The Dyrysgol Horror and Other Weird Tales. Edmund Glasby
others’ faces, he decided that further information was warranted. “The wyvern is a monster. A creature long thought mythological and relegated to the realm of folklore. It’s similar in several ways to a dragon and has often been mistaken for one. It has but two legs and it also possesses a fearsome, poisonous barbed sting on the end of its tail. Legend states that the venom kills almost instantly and there is no known antidote. You will find its image displayed on countless shields within this very castle, and indeed, it is the old national emblem of Wales.”
Owen and Hughes exchanged disbelieving looks.
“It’s this monster which is terrorising Dyrysgol. I should know, for not only have I seen it, but—but it is my duty in life to slay it. I was there yesterday evening, when it attacked the doctor. Alas, I was unable to save him.”
“Can I stop you there?” Owen raised an interjecting hand. “Lord Ravenwood, please forgive me if I sound a little brusque, but try and see this from where we’re sitting. Wouldn’t you agree that what you’re saying sounds more than a trifle odd? I mean, do you fully expect us to believe that there’s a winged monster flying around out there, snatching people up and devouring them?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Inspector.” There was an intensity in the man’s eyes. “And more will fall victim to it, unless we, or rather I, stop it.”
“And just assuming that this thing does exist, where can it be found?” inquired Hughes, his question asked without much true interest. He reached for one of the sandwiches and began to munch into it. In his mind, at least, the viscount was stark raving mad. But why not humour the man for a moment? Besides, he was enjoying the sandwiches.
Ravenwood pondered this question for a moment. “Unfortunately, I don’t know. Don’t you think that if I did, I would have tried to kill it before now?” He put down his coffee cup. “There are a few locations that I have yet to explore. But to tell you the truth, it could be virtually anywhere. It will have laired itself somewhere secluded. Somewhere where it can hide and rest, only coming out on the nights around the full moon to hunt and kill its prey.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m still finding all of this very hard to believe,” said Owen. “You talk about a monster straight out of the Dark Ages, and expect us to join you on some dragon-slaying mission as though this were normal. It’s not normal, Lord Ravenwood. It’s preposterous. Now, if you’d said there was an escaped bear from a travelling circus on the loose—”
“You have a piece of wing.”
“This could be anything,” retorted Hughes. “I’ll admit I don’t know what it is, but I sure as hell don’t think that it’s part of any dragon.” He sneered derisively and looked at his Inspector.
“I told you, it’s not a dragon.”
“No, it’s a wyvern. Isn’t that right, Lord Ravenwood?” There was a tone of contempt and mockery now in Owen’s voice. Things were becoming farcical. He was a detective inspector, with a trained, rational mind. He did not believe in the existence of things that he could not see or detect, or understand for that matter. “You’ll be telling me next that the thing is immune to bullets or something, won’t you?”
“That’s correct. Like many creatures of the night, it’s impervious to most forms of modern weaponry.”
“Ah, hence the archery and the sword-fighting. Yes, I’m beginning to see now.”
“Inspector, it’s clear that not only are you trying to ridicule me, but that you don’t believe a word I’m telling you. It’s also clear that you’ll soon charge me on some grounds or other in connection with the disappearances. After all, you now have proof to link me incontrovertibly with one of the crime scenes. This leaves me with no alternative but to show you something that I have taken great steps to conceal from the outside world ever since I inherited the castle.” Ravenwood rose from his chair. “If you’ll follow me.”
The two policemen got up and followed Ravenwood as he led them out of the study, back along the main corridor into the hall and then down a further passage which headed deeper into the castle. It was as they were following him, that Owen began to realise the immensity of the building, with its labyrinthine turns and twists, and countless doors leading to an unknown number of rooms. Many of the walls were decorated with paintings and portraits of dour-faced individuals, who stared out at them, sinisterly.
Eventually they arrived at what looked like an old dungeon door.
Removing a key from his pocket, the viscount inserted it into the lock and turned it. There was an audible click and he pushed the door wide, revealing a set of very old steps, worn deeply with age, which led down into what appeared, at first sight, to be a dank cellar from which several other subterranean passages radiated. Taking a torch, which hung on the wall, he switched it on and proceeded down. At the bottom, he took the tunnel on his left. It sloped down steeply.
Their dark shadows flitted ghost-like over the walls as they ventured deeper into the bowels of the castle. Owen was feeling uneasy, claustrophobic, in the dank dungeons. There was an eerie feel, an oddness that soaked into his being, surging along the nerves and fibres of his body. Silence screamed at him and his mind screamed silently in return. His inner sense was telling him to flee from this place, to turn around and run, back up the steps, to the relative safety 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,”