Drinking Midnight Wine (8 page)

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Authors: Simon R. Green

BOOK: Drinking Midnight Wine
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“The Waking Beauty is glaring at me from her corner. If she’s manifesting in the real world, the situation must be even worse than we thought. From the way she’s looking at me, it’s clear she expects me to do something pretty sharpish. Interfering old biddy. You are sure she can’t hear us?”
Only you can hear me, Leo. Only you.
“Yeah, but this is the Waking Beauty we’re talking about.”
True. She’s the only creature in this town who’s older than I am.
“I wish you were just a voice in my head. Life would be so much simpler if I was just crazy. Hold everything: What was that?”
A communication had come and gone so quickly Leo couldn’t overhear or track it, but the dead man had heard and understood. He turned and walked unhurriedly out of the pub. People got out of his way without knowing why. Leo scrambled up from behind his table, realized for the first time that the arty set were all long gone, shrugged, and set off after the departing dead man. The mind voice hadn’t lasted long, but it had still made one hell of an impression, scoring through Leo’s mind like a length of barbed wire.
Major
player.
Leo emerged blinking into the bright sunshine outside the Dandy Lion and hurried after the dead man, at what he hoped was a discreet distance. Reed strode firmly off down the hill, people parting on either side to let him pass without seeing him. Leo tried hard to keep thinking of his quarry as
the dead man,
an object rather than a person, but it wasn’t easy. Reed had been one of his few real friends. He’d gone to Reed’s funeral, tried to say the right things to the grieving relatives, had stood at the graveside and made his good-byes; and now Reed was up and about again, a pawn in someone else’s dirty game. Leo’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. Someone was going to pay for this, and pay in blood. Leo’s wolfish smile flashed again as he considered the awful mess he was going to make of whoever had been foolish enough to raise his anger. He didn’t care how big or powerful or influential the bastard might turn out to be. He never did. He was Leo Morn, and no one messed with him and his. His mind filled with happy thoughts of broken bones and torn flesh and spurting blood, and people moved aside to let him pass, too.
The Brother Under The Hill maintained a neutral silence.
Leo followed the dead man through the center of the town and across the old bridge over the River Avon. Green reeds poked up through the dark waters, while crowds of ducks competed noisily for bread crumbs thrown by tourists. A pair of pure white swans watched disdainfully from a distance. The dead man passed the Chapel on the Bridge, a solid square of ancient stonework jutting out over the river. It had been there so long no one now remembered who built it, or why. Some said it had been a private chapel, others that it had been an overnight lockup for local drunks. There was one door, always locked, and small barred windows. Even in Veritie, it was a squat, brooding presence. As the dead man passed the Chapel, the Howling Thing stirred ominously.
Although it was a part of the magical world, forever separated from reality, the Howling Thing was still a powerful enough presence that its rage caused ripples in both worlds. People passing the Chapel often crossed themselves, even if they didn’t know why. The Howling Thing reacted to the necromantic energies surrounding the dead man and hurled itself furiously at the locked door. It raged and beat against the four confining walls, old stone sealed and consecrated by ancient sorceries, and fought to be free. Its awful voice rose and fell, never-ending, promising revenge and retribution. It never stopped, never rested, but still its cage held it, as it had for centuries past and would do so for centuries yet to come.
There were those who said the Howling Thing founded Bradford-on-Avon, long, long ago. Others said it tried to destroy the town. And some claimed it was the town’s spirit, and that if it ever escaped or was released, the town would come to an end. The truth was, no one knew anything for sure anymore. But absolutely no one was prepared to risk setting the Thing free, even if they knew how.
Leo padded on after the dead man, all through the town and out the other side. As buildings gave way more and more to open countryside, Leo began to get a really bad feeling about where they were going. And soon enough, all too soon, the open fields butted up against the silent, dead trees of Blackacre. Reed walked unhesitatingly into the dead thickets, but Leo paused for a moment, wondering if he really was that determined to avenge his friend. Nothing good ever came out of Blackacre.
