Dark Angels. Katherine Langrish

pushed himself up on all fours. Tears of pain and shock ran down his cheeks. All he wanted was to grab Argos and get out.

      Or had the dog already scrambled over him? “Argos?” he whispered, waving a groping hand around him. “Argos?” He touched something cold and hairless that shrank and quivered.

      The elf! He snatched his hand away. Close to him, cornered! Feverishly he rubbed his fingers. He couldn’t bear the thought of touching it again. But he’d boasted that he would bring out the elf, and now he had to. Lord Hugo was waiting. Prodding the darkness, he realised the elf had bunched and burrowed into the scooped-out end of a blind tunnel. Perhaps this was the very doorway to Elfland, but the other elves had closed the rocks, shutting it out. Elves were cruel and heartless, even to each other.

      He heard a muffled whimper.

      A warm, painful feeling uncurled inside Wolf’s chest — pity, mixed with horror. That whimpering sounded exactly like a child. Whatever she was, elf or changeling, he couldn’t leave her like this, cowering in a black slot in the ground.

      “Don’t be frightened,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you.” The only answer was a scuffling sound as the creature rammed herself more firmly into her hiding place. Wolf hesitated.

      “God’s blessing on you,” he said at last, half-ashamed. He didn’t know if it was right to bless an elf.

      He reached forward. His fingers skated quickly over a bony back and shoulder, and closed around a thin arm.

      Wolf shuffled backwards and yanked her after him. Shuffle, yank. Shuffle, yank. He dragged her through the tunnel. He found himself talking to her in gasps. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It was a horrible thing to do. But she couldn’t stay here, could she? The pointed stones hurt his knees, and he kept cracking his head on the low roof. The elf-child didn’t struggle. She was as light and stiff as a dead bird. Fervently he hoped she hadn’t really died — of fright or the damage he was causing by tugging her over the rocks.

      The gradient changed, and he grunted and panted till he could turn around. It was much harder going up than it had been coming down. On hands and knees he hauled the elf-child up the shifting slope until soil and clay glued the stones together, the roof rose, and he could see a patch of grey night ahead. At last!

      “Sir?” he called. “Lord Hugo?”

      The entrance blackened and pinched small. Wolf heard grunts and curses. Hugo was crawling into the cave.

      “What happened? Were you afraid to come out?” He sounded impatient and suspicious. “There was never any elf, was there?

      “Yes there was,” Wolf panted. “Help me pull her out.”

      “Argos came out long ago. Pull her out? You mean you’ve got her?”

      “Yes.” Triumph vibrated in Wolf’s voice.

      “Splendour of God,” Hugo swore. He squeezed closer, breathing heavily. “Where? Could I get down there? Is it really the way to Elfland?”

      He was entirely blocking the passage. All the light vanished. Wolf felt a wave of suffocating panic.

      “What did you see?” Hugo whispered harshly.

      Wolf suppressed the urge to scream and thrash his way out. “I’ll tell you later — later,” he gasped. “Help me with her, please!”

      “Hand her up then,” Hugo commanded.

      Lying with his legs deep in the tunnel, Wolf dragged the child past his own body. She had curled into a tight, cold ball and was doing nothing to help herself. He felt her vanish upwards as Hugo pulled her away.

      Wolf followed as fast as he could. He scrambled into the fresh, open night. The rain fell on him like a blessing, and Argos pranced to meet him.

      Hugo turned, holding the elf-girl in his arms. “Well done! Well done,” he said fiercely. Then he threw back his head and yelled, a war cry that sent thrills down Wolf’s spine: “Rollo! Geraint! Roger! A moy, gens de la Motte Rouge! Men of the Red Mound, to me! Bring torches!”

      He strode down through the dark wood, shouting, and his men came crashing through the bushes to meet him, trailing spears and brandishing flaming sticks.

      “My lord? Lord Hugo?”

      “By the Holy Face, who’s with him? And what’s that?”

      “Wait till you see,” Hugo roared. “A better quarry than a wolf, men!” He shouldered his way out into the clearing, and dumped the child on the ground.

      The men, eight or nine of them, clustered around swearing incredulously and kicking away inquisitive dogs. Their makeshift torches were already flickering out in the wind, but the light of the sinking fire played over the elf-girl where she crouched at Lord Hugo’s feet, smeared with red mud, all sharp spine and bony ribs, her disfigured face hidden against her knees. Her sides heaved and sank, heaved and sank in rapid breaths. The weird puffball of matted hair looked as unreal as when Wolf had first seen her. On her fingers and toes, long brownish nails curled like claws.

      “By the bones of Saint Thomas, what is it?”

      “It’s a kiddie, eh?”

      “No kiddie ever looked like that.”

      “It’s an elf!” Hugo flung an arm around Wolf’s shoulders. “We were hunting elves as well as wolves, men, though we didn’t know it. There’s a cave under the cliff back there. One of the old, lost mines. It leads down to Elfland! Argos was lost inside. And this boy went in after him and brought out the elf.”

      Wolf swayed where he stood. The rain beat into his face and shoulders. He was deathly cold, but burning pride ran like hot metal through the marrow of his bones at Hugo’s praise. Surely — surely now there was a good chance Lord Hugo would make him a squire?

      The men growled. “Let it go, lord,” said one of them bluntly, to mutters of agreement. “It’s not safe to meddle with such things.”

      “Let it go? Splendour of God, no! Not for any danger. How many men, think you, have chased and caught an elf? Rollo, look after the boy.”

      “I’ve got him.” A rough hand gripped his arm. “Hey, you — hold up!”

      Wolf’s tired eyes jerked open. Kneeling beside the fire, some of the men were knotting the elf-girl into a cloak. He heard snatches of low-voiced, horrified conversation.

      “Say your prayers, boys — we’re bringing it home!”

      The man holding Wolf said into his ear, “Oh, you’ve done it now, young fellow. Do you know what you’ve done?”

      “Lord Hugo w-wanted me to find an elf,” Wolf mumbled.

      The man shook him: “So you look! Next time, you look, but you don’t find anything! Got that?”

      “Is Hugo mad?” A Welsh voice, hissing with disapproval. “Those old mines, they go right down to Annwn, to Elfland — and deeper for all I know: full of devils and ghosts and Duw knows what? This’ll bring bad luck: terrible luck. We’ll be riding home with the Wild Host on our heels.”

      “Shut up, Geraint,” said the man holding Wolf.

      “I’ll say what I like!” The Welsh voice again. “And I won’t touch a finger to the creature. Duw! I’d sooner touch a viper.”

      There was a pause.

      “What’ll we do with the clerk, Rollo?”

      “Hoist him up behind me,” Rollo grunted.

      Unfriendly hands boosted Wolf on to the wet hindquarters of a horse. He wrapped his arms around Rollo’s thick waist and clung on as they jounced downhill. They scrambled across a ditch and turned south with a ringing clatter of iron horseshoes along a straight, stone road.

      Wolf’s head