“Very well.” Lucan swung up into the saddle. “This changes things. We advance to the Ghyll, but there are many paths through it, and we need to cover them all. So we divide into separate groups when we arrive there. No party is to have less than five men.”
There were muted protests from some of his knights, who, though they weren’t girt for war, were still affronted by the suggestion that this monster might be too much for them. Lucan called them to silence, pointing at the mass of festering offal.
“This was once a full-grown cow. Up to now we’ve been told only of sheep and goats, but clearly that was wrong. No group is to consist of less than five men. You people on foot…” He turned not just to his beaters and keepers, but to the villagers and foresters who’d followed with bills and reaping hooks. “None of you are to enter the Ghyll. Instead, blockade as many of its exits as you can find. And no noise from this point. We aren’t going to frighten this creature out into the open, so we’ve a better chance coming on it unawares. From here on, we keep the pack to the rear.”
They proceeded more stealthily. The mist seemed to thicken, and icy dew dripped from the interlaced branches overhead. Within an hour they’d reached the Flint Axes, which towered over the treetops as they approached. All joy of the hunt had fled. Every man felt a discomfiting distance from home. In silence, they formed their separate groups.
There were various ways to enter the Ghyll, either through low clefts or high passes. Two routes led through the Axes themselves, parallel passages cluttered with scree. It was one of these that Lucan opted for, now in company with Turold, Benedict and two other knights.
“Good luck, everyone,” Lucan said, as they went their separate ways.
He and his party filed through one tight, V-shaped valley. In some parts it was barren, in others thick with thorns. There was silence, save for the cawing of crows or the skittering of pebbles dislodged from on high. Their eyes roved in every direction. Veils of mist continued to pass over them.
The same experience was shared one valley over by Wulfstan, Alaric, Malvolio and two other house-men. Their path descended deeply. Grykes appeared to either side: yawning fractures in the cliff-sides, from below which they heard an immense churning of water. What few trees there were, were bent and gnarled. Underfoot, a shifting moraine could snag a hoof or snap an ankle, and indeed, when an eagle screeched as it lofted overhead, Alaric’s mount panicked and turned sharply, from which point it developed a limp. Examination revealed that it had thrown a shoe.
“You’ll have to proceed on foot,” Wulfstan said, in the tone of irritation he used with all the squires. “Either that or go back.”
Alaric stiffened. “I’m not going back.”
Wulfstan climbed into his saddle. “We won’t be racing ahead. It shouldn’t be too hard to stay in touch. But don’t slouch.”
Malvolio watched sympathetically while Alaric tethered his horse to a bough, took his bow and a hunting spear, and slung a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. They continued in single file. Only a slice of sky was visible between the parapets of rock overhead. It grew colder as the path meandered downward; soon they were pressing through mist so dense that the horsemen ahead of Alaric became dim silhouettes. When the passage suddenly broadened out and he found himself slogging through knee-deep water, his companions were rendered indistinguishable from the skeletal outlines of willows, which clustered around them, their bony fingers trailing in the pools and bogs.
“Everyone mind your footing,” Wulfstan muttered. “Particularly you, Malvolio. Malvolio? Malvolio… where are you?”
There was no response, though a heavy splashing could be heard to their left. Or was it behind them? It was difficult to tell.
“Damn!” Wulfstan snapped. “Where are you, boy? Blast it! The rest of you, hold up!”
They wheeled their animals around as they searched for the errant squire. Alaric couldn’t believe it. They’d only just entered this swampy area; it seemed impossible that in so short a time even a buffoon like Malvolio could have got himself lost.
In fact, Malvolio didn’t consider that he was lost — not as such.
He’d veered away from the others in order to take advantage of the broader passage, only to find himself deeper in the marsh. His horse, a wilful young mare with the unlikely name of Rosebud, had taken it on herself to find drier ground. She’d plunged another ten yards to their left, found firmer footing and proceeded uphill despite his best efforts to turn her round again. The next thing he knew, he was pushing through matted thickets, which clawed at his clothes and face. It seemed to take minutes to reach higher, flatter ground, where the mist abruptly melted away.
He had entered a woodland clearing, sheltered beneath a mighty oak but with a cliff face at its far end, in the centre of which a cave yawned. He managed to rein up, and glanced over his shoulder. Vapour ebbed through the meshed branches behind him. He wanted to call out, but something stopped him. He glanced back at the pitch-dark cave. Cautiously, he dismounted and approached on foot, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword, and halted about ten yards away. He peered further into the depths, seeing a low, jagged ceiling mottled with lichen, an earthen floor strewn with dried branches. A stale smell seeped from the cave — the dankness of the underworld, no doubt. He pictured endless caverns, their slimy walls thick with fungus and spider-webs.
Then two things struck him.
Firstly — he was being watched. From somewhere in the bowels of that cave, a baleful gaze was fixed on him.
Secondly, what he’d thought were dry sticks were actually bones.
Malvolio sensed the thing coming down the cave before he saw it. And he heard it too: a sudden rushing of air; a whisper of leathery flesh; and a savage hisss like a jet of gas erupting from the earth. He turned and fled across the clearing — only to find that Rosebud, evidently more sensitive to these things than he was, was already capering off through the trees. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed an enormous shape emerge into the daylight. As he ran, Malvolio screamed.
Lucan had separated from his own group to give his mount fresher water to drink. He was in the saddle alongside a burn running downhill through a steep gorge. Thirty yards below him, the others had made temporary camp among a stand of pines.
At first he thought he’d imagined the distant, echoing cry. Curious, he manoeuvred his animal around.
There was a second, louder cry. He glanced down to the pinewood. Turold and the others were moving on. He shouted, but the acoustics in the enclosed place were difficult; he couldn’t be sure whether they’d heard him or not. But there was no time to waste. He urged his horse up the boulder-strewn passage. At the top, he crossed the burn. When he reached the other side, he heard a third cry. This one was clear and high-pitched. Lucan cursed; it could only be Malvolio. He spurred his horse to a gallop, weaving through the thickets until he spied open ground.
Lucan’s first thought on entering the clearing was that he should have called the retinue out for battle rather than a holiday hunt. He also wished that he was riding Nightshade, his great warhorse, rather than this easy-natured brute. Because what he now faced was a vastly more terrifying opponent than any of them had expected.
The rambling nonsense they’d heard from the few frightened farmers who’d seen the creature had referred to “an ungodly demon, with hunger both for man and beast” — a common enough exaggeration, in complete contrast to the physical evidence, which had suggested that the so-called Penharrow Worm had sought to prey on smaller animals. And yet this monster was perhaps fifty yards long — its coils almost filled the clearing, and it was as thick around the middle as a beer keg. It had a tough, scaly hide, tinged muddy brown, with a white diamond pattern running down its spine. It was now rearing up towards Malvolio, who, though he’d already climbed high into an oak, was clearly about to be dragged to his death.