At the left-hand side was a thick sheet of ice which was almost a cliff-face, surmounted by more heavy forest at the summit. There was obviously only one way to go, and Coleridge led to the right, moving steadily downhill all the time between two big stands of trees. They were off the line of the hunt, but that could not be helped.
Tumbled boulders were flung about in this bleak place, and the wind funnelled down from the far summit, making their ears numb and stinging the eyes. Coleridge could hear a faint howling in the distance, but whether it emanated from the hounds or from the prey they were seeking he could not make out. Abercrombie caught his eye and increased his pace a little.
They were still going steeply downhill, the great rolling landscape leading them inexorably onward. To either side windswept slopes reared, crowned by thick clumps of dark trees. It was a drear sight, and gradually the light seemed to be leaching from the sky until they were in a condition of twilight. The howling was louder, and Coleridge’s companion looked anxiously about him.
‘Perhaps Rakosi has run them to ground,’ he said. ‘We would not have known down here.’
‘Which means they may be driving the wolves in our direction,’ said Coleridge grimly.
They paused halfway down the slope, conscious of the dark gorge that gaped before them. It was full of blue-black twilight with the mouths of caves halfway up the rocky slopes. The hill on which they stood ran directly into this vast cleft, with cliffs at either side ascending vertically for about two hundred feet. A few yards more and they saw that the far end was barred by more frowning crags, impassable and coated with ice.
The place was an enormous cul-de-sac from which there was no escape. As they stood undecided there came another mournful howling that was taken up from the thick forest that surrounded the entrance to the gorge and spread in a wide horseshoe to encompass all three sides of the valley.
Abercrombie stared bleakly at the great shattered cleft before them.
‘The Place of the Skull,’ he said.
CHAPTER 28: THE BEAR
They picked their way down the slope, the freezing wind plucking at the skirts of their heavy clothing. Coleridge’s breath was reeking from his mouth, and his extremities felt numb despite the heavy flapped fur cap he wore. He rubbed his nose to make sure of his circulation; he did not want frostbite under any circumstances.
They were in among the tangled mass of boulders now. It was shadowy here and a place with sinister connotations, but, as Abercrombie had pointed out, they had little choice. They were trapped and defenceless on the open slope, even with the rifles, if wolves should appear.
But if they could climb up the side of the gorge they could at least hold off any marauding pack until help arrived. It was sound advice, and Coleridge hoped that they would have time to find a suitable refuge before the first of the beasts approached.
That they would do so within minutes was obvious, as the whole object of the beat was to drive all the wolves in the vicinity on to the guns of the Count’s party.
The dry rustling of branches in the wind seemed like the padding paws of the pack to the savant’s overheated imagination, and he was again grateful for the doctor’s presence. It was a fluke of circumstance, and ironic, as Coleridge was supposed to be taking care of Abercrombie in his semi-invalid condition.
The two men walked quickly and in silence, occupied with brooding thoughts. They were through the boulders and came out on a fairly flat space before jumbled scree heralded a steep slope that led up to a series of caves under the lip of the gorge. The caves were at the end of the cul-de-sac and so commanded the whole view of the valley they were traversing. Abercrombie was leading now, and he gave a brief exclamation as they came out into the open.
Coleridge hurried to his side and soon saw what had attracted his attention: heavy footprints, despite the thickness of the ice, which led to a dark huddled figure on the snow. The two men hurried forward after giving worried glances around the horizon. Nothing moved for the moment, but there would not be much time.
The man was obviously dead; his neck was dislocated, judging by the bizarre angle at which it was inclined, and his clothes were torn and bloody. Handing his rifle to Coleridge, Abercrombie nevertheless knelt down and made a thorough examination. As the distorted face came into view, Coleridge was astonished to see it was that of the gypsy at the Fair to whom Nadia had given money.
Abercrombie shook his head grimly and let the big man fall back to the snow.
‘Dead.’
‘But what is he doing here?’
‘Simple,’ Abercrombie shrugged. ‘Acting as a paid retainer for the Count’s party. A number of the gypsies were pressed into service. Perhaps he started off early hoping for an extra bounty if he shot the wolf we were seeking.’
