Mark Chadbourn - Darkest hour

As darkness fell, he stoked up the campfire for warmth during the cold night ahead, before taking time to groom the horse of which he had grown increasingly fond. When he had asked Melliflor for its name, the reply had been something indecipherable, so he had secretly decided to call it Thunder after the horse of some cowboy hero in an American comic he had read as a child. He would never tell the others something like that, but it gave him a deep, personal comfort. He got pleasure from treating it with affection, although he privately wished it were a little more responsive. It seemed unduly wary of him, almost as if it were scared, which he guessed must have come from whatever treatment had been meted out in the strange stables of the Court of the Yearning Heart. I can't even get a horse to like nze, he thought as he stroked its flank; the notion was so ridiculous it made him laugh out loud.

It was Thunder who alerted him to danger as he settled down to sleep next to the fire under the fragrant canopy of a pine. It whinnied and stamped its hooves long before Veitch heard any sign, and he was up on his feet with the sword in his hands as the howl of fear came from somewhere near the road on his side of the loch. The cry was suddenly infused with pain, before being snapped off.

Veitch jumped on to Thunder and spurred him through the trees on the steep slopes down to the road. The horse was uneasy, but it responded to his heels and it didn't take him long to find the mangled remains of a motorbike. There was a pool of blood on the tarmac, but no sign of any body. He dismounted and examined the road surface. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but the splatters of blood appeared to point in the direction of the inlet overlooked by the ruins of Castle Urquhart. Briefly, he stopped and listened, but the night was as quiet as ever. He wondered how swiftly the Beast could move; perhaps it was already miles away. Cautiously he climbed back on Thunder and headed in the direction indicated by the blood.

The clatter of the hooves echoed loudly in the quiet. It still surprised him to be riding down the middle of a road without seeing any sign of headlights in the deep night that hung over the water.

Ten minutes later he passed the still ruins of Urquhart Castle. There was no anxiety within him, just a quiet, intense concentration that took over his mind and permeated his being. His instinct told him his quarry was somewhere in the vicinity; there was a constant resonance vibrating inside him that he had come to trust: a warning to be as alert as he could be.

Around the bend in the road that led to Drumnadrochit he came across a few shreds of bloodied clothing. He jumped down to investigate without once lessening the sharp focus of his attention. He could hear nothing, smell nothing. The Beast left no sign in its passing, but Thunder seemed to sense something; its eyes rolled and it stamped its hooves again.

From the shape of the clump of clothing he could at least discern the direction in which the Beast had been travelling when the remnants were dropped. It was moving towards the area where the road was darkest and the trees clustered claustrophobically close. Back on Thunder, he gently urged it on; slowly, slowly, eyes constantly searching the surroundings. He rounded the small bay; ahead, the road moved off towards Inverness.

From the corner of his eye he caught a sudden movement in the trees away to his left. It was a darkness deeper than the surrounding shadows, moving so quickly it disturbed him.

He spurred Thunder into the trees, his crossbow held over the crook of his arm, his finger poised on the trigger. At that point there was little opportunity to manoeuvre among the trees. The movement of the branches in the faint breeze made odd shifts in the ambient light that at times made him feel something was creeping up on him. His heart pounding, he kept glancing all around to reassure himself.

Another movement, again away to his left. Was it trying to circle him, come up from behind? He suddenly realised it was a mistake to be in such a constricted space and he quickly sent Thunder back on to the road. From some where came the sound which Tom had described as forty hounds baying. That didn't even begin to capture the bone-chilling noise which now drifted out across the deserted countryside: high-pitched and filled with an abiding hunger, it didn't sound like anything earthly at all.

Something shifted back up the road. This time he was ready. In an instant his mind weighed up all the evidence, projected the path of the Beast; he aimed the crossbow, loosed the bolt. It shot into the shadows, bringing what could have been a squeal of pain. His teeth went on edge. He spurred Thunder on while managing to use the crank to draw the crossbow for another shot.

There was no sign of the Beast at the point where he had hit it, but he hadn't expected to bring it down with just one bolt. But there were dark splatters on the tarmac which smelled like charred batteries. So it could bleed, he thought. It could be hurt. That was all he needed to know.

It was heading back towards the castle ruins which rose up like bleached bones in the cold moonlight. Once it got on to the rugged, irregular promontory jutting into the icy waters, he would have it cornered. Could he take it out with just a crossbow and a sword? His blood thundered with the thrill of the hunt. He thought he probably could.

The car park for the castle was lit for tourists who would probably never come again. Across the shadowed edge of it the deeper darkness moved. Veitch got another impression of something big and dangerous. He loosed another bolt. It rattled across the car park, slammed into the fleeing rear of the creature. Another squeal of pain. It was proving easier than he thought.

His horse trotted down the steep path from the car park that eventually ran across an open stretch of grassland up to the castle's defensive ditch. At the drawbridge he dismounted and left Thunder next to a light. He had more freedom to move and react quickly on foot.

The castle was ruined, but still robust enough to glimpse the majesty of the fortress that had looked out over the loch, in one form or another, since the Pictish kings ruled the land in the Dark Ages. The grey stone of the impenetrable walls stretched out on either side, while the still-standing tower loomed like a sentinel away to his left.

There was more ichor splashed across the path that ran under the gatehouse; it looked like the Beast had been seriously injured. Veitch reclaimed the two bolts that had been knocked loose and prepared for another shot.

He could hear movement within the castle compound. He entered through the gatehouse slowly, aware that the enclosed space, with its dips and hillocks and many ruined buildings, could be a dangerous maze. Cautiously he scanned the area. There were too many places in which the Beast could hide.

Another sound sent him sprinting up the steps across the grass to the Upper Bailey. From this vantage point he had a view across the castle and the loch beyond. Nothing moved. Sooner or later it would give itself away, especially if it was badly injured, he told himself; but it was possible, if he was clever enough, to herd it to the area around the tower where it would have no escape.

He spent a few minutes convincing himself it was nowhere in the Upper Bailey and then he advanced slowly towards the hulking ruins of the chapel, Great Hall and kitchens. A brief wind swept up from the black water, singing in his ears.

But as he crossed into the Nether Bailey a figure erupted out of the periphery of his vision. He had only the briefest instant to register what was happening and then he was flying through the air. The landing stunned him for a second, but his sense of self-preservation took over and he shook himself awake. He lay on the grass in the shadow of the North Lodge; nothing moved near him. There was a chill wetness across his chest. When he looked down he saw his jacket and shirt lay in ribbons and there were three deep gashes cut into his flesh. The blood was pumping out through his ruptured armour. Desperately he tried to staunch it with a torn-off piece of his shirt, but as he tended to himself there was another blur of movement. His head snapped round so sharply he thought his neck had broken. Stars flashed across his vision; then the pain came, thundering out in a wave across his temples. By the time he had caught himself, his eyes were filling with liquid. He wiped them clear with the back of his hand, glanced down, saw the dark smear, dripping on his trousers.