Even Leo Morn had enough sense to be scared of Blackacre.
But in the end, he plunged on into the thicket of dark, lifeless trees, if only because he didn’t want to. Leo had his pride. As he entered the woods he dropped suddenly out of the real and into Mysterie, with a sharp shock that for a moment took his breath away. He’d never known a place so strongly magical as to rip him out of one world and into the next, against his will. His senses became sharper, more focused, as using his father’s legacy he adapted to the magical world, and with a slow sense of horror he realized that Blackacre no longer existed in the real world. Only its shell remained in Veritie, an empty vision of what had once been as real as earth and rock. Something, or more likely someone, had torn the guts out of Blackacre and pinned them firmly in Mysterie. Blackacre was a wholly magical place now, where dark, bad, magical things could be done.
Leo’s pace slowed, almost despite himself. As his father’s son, he was a powerful presence himself in Mysterie; but he’d never cared for that. Legacies and destinies were for other people. He preferred the simpler, subtler, more real pleasures of being just a man.
“Are you still with me, Brother?”
Of course
. His Brother’s voice was clear and sharp, with a much stronger sense of presence, now that they were both in Mysterie.
This is bad, Leo, really bad. Whoever gutted Blackacre to make it his own has to be one of the Powers and Dominations. In which case, we are both well out of our depth and sinking fast. It disturbs me that I sensed nothing of such a presence operating recently. Or that I knew nothing of Blackacre’s destruction in the real world. I should have known. Proceed cautiously, Leo. These are deep, dark waters we find ourselves in.
Leo didn’t need telling. Just walking through the dead woods was enough to put all his hair on end. Blackacre felt like long fingernails scraping down his soul. The blackened trees bore no leaves or blossom, and never would again. Thick black boles and stark black branches were held utterly still, undisturbed by any trace of a breeze. Nothing moved in Blackacre, not even the air. Nothing but Leo Morn and a dead man. The ground was inches deep in ashes, and Leo’s every footstep made loud crunching sounds, for all his stealth, announcing his presence. He let himself fall farther back, still keeping Reed in sight, as he glanced warily about him. There were no animals, no insects, no birds. This was a dead place, where perhaps even time stood still.
It was like walking on the moon. Life had come and gone, and nothing would ever thrive in Blackacre again. Once, there had been a great fire here, some awful heat that had scoured all life away and left only dead things behind. Which rather raised the question of where the dead man was going, and who or what was waiting to receive him. Like the rest of the town, Leo had heard rumors of a new owner of Blackacre Farm and its surrounding land, but he’d assumed that was only in Veritie. Reed seemed to be heading straight for the deserted farmhouse, and whatever occupied it now—something so powerful it could even hide itself from The Brother Under The Hill.
Leo was breathing hard now, cold beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, but he didn’t slow his pace any further. He’d come this far. He wanted, needed, to
know
.
He could feel a pressure building on the still air as he neared the center of the dead woods and the farmhouse. The air seemed to push back against him, until it was like walking headlong into a harsh, relentless wind. He had to lean forward as he walked, digging his feet into the ash-covered ground. Each step became an effort, and he grunted and growled deep in his throat as he forced his way on. His eyes were narrowed and his teeth were showing. If someone was determined to keep him out, there had to be something worth knowing about at the end of it. He’d almost forgotten his earlier intention to avenge his friend Reed; this had become personal now. No one kept Leo Morn out when he wanted in.
He could feel necromantic energies growing all around him now, crackling on his skin and spitting sparks from his hair. He’d never encountered magical defenses this strong before. They would have stopped any normal man, and most magical creatures. But Leo was born of both worlds, and his dual nature seemed to confuse the defenses, so they couldn’t get a firm grip on him. He trudged on, stronger and more stubborn than any mindless defense could ever be. And then suddenly the pressure broke, and he almost fell forward.