He pointed to the gypsy’s rifle which lay, barrel twisted and stock splintered, some yards from the body.
‘What wolf would do that?’ Coleridge asked.
Abercrombie laughed harshly back in his throat, getting to his feet. He took his own rifle from his companion and again scanned the horizon.
The shadows were longer on the ground now, and the chill wind blew with an intensity that seemed to freeze the heart. Coleridge thought that he had never known so sinister a place; every hope seemed blighted here. All his instincts were against going into the depths of the gorge, perhaps, like the Count’s ancestor, to their deaths at the jaws of wolves. But he also knew that was the only way to safety, as Abercrombie had already pointed out.
The latter shook his head, answering his companion’s question.
‘No wolf did. That was the bear. See the big tracks there. The gypsy thought to profit by the poor brute even under these circumstances. The bear would lead him to the wolves. And be added protection if they were attacked. Wolves usually give bears a wide berth, even in packs.’
Coleridge stared silently at the remains of the rifle.
‘The bear seized his chance of revenge. He had a cruel master and preferred the freedom of the woods. This gorge seems remarkably fortuitous for the oppressed, does it not.’
Abercrombie smiled cynically, as though he relished the situation. Following his eyes Coleridge saw that the bear’s chain and halter were lying some yards from the body. The links had been torn apart as though they had been made of paper.
‘I do not blame the poor beast,’ Abercrombie went on. ‘It has probably gone off into the woods to find some snug cave and rest out the winter. I will not harm it. I rather approve of its moral attitude.’
‘Supposing it has taken shelter in the caves we are going to,’ said Coleridge.
Abercrombie shook his head. He pointed out the heavy tracks in the snow that went up the more shallow slope, back toward the valley they had left.
‘He has gone that way. He will be miles off by now. Good luck to him.’
As he spoke there came a faint howling sound which sent alarm coursing through Coleridge. Abercrombie had heard it too, because he turned on his heel.
‘The wolves! We have but a few minutes left. Quickly! Run for the cave.’
CHAPTER 29: THE FIGHT IN THE GORGE
The first group of wolves came pouring over the ridge, sniffing suspiciously, their heads held back. From the shelter of the cave to which they had hastily scrambled, Coleridge could see the white sharpness of the canines. They were running mute now, and as the first of the beasts gained the entrance to the gorge more followed, some standing sentinel on the slope above.
The professor’s throat was dry, and he could feel his fingers trembling slightly on the stock of the rifle. Abercrombie looked at him sympathetically.
‘This is my fault, Professor. I am sorry. If I had been more agile, we could have caught up with the others.’
Coleridge shook his head.
‘It is no-one’s fault except my own. I was in charge of the left wing of the guns. It is a mistake which is likely to cost us dear.’
He shot a grim look at his companion.
‘You have not forgotten the Count’s story. This is the place where Ivan the Bold massacred the villagers. And where he and his two companions were themselves eaten by such a pack as that below us.’
He looked down to where the first of the wolves had drawn together near the mass of scree at the foot of the steep slope leading to the cave, bonded now with ice and snow. Their eyes glittered yellow and alien as they stared up at the two men.
Abercrombie slapped the butt of his rifle with a great crack that went echoing round the gorge.
‘That was centuries ago, Professor. They had only knives. And we have high-powered rifles. Besides, the others will be here soon.’
‘They will be if they know,’ Coleridge replied. ‘I have been greatly remiss.’
He quickly raised the rifle, held the heavy weapon out at arm’s length, and rested the stock on the heap of boulders that rimmed the cave while letting off four shots in quick succession. The wolves scattered, howling, at the foot of the slope, and the whole cave seemed full of smoke. The detonation went echoing and reechoing like thunder across the miles of countryside.
Abercrombie kept his eye on the wolves huddled in the gorge below, leaning easily on his rifle barrel. Something like admiration passed over his face.
‘You are certainly a cool companion in a tight corner, Professor.’
Coleridge shook his head.
‘I fear not,’ he said. ‘If you did but know I am pure jelly within.’
Abercrombie chuckled, his teeth gleaming in his beard.
‘Well, that is honest enough. But you surely do not think I feel any different? This is a serious situation right enough, and there is no minimising it.’
