The Blood Line (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

‘S
o, we go in the same way we came out of Kalapa?’ said Hödekin looking at Owd Hob’s new clothes, a set of lightweight leather armour over simple clothing. He had trimmed his beard and his hair too. The kobold had decided to stop using the name Weewalk and had once again taken up his regal name.

‘There were only ever two ways in. A front door and a back door. The front door in Tibet has been destroyed but the line we used to escape the Palace is still there, deep in the forests of Romania. It’s well-guarded though and it won’t be easy to get to. But maybe the two of us can sneak through.’

‘Romania?’ said Hödekin ‘Isn’t that where Transylvania is. Is Count Dracula, the vampire, the guard?’ Hödekin said it with a smile but Hob answered with a straight face.

‘Vlad the third, a vampire? No. Mass murderer? Yes. They didn’t call him the impaler for nothing. It was his father Vlad the second who picked up the Dracula nickname. Draco is Latin for dragon, Vlad the second joined the Order of the Dragon, which pledged to protect Christianity in the area at the time, I forget when.

‘It was a writer called Bram Stoker who developed the vampire legend of Count Dracula. But there are much worse things in Transylvania. Transylvania means literally ‘the land beyond the forest’ and it is through the haunted forest to the land beyond the line that we must travel. We’re going to Hoia Forest. If you think the legends of vampires are scary you should try spending the night in Hoia.’

‘What’s it like now? I haven’t been near since we came through,’ asked Hödekin.

‘Well, ever since we kobolds came out of Kalapa and crossed into this world the line that exists there has been heavily guarded. Even humans have realised that there is a doorway there. In the forest is a large circle where nothing grows. It is guarded by something, an ethereal host put there by the Riven to prevent the kobolds from returning to the gateway which leads home. A group of wisps of some sort.

‘Humans talk of them as poltergeists. Reports of Hoia Baciu Forest talk of sightings of ghosts and the appearance of faces. People complain of a sense of malevolence and have found themselves pushed and scratched by an unseen force. Even the trees are strange in Hoia, growing twisted and warped. It has strange orbs, disembodied voices, the works!

‘One such story focuses on a five year old girl who wandered into the woods and got lost. The story goes that she emerged from the forest five years later, wearing the same untarnished clothes that she wore on the day she disappeared with no memory of what had happened in that interval of time.

‘Hoia itself is not very large. We’ll have to approach it on foot from out of the hills around it which are still fairly remote and home to lynx, wolves and bears. Not to mention moss people and wychkin.’

‘And, we'll have to pass Shuk too?' asked Hödekin,

'Yes, Shuk is the Lord of the garoul, if they can be truly thought of as having a leader of such a hellish pack. Shuk is certainly recognised as the biggest, strongest, cleverest and most dangerous of them all. He once killed a friend of mine. She was in a church in Bungay in Suffolk. Shuk ran down the aisle, killing her as she prayed before charging out again. She didn't have even a second to turn her presence on him. The door at the end of the church still bears the scorch marks from his claws where they became hot as they struck sparks on the stone floor so fast did he run. That's the worst of Shuk. He's big and powerful and smart but above all he's fast. Like a shark, you won’t even see him coming until his teeth are around your throat.'

Hob stood and stroked his beard.

‘And what do you think we’ll find when we actually get there?’ asked Hödekin. ‘If we even make it. We haven’t spoken to anyone who has been there since, since that day.’

Owd Hob shook his head. ‘I don’t know but I hope that there may be a good number of kobolds still living there, and some others too. But I have heard that something terrible haunts the ruins. Something left behind after the Riven’s attack. There’s been nothing confirmed. I guess we’ll find out when we get there.’

Adelaide, Australia

Sometime in late 1948

Alfred ‘Box’ Boxall sat on a stool at the bar, an empty beer glass in front of him. He called the barman over and ordered a whisky. He drained it quickly and stared into the mirror behind the bottles which stood on the shelves in front of him. Suit, tie, sensible haircut. He didn’t quite look like he was in his early forties but with alcohol blurring his vision slightly it was difficult to be sure. It was quite a while since he had got drunk and the room had begun to spin a little and sooner than he had thought it would. Even though he was tipsy he was alert and ready. He couldn’t afford not to be. Soon his nemesis would come for him.