He stopped for a moment to get his breath back, glaring about him. There were dead trees everywhere he looked, for as far as he could see, as though the Blackacre woods were now much bigger on the inside than they appeared on the outside. As though Blackacre was growing, expanding, under the influence of its new owner. Leo sniffed at the still air, but there were no living scents. Just the dry and dusty air, the kind you find in a room that’s been left locked up and abandoned for many years. The silence was so complete now he’d stopped moving that he could hear every sound he made, from his harsh breathing to the rustling of his clothes to his own heartbeat.
Stand very still.
“Why?”
Leo said quickly.
“What’s happening?”
I sense something. It’s hard for me to see anything in Blackacre; it’s like trying to see things out of the corner of your eye, but I think I’m getting the hang of it. You’re not alone here, Leo. I can sense ten, maybe twelve, dead men in the woods with you. Can you see them?
Leo looked quickly about him, into the artificial gloom of the thick woods, but couldn’t see or hear or smell anything; except Reed, moving farther away from him, up ahead.
“All I can see are trees. Are you sure about this? What are these other dead men doing?”
Of course I’m sure. I’m always sure. Make it twenty dead men. I’m finding more all the time. As far as I can tell, they’re just . . . standing in the woods. Standing guard, presumably. Don’t get too close to any of them. Proximity probably triggers an alarm. Proceed with extreme caution, Leo. Are you sure you can’t see any of them? You’re right on top of half a dozen.
“Great,”
growled Leo.
“Just bloody great. This gets better all the time. No I can’t see any bloody dead guards. You’ll just have to guide me. Steer me clear of the bastards. Brother, who the hell are we up against? This is more than just some rogue necromancer.”
Powers and Dominations,
said his Brother Under The Hill.
Would I be wasting my time if I suggested you make a strategic retreat, and not come back until you’ve acquired a few more powerful allies of your own?
“Yes.”
I thought so
.
“Would you shut up a minute and let me concentrate? I may not be a Power or a Domination, but I can still be pretty damned sneaky when I put my mind to it.”
Leo moved slowly forward, setting each foot down so carefully that the ashes burying the ground accepted his weight without a murmur. He swiveled his head slowly back and forth, not even blinking his eyes, and at last he caught sight of one of the dead men, standing as still as the dead trees. Leo froze in place and studied the dead man for a long time. It wasn’t anyone he knew, and it seemed to be in a good state of preservation. The corpse’s utter stillness was quietly unnerving, inhuman, like some machine waiting for instructions. People weren’t supposed to look like that. Leo moved on, giving the dead man a wide berth.
Defensive spells formed on the air before him like static snowdrops, intricate and elegant, shimmering with unearthly colors; magical antipersonnel mines. Invisible to ordinary eyes, there were change spells and death spells, and a whole bunch of curses Leo didn’t even recognize. He slipped cautiously between them, bending at awkward angles to avoid touching and activating them. He had no doubt that there were other, subtler defenses, too, so complex even he couldn’t hope to sense them in time, but he trusted to his dual nature to protect him, and pressed on. He’d come too far to turn back now. Leo had few positive qualities, but stubbornness was definitely one of them.
At last the dark trees fell away to reveal a great open clearing, with the farmhouse standing at its center, like the bait in a trap. It was a long two-story building, in the old half-timbered style, its mottled exterior filthy and corrupted, the victim of nature’s relentless working and long neglect. Leo crouched at the edge of the clearing, and just looking at the farmhouse made him feel sick. There was a disturbing wrongness to it, as though it was both more and less than just a house. The gaping black windows were like eyes, and the great front door a mouth with concealed teeth. It wasn’t a sane place, where sane and normal people might live. The angles were all wrong, and the decaying features played tricks of perspective on him, as though parts were rushing toward and retreating from him, at the same time. It was a structure from another time and another place, where they did things differently. An alien place, perhaps neither real nor magical, but something . . . worse.

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