Engines of Alchemancy (The Alchemancer Book One)

Chapter 8. The Summoning

THEY EMERGED FROM THE FOREST into the center of a secluded copse. There were a dozen, all wearing dark robes with hoods drawn. One spoke.

"Erlek has failed," the speaker, a man, said. "The boy lives."

"Yes," said a woman. "He lives. He is on the run, but protected now."

"Then we must intervene," the first speaker said. "Simone, bring forth the horn."

One of the robed figures stepped forward and, with a delicate hand, raised an ivory horn that was twisted like a ram's. The bearer of the horn blew into it. Once, twice, and a third time, its piercing wail screeched out across the forested hills. As the sound faded, the morning returned to a silence that was complete and absolute. No sound of a breeze sifted through the trees. Nothing from the distant ocean. No sound at all until they heard the first howl. It started like a hound's, but rose in pitch until it became a piercing wail, much like the sound the horn had made. It lasted only a few seconds, then quiet returned. Moments later, the howl began anew, but this time, others joined it. Two howls, three, four, until a cacophony of so many rang out it was impossible to count them. They did not stop, but grew louder and closer.

The first hound materialized through a break in the trees, coming into the clearing on silent paws. It was not alone for long. Others arrived in twos and threes, appearing with slow, silent gaits. Long-legged and thick around with jaws that might snap a man's head off, they were bigger than any normal dog. Black and shadowed, as if their mere presence devoured the light, they kept their distance, but never stopped moving, pacing and glaring at the ones who had summoned them with eyes the color of blood. Where saliva dripped from hanging jowls, the grass sizzled, curled in on itself, and died.

Hounds of the Underland.

But not only the hounds. Their master followed, emerging from a mist that sprang up across the grove. He appeared as a man, tall and well-muscled, with dusky skin and leather trappings that covered him from the waist-down. His chest, shoulders, and arms were bare. On his head he wore a terrible, horned helm, the horns twisted and bent. Despite his closeness, the man's features remained obscured, a smudge of darkness which no light penetrated. Only his eyes—flame red pinpricks—shone through.

"You know who your prey is," the robed man said. "He has only a short lead on you. Bring him to ground quickly. Go now, but mark. Your hounds may feast all they wish on his body, but bring us the head. We would know for certain that he has expired. Any others you find with him are of no consequence. Do what you will with them."

The helm over the dark smudge of a face dipped in acknowledgement. Then, one by one, the hounds turned and melted away. Their master waited until the last had gone before he also turned and disappeared into the trees.

"As for Erlek," one figure said, "we shall wait and watch his progress. His time will come soon enough."

Like the houndmaster and his pack, the robed ones stepped back and faded until the clearing was as empty as it had been only minutes before.