He looked down morosely to the bottom of the gorge. A huge wolf, evidently the pack-leader which had mottled fur and heavy teeth-marks in its right shoulder, was already picking its way over the bonded scree, testing out a likely route to the cave. The forerunners of the pack were spread out in a semicircle now, staring up at the trapped men. Their eyes were like sinister brilliants which kept an unwavering glance upon them. Coleridge remembered then that few men were able to outstare the wolf.
He could see still more of the brutes crowding over the ridge. There must have been at least twenty or thirty of them, an exceptionally large pack if he remembered his research on the animal.
‘Far enough, I think,’ Abercrombie said calmly.
He had torn off a small rock from the icy parapet in front of them and threw it at the pack-leader. It landed a foot or two from the brute’s nose, splintering some rock and ice particles about it. The wolf awkwardly jumped sideways, to avoid the missile, and gave a howl. Then it was slithering and sliding helplessly down to the bottom again. As the doctor raised the rifle, it squirmed behind a rock with astonishing swiftness.
‘There is your werewolf, Professor,’ Abercrombie said thoughtfully.
Coleridge disagreed.
‘I think not. The beast I saw was very distinctive. Darkish, certainly, but with a long grey patch on its back. This is not the one.’
‘Well, it will have to do for the time being,’ Abercrombie said drily. ‘And I fancy this is the signal for attack.’
He had no sooner spoken than the great wolf stepped from behind the boulder and gave a long drawn-out howl. As if the pack-leader’s silence had been the only thing restraining them, the wolves started milling over the ridge, racing down the slope with a scattering of loose ice to join their companions.
The big leader was back in the shelter of the boulder, but the others came on in a semicircle, running mute. Then there broke out a concentrated howling that made Coleridge sick to hear. He glanced desperately round the great horseshoe slope opposite, but there was nothing now except for the trampled snow, the dark sky with the darker forest, and far off, a mere smudge against the horizon, the silhouettes of two great black birds that winged their way eastward.
Abercrombie’s rifle cracked then, and the brutes, howling, ears flat back and eyes gleaming viciously, were slipping and scrabbling up the slope toward them.
Coleridge’s ears were deafened by the rifle explosions in the close confines of the cave; his cheeks were stung by powder-smoke, and sweat ran down into his eyes. Still the wave of great grey brutes came on. Mingled with Coleridge’s admiration for their courage was his surprise at the slight impression he and Abercrombie seemed to be making on their ranks.
The body of one animal remained motionless where it had slithered to the bottom of the ravine; three others had limped away licking their wounds while the rest still advanced. The two men were working too close to use the rifles effectively; the cave entrance was small and they tended to get in each other’s way and, most vital of all, they had little time to reload.
Once, the leading wave of three wolves had got dangerously near to the cave entrance when Abercrombie had reversed his rifle and laid about him, sending them howling from top to bottom of the gorge. At that moment the Scottish doctor had appeared to his companion like some heroic figure out of Norse legend, and it was an image that was to remain with him for a long time.
There was a lull now while the wolves snarled and glowered at the bottom of the slope. The remainder of the pack still stood in a semicircle, looking upward, but there was no sign of the leader.
Coleridge wondered why they had attacked at all; it was alarmingly reminiscent of Homolky’s story of Ivan and his companions. Almost as though some malignant force had swept the pack over this ridge and on to the two men trapped within the frowning walls of the gorge. Wolves were highly intelligent animals, and they must surely know that a great mass of men was beating the woods to drive them on to the guns.
Yet here they were concerned only in pulling down and killing two lone men who were nevertheless heavily armed, while they might have made good their escape through the gap formed by this difficult terrain. They were not even hungry so far as Coleridge could ascertain; he was not an expert, but all the animals seemed well nourished and not at all suffering from mange or starvation.
There was another strange thing too, which underlined the respect felt between man and beast. Both Coleridge and Abercrombie could easily have picked off the wolves as they sat at the foot of the slope, yet something within themselves prevented them from doing this; they preferred to wait until the animals were closer and their lives were in danger before firing.
The pack itself seemed to know this, for they were quite content to remain below; but as soon as a rifle was levelled in the direction of any one individual, the threatened beast would flatten itself to the ground and wriggle aside.
