Ross Lawhead (2 page)

“Sam packs the pouch tight enough to just be able to pull the strings together, and the old man leads him out of the cave.

“Once outside the old man turns to him and says that he may return to his forge, but he is not to tell anyone of what he has done this evening. The old man then goes back into the cave and Sam walks home.

“Now anyone who knows Sam knows that it only takes a prod to start his tongue wagging and scarce has he crossed his own door's threshold then he's gabbing to his wife about all that's just happened to him. She finds this all hard to believe—”

“She's not the only one,” Coll Dawson said to the man sitting next to him.

“
But
,” continued Addison, “he's got the bag full of gemstones that he carried out with him. He throws this on the table and says, ‘Here's the proof.'

“The wife opens the bag and sticks her hand in and pulls out something small and hard and then lets go of both it and the bag. ‘What is this? A joke?' she asks, angry.

“Sam goes over to the bag and tips out the contents onto the table. Instead of all his diamonds, rubies, and such, there's just a pouchful of old dried-up horse droppings. Sam tries to tell the tale again, but his wife has lost patience with him and makes him sleep that night in the forge.”

“Women are unreasonable like that,” said a man at the next table.

“The next day,” Addison continued peevishly, “Sam goes back into the forest to look for the cave but he can't find it. He finds a cliff face that he thinks is the same place, but it is just a blank wall of stone. He keeps hunting around and finds a few caves but none of them go back very far.

“He's gone back every day since, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the night, but he has never found the chambers of the sleeping knights again.”

Addison Fletcher had finished his tale and marked it by taking a long drink of his ale. “So now,” he said, wiping his moustache. “What do you say to that?”

“I've heard it before, told just that way,” said one man from the back of the crowd.

Addison's face brightened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, only it wasn't just an old man in red, it was Merlin himself!” Addison's face fell. “And it wasn't just any knights the blacksmith saw, but the Knights of the Round Table. Waitin' for judgment, they were.”

“When I was on tour in the Freincs' lands,” said a grizzled man at the next table, “I heard a man tell it as with Charlemagne who needed a golden spear. But he was sleeping under this famous mountain, like.”

“Lies, that is. It's
dragons
that live in mountains.”

“But what about
my
—” Addison tried to break in.

“Nay, ye daft bugger, they lie on top o' them,” argued the war veteran. “They fly about above the clouds in the day and sleep atop a mountain of nights.”

And they all fell about to arguing over these and related matters until the bell rang for closing.

CHAPTER ONE
Oxford Is Not Safe

1

Eight Years Ago . . .

FOUND!

Manhunt for missing kids ends in Scotland.

Daniel Tully and Freya Reynolds, the two schoolchildren who went missing 72 days ago, have been found near Kilmarnock, in East Ayreshire, Scotland. Alex Simpson, the son of a farm owner, discovered them yesterday at 5:04 p.m. Both were covered in mud and displayed signs of severe shock and were disturbed mentally but were otherwise in good health when examined at St. Bride's Hospital by Peter Tavish, MD. No statement has yet been made by the children. A joint statement by the parents and the police describe themselves as “joyful and relieved” at the return of the children, who will be driven to Glasgow to undergo further examination.

Daniel Tully, 13, and Freya Reynolds, also 13, went missing on a class trip to a church in Abbingdon in the British Midlands over two months ago. Criminal experts are at a loss to explain. (continued on page 5)

2

Now . . .

Daniel Tully sat unmoving and unnoticed—just another gargoyle on Broad Street. A paper cup in front of him held fifty-six pence in small coins and there were two pounds in his pocket. That meant either a proper meal or a bed in the night shelter. He really wanted both. He could try blagging his way into the homeless café—the Gatehouse—even though he was too young at only twenty years old. That would give him a meal and he could buy the bed and keep the fifty-six pence for tomorrow.

“Spare change, mate?” he asked a pair of business trousers.

The legs continued without breaking stride. Two other pairs of legs coming the other way stopped in front of him and he looked up.

Two girls, students, stood in front of him and one of them was digging around in her purse. She hastily fished out a couple of coins—her friend gazing sourly at her all the while—and dropped them into his cup.

“God bless you,” Daniel said. “Both of you, God bless you.”

They hurried away, the sour one berating her friend for—what, exactly? Daniel sat stoically until they dashed between the columns of the Bodleian Library. Then he leaned forward and inspected the latest windfall. There looked to be seventy-eight pence now. That meant she only gave him twenty-two.

Sighing, he got up, shouldered his overstuffed rucksack, and started walking to St. Michael's Street. The bodies in front of him shifted, opened, and closed in their usual manner. And through the ebb and flow, a figure was suddenly revealed and then hidden again—a small, lean, heavily tattooed figure that walked with an animalistic gait, wide and lurching.

Daniel froze, his heart racing. He pushed his breath out in a low whistle, his hand instinctively rising and clutching at an object hanging under his jacket along his rib cage. He gripped it so hard that his knuckles went white.

With an effort he opened his fist and started walking again.

He strode quickly this time, weaving deftly through the crowd, trying to close the gap between himself and the tattooed head. He still had not caught sight of it by the time he stood underneath Carfax Tower, the intersection of the town's busiest foot traffic. He stood, turning slightly as he rapidly scanned the faces of those approaching from four directions, hoping—but dreading—to see the squat, hairless head.

Underneath Carfax Tower was another homeless man selling magazines—Scouse Phil. Daniel approached him with a nod. “Alright, Phil?”

“Eee, our Dan. How's yourself?”

“Yeah, not bad, not bad. You ain't seen a short bloke, kind of thin, shaved head, tattoos, that kind of thing? Passed by about ten minutes ago?”

