Dark Angels

The ground levelled. He explored around him with his hands. Mud and gravel and heaps of stones. Shallow puddles. Something curved with sharp edges, like a broken pot. Who had left that here? And there was that smell again, that sour, foxy reek. Lord Hugo was right. This dirty hole couldn’t lead to Elfland, could it?

It must. It has to, or why would the elf be here? He listened, holding his breath. Nothing but a horrid, dripping silence. But what was that? That pattering, rustling sound?

Out of nowhere, something pushed a wet nose into his face and slipped away again. “Argos?” Wolf called, but the dog was out of reach. He crawled painfully after it, guided by the slip and splash of its paws on the wet floor. The cave went on further than he’d thought, even though the roof was so low.

His breath came quick and raw. What if elves were all around — unseen, but somehow watching him? And what if Lord Hugo got tired of waiting and went away? Or blocked up the entrance to wall him in? He screwed his neck round to look behind him, and could see nothing.

I’m lost!

No. It’s all right. Even if I can’t see it, the entrance is there, not far away. Lord Hugo won’t leave me. And of course he won’t shut me in. Not when his dog is here with me.

He rubbed his eyes, and saw floating colours, spectral greens and blues. This must be the beginning of elfish enchantments. Soon, perhaps, a weird light would blossom, and he would see—

What would he see?

Through clacking teeth he began to mutter his prayers. “Pater noster qui es in caelis…” He crept, wincing, over sharp rubble. “…sed libera nos a malo. Amen.” The familiar prayer made him feel better and safer — it was a lifeline to God. He took a calming breath and began again. “Pater noster…” How much further did this cave go? He crawled on over the cold, wet stones. “…Amen. Pater noster…”

He broke off. Somewhere just ahead, an animal was growling.

“Argos?”

And then everything happened at once. He bumped into the dog’s hindquarters, feeling its long, bony legs and thin tail like a long, wet feather. It snarled in shock and turned on him. Teeth clicked somewhere near his ear. Wolf flung himself aside, shouting, “Argos — it’s me!” — and smashed into the wall.

A flash of bright agony tore through his head. The darkness split open like a pea pod. Colours swirled in the gap and settled into a vision of low, green hills on the other side of a rust-red, lazily flowing river.

Wolf stretched out unbelieving fingers.

Elfland! he thought. The rocks had opened, and he was seeing into the kingdom of Elfland! As he stared, it slowly faded into a ghostly image of itself. The red river turned green, the green hills turned red, as if covered with blood. It was a mockery of a landscape, as if the elves were showing him he could trust in nothing. Then, like a dark sphincter closing, it shrank and dwindled. All went black.

Wolf pushed himself up on all fours. Tears of pain and shock ran down his cheeks. All he wanted was to grab Argos and get out.

Or had the dog already scrambled over him? “Argos?” he whispered, waving a groping hand around him. “Argos?” He touched something cold and hairless that shrank and quivered.

The elf! He snatched his hand away. Close to him, cornered! Feverishly he rubbed his fingers. He couldn’t bear the thought of touching it again. But he’d boasted that he would bring out the elf, and now he had to. Lord Hugo was waiting. Prodding the darkness, he realised the elf had bunched and burrowed into the scooped-out end of a blind tunnel. Perhaps this was the very doorway to Elfland, but the other elves had closed the rocks, shutting it out. Elves were cruel and heartless, even to each other.

He heard a muffled whimper.

A warm, painful feeling uncurled inside Wolf’s chest — pity, mixed with horror. That whimpering sounded exactly like a child. Whatever she was, elf or changeling, he couldn’t leave her like this, cowering in a black slot in the ground.

“Don’t be frightened,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you.” The only answer was a scuffling sound as the creature rammed herself more firmly into her hiding place. Wolf hesitated.

“God’s blessing on you,” he said at last, half-ashamed. He didn’t know if it was right to bless an elf.

He reached forward. His fingers skated quickly over a bony back and shoulder, and closed around a thin arm.