Another man staggered to the stained bar and ordered a beer. He was drinking alone. Box had been expecting him to strike up a conversation.

The man let out a long breath after taking a deep swig of his beer. ‘That’s better,’ he said to Box.

Box grunted and kept looking forward. If he made eye contact this man would see it as an invitation to stay and chat. But the grunt was enough, the man pulled up a stool and wobbled on to it, his foot slipping as he climbed up.

‘I hate this song,’ he said conspiratorially, breathing out a cloud of stale booze. ‘Reminds me of my ex-wife.’

Box hadn’t even noticed that music was playing in the bar. He avoided eye contact.

‘Name’s John,’ the man said.

Box sighed. He saw the barman give him a sympathetic look, but he didn’t come any closer or try to divert John’s attention. But Box hated being rude. He was traditional in many ways. Old school, some called it. He turned sideways in his chair. He disliked being impolite, but he wasn’t beyond a bit of sarcasm.

‘I am Soloman.’ He left the briefest of gaps between the ‘solo’ and ‘man’. He liked to use different names. It helped to keep the Riven confused.  John didn’t seem to notice, in fact he misheard anyway.

‘Good to meet you Solomonson,’ he slurred. ‘So what brings you to this dive?’

Box saw the barman roll his eyes.

‘I’m waiting,’ he said turning back again. ‘Waiting for my past to catch up a bit.’

John snorted. ‘Solomonson, you gotta look to the future. Don’t get caught up on the past, mate.’

‘Oh, I am very aware of what the future holds friend John,’ said Box. ‘Painfully aware you might say. You have no idea.’

‘So what is this past that you’re waiting for?’ John looked slightly uncomfortable. This conversation wasn’t going quite the way he had expected.

Box stared into the mirror again, studying his reflection. ‘My brother,’ he said ‘There is something wrong with my brother and he wishes to punish me for it.’

John’s face relaxed. ‘Ah, mate, family. Now that I can understand. Let me tell you about my ex-wife.’

Just then the door to the street opened. Box looked over John’s shoulder as a figure in a black cloak stepped in out of the rain, his face hidden under a hood. Box allowed himself a quick wry smile.

‘Time for me to go, John,’ said Box hopping off the stool. ‘Too many people here.’

With that Box slipped quickly over towards the toilets at the back of the bar, away from the front door.

John spun around on his stool. ‘Hey, Solomonson! What’s the rush?’

But Box had already disappeared through the door. John slid off his stool and bumped into the figure in the black cloak who had just come off the street. His hood fell back and John stared into the man’s face in confusion.

‘Solomonson. How did you get over there and get that coat on so quickly?’

The new arrival simply stared at John in anger for a moment, then his eye twitched and he shoved John roughly out of the way before striding towards the toilets.

‘Hey!’

John stumbled from the push but regained his balance and followed the black cloak into the toilets. He walked into the gents expecting to find Solomonson but the room was empty. A shiver ran up his spine and he shuddered. Were there two of them? Must have been his brother. Twins. Pair of them must have climbed out the window he thought, although when he squinted at the frame it seemed painted shut. Mad, the pair of them. More confused than ever John staggered back into the bar and took up a seat in one of the booths. Despite his drunkenness that Solomonson was a man he wouldn’t forget for a while.

Nottingham, England.

Date unknown

Box knew where he was, but not precisely when. The line had taken him to a place he knew well and he ran through the streets above Nottingham, the City of Caves. He always ran. He had been running for a very long time. There was no doubt that his pursuer, his brother of sorts, Qayin, wasn’t far behind him. It seemed as though it had ever been so. He was relentless, implacable, mad and would not stop until Alfred ‘Box’ Boxall was dead, for Qayin was filled with hatred at the world for his very existence.

And now Qayin was becoming very powerful indeed. As he killed so his strength seemed to increase almost as if his presence, his life force, merged and enhanced his power. Perhaps it was just his skill in murder which improved. He had probably got to everyone else now. Box found it hard to keep track of everyone in the group, everyone who he had created, and where they were.