“That who you were looking for over there? Can't say I've seen him that recently, but yeah, I've seen him about. Tattoos all swirly like, but with lots of edges. Nasty business he is. Largin' himself up, throwin' it around like God Almighty. Violent. Got thrown out of the Gatehouse a few times. You got business with him?”

“Not as such. He was at the Gatehouse? He's on the streets? Where does he hang out?”

“Dunno. I've seen him a few times around the canals down near Hythe Bridge Street. Doesn't keep regular with any company I know. Independent like.”

“Name?”

“Don't know a name. Best left well alone in my opinion. Wide berth, Danny, wide berth. Listen, if it's some
horse
you want—”

“Nah, see you around, Phil. Cheers.”

“Cheers, then. Be well.”

Daniel turned and joined the crowd. A glance up at the clock tower showed the time to be twenty to five. The Gatehouse would be open now. He stroked his beard and turned his feet in that direction.

It was the busiest time of the day. People crisscrossed in front of him, ducking into shops, doing after-work errands before going back to their homes and dinners with their loved ones. Groups of tourists—students on school trips, all of them with matching yellow backpacks—stood in clusters outside the fast food restaurants, yelling at and flirting with each other. And for the second time that day Daniel caught a glimpse from within the swarm of faces of someone he recognised.

He stopped in his tracks. “It can't be . . .”

He turned and looked at the sea of people. She wasn't there anymore; the tide had closed. Lurching forward, he ducked into Ship Street, a long, narrow, fairly empty side road. There were two people at the far end and a solitary one walking away from him.

This person was young—his age—female, slender, with black hair that was tied up loosely—and she carried a bag that looked to be bulging with books. A student, then. One hand dangled at her side and he could see that it was a light creamy brown.

He found his voice and shouted, “Freya!”

She didn't turn around or even break her stride but kept walking. He shouted her name again.

“Freya, come back!”

Without turning around she broke into a run, sprinting away from him.

He chased after her. He was only halfway down the street when she had reached the end, and by the time he finally made it to Turl Street, she was out of sight.

For the second time that day—that hour—he stood bewildered, searching the faces in the crowd. He wasn't surprised that she ran. If she was a student, then it may not be too hard to find her again, but what did it mean? First one of those creatures, and now Freya—two people he'd nearly given up ever seeing again. The fingers of his right hand stroked the edge of a notebook that was tucked in his jacket pocket. He would have to record these incidents later. No time now.

He retraced his steps and cautiously approached the Gatehouse, spending a futile ten minutes trying to convince the lady at the door that he was over twenty-five when they both knew he wasn't. In the end he asked for a plastic bottle he had to be filled with water and then he went across the street and waited, slunk against a low brick wall. He passed the time by trying to get his nerves under control but was unsuccessful in doing anything more than slowing his breathing.

The Gatehouse closed at six, its patrons trickling out singly or in pairs. If the tattooed man was in there, Daniel knew that he would be noticed but almost certainly not recognised. He hoped that would be enough of an edge.

Fewer and fewer people were coming out now and Daniel was about to get up himself when the tattooed man appeared. He got a good, clear look at him this time. Hairless, dressed in a loosefitting T-shirt and black leather trousers. It didn't look like he was carrying any weapons except perhaps a knife in his pocket. Swathes of ink covered his body so broadly it was possible to think that he was naturally blackish-blue with only patches of white. His face was lumpy and swollen in the way that a continual scrapper's usually are; his features doughy and slightly formless. His lips were curled into a thin, cruel line and his ears were ragged, torn. He wore sunglasses that comically humanised him, like a dressed-up pet; for there was now no doubt in Daniel's mind about the creature's true identity.

It walked towards him on the opposite side of the street. Although Daniel couldn't see its eyes, it must have spotted him, though it gave no sign. It continued walking and turned the corner.

“Okay, okay . . .” Daniel rose and followed but kept to his side of the street. He didn't know how ruthless the creature would be, how heedful of public places it would be, so it was best to keep his distance for now.

He caught sight of his quarry again as it turned down George Street, towards the canals that led to Jericho. Daniel followed, lagging far enough behind to keep the thing in sight, not caring if he was seen. Although it never turned or threw a glance behind,
it knew
it was being tailed.

The sky had dimmed but it was not yet dark. This was a time of the day that excited Daniel, but he willed himself to stay calm. He tried to turn that nervous energy into a taut, controlled tension and awareness. If it was to be now, then it was to be now. Whatever must follow, must.

He stepped into the doorway of a boarded-up corner shop to quickly adjust his clothing. He unzipped his coat so it was just done up about an inch and hung loosely together in front of him. He pulled his arm out of its sleeve, which he tucked into its outer pocket. Shrugging and hunching forward, he tucked his forearm into his stomach and gripped the handle of the thin, cold object that hung at his side.

If he walked carefully enough, he'd give the impression of having both hands tucked into his jacket pockets. It wouldn't fool anyone who looked closely, but it would do for someone who was only giving him the briefest of looks.

Stepping out from behind the abandoned shop, he saw the shadow creature crossing the bridge ahead of him, still en route to the canals. He walked as quickly as he could without giving himself away, briskly crossing the street and cresting Hythe Bridge.

He was just in time to see the thing take a right turn along the canal, passing through a cycle gate. It took him some time to get across, due to traffic, and when he did, the tattooed man was nowhere in sight.

He slowed his pace and scanned the area. The canal ran just a few feet to his left. Houseboats were moored intermittently along the side, and to the right was wild scrubland, not very deep, but thick enough with brambles and tall grass to adequately hide someone in this low light undetectably. Right now Daniel's best shot was to keep himself out in the open and wait to be attacked. He kept walking.