The Dyrysgol Horror and Other Weird Tales. Edmund Glasby

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СКАЧАТЬ of the ground floor. Anything could lurk down here in the shadows, he thought.

      “I hope there’s a damned good reason for bringing us down here, Ravenwood,” said Hughes. “This place gives me the creeps.”

      “Nearly there. Just down this final flight of steps.”

      The steps in question were, if anything, even more worn and dangerous than those to the entrance to the dungeon, and on two occasions it was only by sheer luck that Owen did not fall headlong down them. They gathered at the bottom and the two policemen stared, slack-jawed at the sight before them.

      Illuminated in the torchlight, almost dominating the vaulted chamber they had entered, lay the skeletal, and indeed partially fossilised, remains of some prehistoric monster. Although it was difficult at first to ascertain its true outline amidst the jumble of yellow-aged bones, it was clear that this was no ordinary creature. Its sheer size alone ruled that out as a possibility.

      Shaking his head in stunned disbelief, Owen half-stumbled forward on legs that had become leaden. This was amazing! Unreal! He tried to shake the image before him from his perplexed eyes, as though it were nothing more than an illusion brought on by stress and exhaustion. He gripped his hands tightly together, feeling all reality, every trace and last vestige of sanity, crumbling away beneath his feet, dropping away from under him like an avalanche of hard facts and nightmare. He searched his mind frantically, madly, for a rational explanation. Something for his spinning mind to hold onto, an anchor to steady himself.

      “Look at those teeth.” Hughes had now taken the torch from Ravenwood and was shining the beam directly at the monstrous skull, which rested atop a vertebrae-ridged spine, the neck longer than any giraffe’s. He trailed the beam of the torch down, taking in every detail, every bone and protrusion. “And those claws. Good God!”

      “This, gentleman, is the remains of the first wyvern. It has lain here for over thirteen hundred years, ever since my ancestor, the first of the Ravenwoods, slew it. Since that time, it has always been the duty—and to some extent the curse—of the Ravenwoods, to kill it. I’ve done years of research on the subject, and I now know the secret behind its existence. Whenever a male heir of the Ravenwood line reaches the age of forty, a new wyvern will hatch, spreading fear and horror until it is killed. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve never married. Hopefully when my line dies out, so will the monster’s. The question is, just how are we going to find it?”

      A sudden idea came to Owen.

      * * * *

      Dusk was still an hour or so away, when Owen and Ravenwood saw the two approaching vehicles. That in front was the viscount’s car driven by Franklins. Behind it, churning up mud, bounced a large tractor pulling a farmyard trailer.

      “Well,” said Ravenwood. “I hope to God that this plan of yours works. For not only has it cost me a pretty penny, but more importantly, I don’t think there are many more nights that the wyvern will fly before the next full moon. This might be our last night, our last chance to get it before it goes into a month-long hibernation.”

      “It’s as good a plan as any. What with the alternative being a full-scale search of all the possible places where it could hide. This area is riddled with old mine shafts, ruined mills, caves, and goodness knows what else. We could spend a year combing the area and still not find it.”

      “You may be right.” Ravenwood winced at the distinct animal stench that wafted out from the trailer, which had now parked up nearby. From inside, came the sound of bleating sheep. “I hope your men don’t mind getting their hands dirty,” he said, a wry grin on his face.

      * * * *

      From the bushes, Owen watched the moon come up from behind the castle; a great skull-white disc that glared down out of the star-strewn heavens like a huge, watching, evil eye witnessing their every move. His heart pounded in his chest and his mouth was dry, and he was afraid.

      It was the waiting that was the most terrible part of it; having to sit out there in the long and clinging silence, which seemed to throb in his ears, almost tangibly. He could do nothing to force the fear away, knowing that they were waiting in ambush for something abominable. Something seemed to clamp down upon his brain, allowing the horror and the black fear to rise a little higher, to grow a little stronger, until now he could hardly bear it. He thought grimly of the black thing that hovered somewhere up there in the dark sky, waiting to make its nightmare plunge. But there was nothing there. Nothing moved in the deep pools of ebony shadow. No sound. No movement. Nothing. He breathed in deeply, striving vaguely to still the sudden hammering of his heart and the violent pumping of the blood in his veins.

      The stench from the scattered sheep viscera was repugnant, and he felt a little twinge of sympathy for the two remaining live animals which were tethered in its midst. Still, if the bait worked, it will have been worth it, he thought.

      He almost jumped when Ravenwood grabbed his shoulder and pointed. He looked up, and there, silhouetted against the moon, he saw it! A chill of utter horror ran down his spine. It clutched at his body with ripping, seeking fingers, and it was only with a great mental effort that he stopped himself from screaming out loud.

      The winged monstrosity circled lazily overhead before starting a descent, its twin claws extended. It swooped down like some hellish bird of prey and plucked one of the sheep from the ground before taking to the wing once more.

      “We have to try and lure it down,” whispered Ravenwood, his longbow in hand. “If we can get it near enough, I will be able to shoot it.”

      It had clearly devoured the first sheep in mid-flight, for Owen could see that it was now preparing itself for a second dive. This would probably be their last chance. With an insane compulsion, he broke from the cover of the bushes and ran out into the open, waving his hands and shouting at the top of his voice.

      Hellish, lambent red eyes fixed on him from high above. For a fleeting moment, he was the rabbit in the eyes of the hawk. And then it plummeted towards him, its wings outstretched and membranous, horn-like spurs at their tips.

      At that moment, Ravenwood and the two constables charged into the clearing. The viscount launched an arrow, and then a second whilst the policemen discharged their shotguns, which Franklins had purchased from the farmer earlier that day. Caught in the crossfire, the wyvern whirled and spun, its poison-barbed tail lashing at the air and dripping venom.

      Owen scrambled clear. “Shoot it! Kill it!” he hollered.

      The wyvern landed on its two legs and turned to face Hughes and Jones. It screeched directly at them. Its voice—the voice of the dark and its power over the light—sent a wave of fear through the two constables, for it touched upon the primal fears buried in the marrow of all living creatures. Their knees buckled under them and they fell screaming to the ground, covering their ears with trembling hands. And in that moment, it flapped towards them. Its huge jaws clamped around Hughes and, shaking him from side-to-side, it tossed his headless body away.

      It was just about to snap down on Jones, when another arrow struck into its left flank, causing it to spin round and face the advancing archer. A second arrow sunk deep in its chest, drawing a further snarl of rage and anger from it.

      Suddenly the terrible carnage was illuminated in ghastly detail as Franklins turned on the headlights of his car and came speeding towards it.

      Owen stifled a cry as he saw the reptilian horror turn to face the oncoming vehicle. He felt helpless, unable to intervene, rooted to the spot. Paralysed, all he could do was watch through horror-filled eyes.

      And СКАЧАТЬ