Chapter X
X
The Western Alps
“I do not recognize my father in the duplicitous libertine you remember, or believe my late grandfather was ever such a grasping lapdog, waiting on the Church’s attention,” said Jacques bluntly.
“And the others—Bauterne, the Normans, Bishop Fontaine—these are not the men as my father described them to me.”
It had been five days since my impromptu surgery on his shoulder, and he was recovering slowly. We were into the foothills of the Alps now, getting closer to the snow line with each step. Another week, perhaps a little longer, and we would be in Gévaudan.
And then . . .
I had told Jacques the story—the Mundane version—during his wakeful periods over the past few days. He had listened largely in silence.
“No?”
“No, sir,” Jacques replied. “Lord Bauterne was a hero to the people of Gévaudan, and deeply troubled by their plight. My father has nothing but praise for the Bishop of Mende—Fontaine’s scars are a sign of his selflessness and sacrifice, to hear him speak.
And the Normans made the greatest sacrifice of all, giving their lives that others might live. ”
“Perhaps your father did not wish to speak ill of the dead.”
“You do not seem to share his reservations,” he said with a laugh.
“No indeed.” In spite of myself, I was beginning to warm to the grim young Lord Ocerne.
His illness had deflated his pompous pride to some extent and I was (if not exactly glad of his company) increasingly certain that I didn’t want him to die.
Jacques was still riding in the wagon, but his wound was healing with remarkable speed and he would soon be ready for horseback again.
It mattered little. To compound our problems, Aherin now seemed to be taking ill.
The gelding was weak and haggard, and covered in sores and grazes from weeks of neglect at Jacques’s hands.
Each morning he was slower to move, and he was now without the strength to bear a rider.
I walked alongside the wagon, doing my best to ignore our lackadaisical pace as we ascended into colder climes and the snowdrifts began to encroach on the road.
As our third night in the mountains approached, I knew the decision would have to be made.
I had the great fortune to locate a campsite in the lee of an enormous fallen spruce.
I unhitched the cart gently. It was shockingly quiet, sheltered by the tree’s ancient trunk on one side and the snow-filled woods on the other.
Jacques was sleeping, so I began to drag branches from the fallen tree across the remnants of a previous traveler’s campfire.
The fire I built was perhaps larger than necessary, but there was dry wood aplenty and I suspected that we would be thankful for the extra warmth tonight.
Jacques woke after a short while and climbed gingerly out of the cart, still very weak.
“Why have we stopped here?” he said irritably. “This is a miserable place to camp.”
“Sir,” I said quietly, “given our need, this is an absolute palace among campsites. It will be night soon and we can scarcely pass up the shelter. If you know somewhere else for us to go, I will await your lead.”
Jacques seemed about to bite, but then bowed his head. “I apologize. You are right, of course. I admit that I am uneasy in these mountains and will be glad to leave them behind.”
“Then I am doubly sorry, young sir,” I sighed. “The time has come. I fear that Aherin can come no farther with us.”
“Aherin?” Jacques seemed not to understand.
I nodded. “He is ailing, and grows worse by the day. Our journey through the mountains will be hard and it would be no kindness to take him with us. You must decide tonight if you will set him back on the path behind us, or . . . put him to rest here. I hold little hope that he will survive alone, but a sick horse will attract attention we cannot afford.” Sarmodel had warned me several times of wolves following us, though none had yet been daring enough to approach.
This would change the longer we were within their range.
“But he has come this far!” Jacques put a hand on the gelding’s mane, stricken.
“Have I truly treated you so poorly, my friend?” He looked very small in the shadow of the fallen tree.
Then he turned to me. “No. You must be able to do something. If you are in truth a doctor, or a professor, or whatever gifts you claim to have.1 Please. Aherin has been mine since I was a boy. My father gave him to me.”
“The road ahead will be trying enough, and whatever my ‘gifts’ may be, I cannot give him what he needs most: rest, sustenance and proper care,” I said gently. “I am truly sorry, young sir.”
“You refuse? You are here in service to my family, are you not?” he demanded. “Must I beg?”
Yes! Yes, Sebastian! Say it!2
I ignored my Guest’s goading. “You are technically correct, young sir, and if you require it, I will certainly do my best to take care of Aherin’s needs alongside your own.
In between times—and by your leave—I will also see to my own horse, and continue to set camp, hunt, cook and carry for us all.
Perhaps I shall even find time for my own meals and private needs, or indulge in a few hours’ rest. Shall we see who dies first, of the four of us? ”
“Stop! I know—I know! You are right!” Jacques covered his face with his hands, shaking his head. “You are right, as always. And as always, I must apologize for my behavior. You shame me.”
“It is no matter. I will take my gun and see if I can find us something to eat. Take some time to say farewell and do what must be done.”
Jacques’s hand fell slowly to his hunting knife; he was already practicing the stroke in his mind.
“Here.” I took my sword from the cart and passed him the hilt. “This will be faster. The throat and the heart—and do it away from here. Hungry scavengers would be company most unwelcome.”