Abercrombie broke the silence as if he could read the professor’s thoughts.
‘Have you noticed how they sense danger when we point the barrels at them?’ He laughed harshly.
‘We must be mad, Coleridge. We do not even shoot them while we may, without danger to ourselves.’
Coleridge smiled grimly, seating himself on the parapet of boulders and keeping a sharp eye on the wolves.
‘You have remarkable intuition, Doctor. I was just thinking the selfsame thing. I have an inhibition about killing any living creature. You as a practising doctor have no such scruples, I should imagine.’
He joined in the doctor’s laughter, which broke the tension.
‘I did not mean to imply any lack of professional standards on your part, as must be apparent. But I am sure you know what I mean.’
Abercrombie nodded, raking his eyes over the massed pack below.
‘I understand perfectly, Professor. It is true I have a respect for the wolf, as well as what is sometimes miscalled the British sporting instinct. If we were really on the point of death, I think you would see a more ruthless side to my nature.’
He turned his pockets out, setting the cardboard ammunition boxes on the boulders.
‘How are your cartridges lasting?’
‘I have plenty for the moment,’ Coleridge said.
He scanned the slowly darkening horizon.
‘I cannot understand why the others have not yet arrived. Our shots must have carried for miles.’
Abercrombie shrugged.
‘Perhaps they have their own problems to contend with.’
Coleridge’s ears were still ringing with the concussion of the shots within the narrow confines of the cave, but he now distinctly heard the faint, far distant echo his companion had already caught. They were rifle shots.
‘So they may not get here in time,’ he said.
Abercrombie made a wry expression with his mouth.
‘The moment for chivalry is past.’
He lifted the rifle, but at the same instant a tremendous howling broke out. The entire pack launched itself forward, scrabbling and sliding with a ferocity Coleridge had never seen before. He was aware only of white jaws, yellow eyes, red tongues and mouths, as he fired into the thick of the press with a sort of madness on him.
He was vaguely conscious of Abercrombie at his side; halfblinded with the flashes, deafened by the concussion, and blackened with powder-smoke, he found himself out of ammunition and no time to reload.
He used the rifle as a club, prodding the barrel into hairy chests and mouths, then listened to the snarls of pain and anger as he reached for the pistol at his side.
He was firing all six chambers into the grey mass when he felt a slacking of the press. The pack broke, drew back a little; then there came a faint pattering like a stick being drawn across a fence. The hot breath of the nearest brute had been almost fanning Coleridge’s cheek. Now the animal stood rigid and then fell, stiffly, all four paws out. It was dead before it reached the bottom of the slope.
Abercrombie rose to his full height as the attack wavered and clubbed the nearest brute with the butt of his rifle; he seemed half-wolf himself at that moment. Another animal fell, then another. They had turned and were fleeing to the bottom of the slope, falling over one another in their anxiety to escape.
Now Coleridge could hear the hounds. He saw the source of the timely interruption: the upper slope below the tree-line was black with figures. On the ridge to their left above the cave he made out Raglan, firing at close-range into the pack on the floor of the gorge. Behind him was the tall, lean figure of the Count. And on the far slope, Rakosi, on horseback, spurring on his troop.
The wolves were dispersing individually, fleeing precipitously between the trees, making difficult targets for the rifles of the Castle party, pursued by the dogs. Behind, on the slopes and at the bottom of the gorge, were the scattered bodies of the slaughtered wolves. Coleridge was astonished to see there were only some half dozen or so.
He was conscious of falling; all the strength seemed to have gone from his legs. Abercrombie was at his elbow; he caught the rifle with one hand before it went down the slope. His left was under the professor’s arm. He half pulled, half dragged him to sit on the jumbled boulders, forced the flask of cognac between his teeth.
Coleridge spluttered as the fiery liquid coursed its way down. Abercrombie took the flask away and put it to his own mouth. He was barely recognisable; his face blackened and streaked with smoke in which perspiration had ingrained long rivulets. Coleridge realised he must look little better.
Abercrombie replaced the cap on the neck of the flask with a flourish.
‘I think we are safe now, Professor,’ he said.