Christopher Golden - The Veil 01 - The Myth Hunters by The Myth Hunters Page A
Authors: The Myth Hunters
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choice but to pursue it. If one man had gone through the Veil and lived, then it could be done again.
So involved was he in these thoughts that he did not notice at first that his companions had stopped, and he took two long strides past them before coming to a halt himself. They had crested the top of the hill with those ragged, bent trees on either side of the Truce Road, and he was about to ask what had prompted them to stop when he saw it. On the eastern side of the road the scrub brush gave way to sand.
Nothing but sand.
It stretched for nearly a mile, sculpted into large dunes that seemed almost like waves on an ocean, all of them leading up to the base of an enormous walled fortress, with a castle rising up from the keep at the center.
And all of it made of sand.
Against the blue painted sky, the sand seemed almost golden.
“It’s . . . I never . . .” Oliver muttered.
But his awe was crushed by the winter man’s next words. “This is troubling,” Frost said, his tone as chilling as his touch.
Oliver began to ask what he meant, but as he did so he turned and saw that it was not the sight of the Sandmen’s castle that had caused his companions to stop. Kitsune left the Truce Road, no trace of her passing in the dirt, and walked into the trees. As she stared upward, she did a curious thing. Kitsune raised her hood to hide her face.
Impaled upon a thick tree limb was a withered, gnarled old man clad in green so dark it was nearly black. Where the branch had burst out of his chest his shirt was torn and broken bones jutted out. Only there was no blood. Instead, sand had spilled from the wound. Even now, as the wind swirled around him, it sifted from his corpse and scattered the ground. There were heavy boots on his feet that seemed made of rough iron.
Kitsune dropped to one knee at the base of the tree and picked up something red. She spread it open with her fingers and Oliver saw that it was some kind of hat.
“What is it?” he asked, afraid that he knew the answer.
“One of the Sandmen,” Frost replied, gaze shifting from the impaled creature over to the distant castle and then back again.
“So . . . what now?”
The winter man turned to him, then away. And then he started walking.
“We go and see if any are left alive, and give what help we may.”
Oliver stared after him. He glanced at Kitsune, but she did not even look at him as she pulled her cloak more tightly around her and started after Frost.
“What if the Hunters are still there?” Oliver asked, for certainly that was what had happened here. The Sandmen were Borderkind. If one of them had been murdered, he couldn’t imagine any other reason.
“Then there may be time to save some of the Bloody Caps. Every Borderkind who is killed is an ally we have lost. If the Hunters are still at the castle, then we must fight them.”
An image of the Falconer swam into Oliver’s mind and he felt sick.
“I don’t suppose either one of you carries a gun.”
Neither Frost nor Kitsune bothered to reply. They simply kept walking toward the sand dunes— that magical desert so out of place in this landscape— and the fortress beyond. Oliver wished he had a weapon. Any weapon. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was go up to that castle.
He glanced at the creature impaled upon that tree, and at the red cap on the side of the dirt road.
Then he ran to catch up.
CHAPTER 5
N ot even a triple espresso could make Ted Halliwell happy this morning. Kitteridge, Maine, was a beautiful town, replete with both wealth and the culture that had made it an artists’ colony for decades before the artists couldn’t afford to live there anymore. Their work was still shown in the galleries, but the artists themselves lived inland, or much farther north.
This
So involved was he in these thoughts that he did not notice at first that his companions had stopped, and he took two long strides past them before coming to a halt himself. They had crested the top of the hill with those ragged, bent trees on either side of the Truce Road, and he was about to ask what had prompted them to stop when he saw it. On the eastern side of the road the scrub brush gave way to sand.
Nothing but sand.
It stretched for nearly a mile, sculpted into large dunes that seemed almost like waves on an ocean, all of them leading up to the base of an enormous walled fortress, with a castle rising up from the keep at the center.
And all of it made of sand.
Against the blue painted sky, the sand seemed almost golden.
“It’s . . . I never . . .” Oliver muttered.
But his awe was crushed by the winter man’s next words. “This is troubling,” Frost said, his tone as chilling as his touch.
Oliver began to ask what he meant, but as he did so he turned and saw that it was not the sight of the Sandmen’s castle that had caused his companions to stop. Kitsune left the Truce Road, no trace of her passing in the dirt, and walked into the trees. As she stared upward, she did a curious thing. Kitsune raised her hood to hide her face.
Impaled upon a thick tree limb was a withered, gnarled old man clad in green so dark it was nearly black. Where the branch had burst out of his chest his shirt was torn and broken bones jutted out. Only there was no blood. Instead, sand had spilled from the wound. Even now, as the wind swirled around him, it sifted from his corpse and scattered the ground. There were heavy boots on his feet that seemed made of rough iron.
Kitsune dropped to one knee at the base of the tree and picked up something red. She spread it open with her fingers and Oliver saw that it was some kind of hat.
“What is it?” he asked, afraid that he knew the answer.
“One of the Sandmen,” Frost replied, gaze shifting from the impaled creature over to the distant castle and then back again.
“So . . . what now?”
The winter man turned to him, then away. And then he started walking.
“We go and see if any are left alive, and give what help we may.”
Oliver stared after him. He glanced at Kitsune, but she did not even look at him as she pulled her cloak more tightly around her and started after Frost.
“What if the Hunters are still there?” Oliver asked, for certainly that was what had happened here. The Sandmen were Borderkind. If one of them had been murdered, he couldn’t imagine any other reason.
“Then there may be time to save some of the Bloody Caps. Every Borderkind who is killed is an ally we have lost. If the Hunters are still at the castle, then we must fight them.”
An image of the Falconer swam into Oliver’s mind and he felt sick.
“I don’t suppose either one of you carries a gun.”
Neither Frost nor Kitsune bothered to reply. They simply kept walking toward the sand dunes— that magical desert so out of place in this landscape— and the fortress beyond. Oliver wished he had a weapon. Any weapon. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was go up to that castle.
He glanced at the creature impaled upon that tree, and at the red cap on the side of the dirt road.
Then he ran to catch up.
CHAPTER 5
N ot even a triple espresso could make Ted Halliwell happy this morning. Kitteridge, Maine, was a beautiful town, replete with both wealth and the culture that had made it an artists’ colony for decades before the artists couldn’t afford to live there anymore. Their work was still shown in the galleries, but the artists themselves lived inland, or much farther north.
This
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