He nodded. I left him standing by the fire, whispering close to Aherin’s ear as he had on so many nights during his delirium.
The darkening woods were packed deep with old snow, and silent.
The soft crunch of my footfalls startled a fox. It dropped its meal and darted away, swift and pale as smoke in its winter coat. Otherwise the place was completely still; the creatures of the wildwood knew the dangers of the quiet twilight.
I spoke a Litany of the Hunt and waited.
The forest around me slowly sharpened into a stark shadowland of black and white.
I could hear the friction of pine needles stirring above me and taste the steel-and-dust tang of imminent snow in the back of my throat.
My movements became lighter and more liquid; among the hunters of the wilds, I was more the serpent than the wolf.
In my new perception, the snowy forest floor was a map of life and death.
A wisp of down and a graveyard of tiny bones marked an owl’s nest. Pale lichens consumed the deadfall with infinite patience.
And every stone and hillock was contoured with tracks.
I crouched low and followed them, passing my hands over the fresh snow to find those that still held traces of living heat.
Sebastian, stop. What is that?
Sarmodel directed my eyes to the remains of the fox’s meal: a scrap of cold carrion flesh. I picked it up.
Man meat, he whispered.
What? Are you sure?
Sebastian, I have eaten more human flesh than leprosy.3 Trust me.
Very well. Shall we investigate?
I turned and followed the fox’s back trail.
The creature’s tracks took me in a lazy circle, first down to a frigid stream and then back up toward the road.
A host of other tracks joined it along the way, left by rodent, wolf, weasel and badger; an informal guest list to a grisly banquet.
The tracks braided together and converged back on a rocky overhang, where the roots of an aged cedar had split the stone of the mountainside.
Well now.
Two men sat there, side by frozen side. Without the grisly clue left by the fox, I might never have found them at all, so well concealed were they in their snowy nook. Their heads were half turned toward each other, as though I had caught them sharing some intimate secret.
The creatures of the forest had taken their due from the corpses; the men’s faces were all but gone.
But the lingering snows had kept them from decay and preserved much of their unfortunate resting place.
I shooed away a nest of forest mice and gently brushed the snow from the bodies so I could see them in their entirety.
Killed by bandits? I suggested hopefully.
Certainly, replied Sarmodel. Hungry bandits.
The men’s throats had been torn out; one had lost his jaw completely.
Each wore a black apron of frozen blood, and I didn’t have to look inside their shattered rib cages to know their hearts had been eaten.
Their clothing told me they were travelers of ordinary means.
They were young, and—most troubling of all—they were still in possession of their belts, boots and weapons.
I sat back on my haunches, thinking.
Their wounds suggested an attack by a powerful animal. But these men had not been killed and tucked away by an especially fastidious bear.
I closed my eyes. The forest around me was suddenly too close and too full of distractions. Is it possible? Have we found the Beast so soon?
My love, we are still days from Gévaudan. It is most unlikely—
I know! I know it’s unlikely. But just think for a moment. Is it possible?
He twisted like an eel in my mind. It is. But why would he come here? There are far better places to feed.
Just so.
I laid my hand on the stock of my gun, suddenly wishing I hadn’t left my silver blade behind.
“Who were you, gentlemen?” I murmured, leaning close to them. “And what were you doing up here?”
I was struck with something familiar about one of the men and it took me a few moments to work it out.
Half of his scalp had been torn away and the remainder was peeling up like a matted military crest. The flow of his blood had darkened the snow around his shoulders like a crimson cape, and it was the Roman decurion I saw in his ravaged, eyeless profile.
“The gods of Rome have moved on,” I murmured, imagining for a moment I could smell the smoking herbs of augury. I heard the loyal decurion’s response once again.
Know that you are treating with a dark creature, he said in my memory, in the language of the ancient, beautiful empire. It deceives you with every word. Be rid of it before it shows its true face.
Again, I saw his hand, raised to point at something over my head.
Or behind me . . .
Behind me. Where a young man was shivering in his drug-induced stupor, already in the grip of a strange fever.
My thoughts turned in a troubling new direction.
I leaped to my feet.
Sarmodel, I need you! I turned and ran back for the camp, following my own tracks.
Yes! he answered. My blood surged as he flexed and came forward in my mind, filling me with new strength. My bones were shot with molten steel and my skin began to steam in the frigid air.
And Sarmodel . . . he was close, so close to the physical that I could taste his breath on my tongue. When he spoke again, I almost felt my lips moving.
Yes, I am here. Now run.
1. Do not be shocked by Jacques’s sudden willingness to countenance a little occult assistance. When the chips are down, the God-fearing are always first in line to throw the baby on the altar.
2. Sarmodel takes an unhealthy—though entirely apt—delight in begging of any kind.
This is partly because people who are begging are often willing to agree to anything, which opens the door to any number of unsavory Contractual possibilities.
It’s also a matter of taste; you might say that desperation is Sarmodel’s favorite flavor of human misery.
3. I have no way to verify this. I suspect that my Guest was active in old Mesopotamia, however, which would put him in good company as far as man-eaters are concerned.