Add in the complication of the Riven seeking him and life was just one long run. The Riven seemed to be fairly straightforward to outsmart and despite the Riven King’s determination to find him Box had managed to stay one step ahead, so long as he was very careful. But Qayin was another matter entirely. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense about where Box would be, a sort of homing device. It was, Box supposed, just a strange quirk of their similarity. They sort of shared a brain after all.

Box jogged along the high street, past shops and shoppers, getting occasional glances from people curious as to why a man in a suit, tie, knitted jumper, hat and overcoat should be running. They must have thought that he looked like he was wearing old-fashioned clothes he mused. From the look of what others were wearing Box guessed he had come to Nottingham sometime around the turn of the second Millennium. Well, what he was wearing would have been quite fashionable and proper fifty years ago. He probably looked like something from a movie. Perhaps he should ditch the hat. He dodged around a group of young men who looked like they were on a stag do. One was dressed as Robin Hood. Box allowed himself a chuckle. They didn’t have the first idea about the true origins of that legend.

He turned out of the High Street and carried on jogging at a steady pace towards the line he knew existed up ahead. Hopefully he could draw Qayin along through a series of lines to somewhere which would give Box an edge. He might even be able to lose him and delay his plan long enough to tell the Secret Keeper, Tarak, what he intended. Given that space time around the lines was a shifting thing it was possible to duck into a line and for a follower, entering only a few minutes later, to arrive hours or days after the first person, or even longer. It was his best way of keeping one step ahead.

He turned onto a street called High Pavement, passed a church, now converted into a trendy public house, and arrived at the old Nottingham court, the Galleries of Justice. Thank goodness the building was now open to tourists. It would save him breaking in.

He took a breath and straightened his tie. After a moment's thought he removed his hat and held it out of sight under his coat before climbing the few steps to the courthouse. At the reception desk he paid the entrance fee, pleased as ever that he kept relevant currency from different eras to hand. This done he entered the old courtroom, casting a glance at the high balcony that ran around the edge. The building was only a museum now. It had been a courthouse, prison and site of executions. Many men and women had been hanged here, some of them as witches by men who had sensed their presence. Nowadays it was thought of as one of the world’s most haunted buildings. It had been the base for many a Sherriff of Nottingham and the courtrooms dated back to the 14
th
Century although the secret on which the building sat was far older. Maybe the line’s weird aura was what had attracted others here to hand out such barbaric and deadly justice. Box stepped into the dock, the area where the accused would stand flanked by prison guards awaiting the sentence of the judge. Box had a last look around the room, ever cautious, before descending the steps into the underbelly of the building.

The change in temperature was immediate. It was no wonder that people thought this building to be haunted. The cells where the condemned would have been held were dim and cramped. But Box didn't lose time looking around. He wanted the very lowest part of the building and he soon found it. Nottingham, City of Caves, was, he knew, built on a massive expanse of limestone. It had allowed men over many years to tunnel out large caves and small homes. Whole communities had lived underground with schools, shops and businesses. Caverns were dotted all over the place. It was one such place that he sought now.

As he entered the cave the temperature dropped again. There was almost no light and Box was glad that there were no tourists around to disturb him. This cave would once have held the most miserable of prisoners in complete darkness. It wasn't a large room, roughly spherical, with an uneven floor and roof, chiselled directly out of the limestone and left bare. Box could now clearly feel the line that hummed at the back. It was partly what had made this building so interesting to modern ghost-hunters. Even those without presence could feel it was there, could feel the strange sensations that the line caused, without knowing exactly what it was. Box knew that such people often stayed in the building overnight, hopeful to catch a glimpse of something ethereal. Sometimes he had wanted to come into Nottingham via this line only to find a group of nervous men and women sitting outside near the cave. A couple of stones thrown through the line were usually enough to scare most people off. He came to the line now and opened it using his presence. He stepped through and let the feeling of disembodiment overwhelm him. With a small blue flash Box disappeared.