Wolf shuffled backwards and yanked her after him. Shuffle, yank. Shuffle, yank. He dragged her through the tunnel. He found himself talking to her in gasps. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It was a horrible thing to do. But she couldn’t stay here, could she? The pointed stones hurt his knees, and he kept cracking his head on the low roof. The elf-child didn’t struggle. She was as light and stiff as a dead bird. Fervently he hoped she hadn’t really died — of fright or the damage he was causing by tugging her over the rocks.

The gradient changed, and he grunted and panted till he could turn around. It was much harder going up than it had been coming down. On hands and knees he hauled the elf-child up the shifting slope until soil and clay glued the stones together, the roof rose, and he could see a patch of grey night ahead. At last!

“Sir?” he called. “Lord Hugo?”

The entrance blackened and pinched small. Wolf heard grunts and curses. Hugo was crawling into the cave.

“What happened? Were you afraid to come out?” He sounded impatient and suspicious. “There was never any elf, was there?

“Yes there was,” Wolf panted. “Help me pull her out.”

“Argos came out long ago. Pull her out? You mean you’ve got her?”

“Yes.” Triumph vibrated in Wolf’s voice.

“Splendour of God,” Hugo swore. He squeezed closer, breathing heavily. “Where? Could I get down there? Is it really the way to Elfland?”

He was entirely blocking the passage. All the light vanished. Wolf felt a wave of suffocating panic.

“What did you see?” Hugo whispered harshly.

Wolf suppressed the urge to scream and thrash his way out. “I’ll tell you later — later,” he gasped. “Help me with her, please!”

“Hand her up then,” Hugo commanded.

Lying with his legs deep in the tunnel, Wolf dragged the child past his own body. She had curled into a tight, cold ball and was doing nothing to help herself. He felt her vanish upwards as Hugo pulled her away.

Wolf followed as fast as he could. He scrambled into the fresh, open night. The rain fell on him like a blessing, and Argos pranced to meet him.

Hugo turned, holding the elf-girl in his arms. “Well done! Well done,” he said fiercely. Then he threw back his head and yelled, a war cry that sent thrills down Wolf’s spine: “Rollo! Geraint! Roger! A moy, gens de la Motte Rouge! Men of the Red Mound, to me! Bring torches!”

He strode down through the dark wood, shouting, and his men came crashing through the bushes to meet him, trailing spears and brandishing flaming sticks.

“My lord? Lord Hugo?”

“By the Holy Face, who’s with him? And what’s that?”

“Wait till you see,” Hugo roared. “A better quarry than a wolf, men!” He shouldered his way out into the clearing, and dumped the child on the ground.

The men, eight or nine of them, clustered around swearing incredulously and kicking away inquisitive dogs. Their makeshift torches were already flickering out in the wind, but the light of the sinking fire played over the elf-girl where she crouched at Lord Hugo’s feet, smeared with red mud, all sharp spine and bony ribs, her disfigured face hidden against her knees. Her sides heaved and sank, heaved and sank in rapid breaths. The weird puffball of matted hair looked as unreal as when Wolf had first seen her. On her fingers and toes, long brownish nails curled like claws.

“By the bones of Saint Thomas, what is it?”

“It’s a kiddie, eh?”

“No kiddie ever looked like that.”

“It’s an elf!” Hugo flung an arm around Wolf’s shoulders. “We were hunting elves as well as wolves, men, though we didn’t know it. There’s a cave under the cliff back there. One of the old, lost mines. It leads down to Elfland! Argos was lost inside. And this boy went in after him and brought out the elf.”

Wolf swayed where he stood. The rain beat into his face and shoulders. He was deathly cold, but burning pride ran like hot metal through the marrow of his bones at Hugo’s praise. Surely — surely now there was a good chance Lord Hugo would make him a squire?

The men growled. “Let it go, lord,” said one of them bluntly, to mutters of agreement. “It’s not safe to meddle with such things.”