve not been lying!” Wolf said fiercely — and hit his head on the roof. “Ouch!” He blundered on. Behind him he could hear Hugo laughing.

The entrance sloped down and was too low to walk upright. It was like going downstairs at night, but stairs made for dwarfs and buried in loose rubble. He was forced to bend in half, bracing his hands against the wall, feeling for each foothold. Soon the roof got lower. He had to crawl.

It was cold and wet — cold as a fresh-dug grave. And dark! Of all the different shades of black in the wood, none had been like this. Soot black — dead black, pressing on his eyes.