“Loki?” Krampus asked in a hushed voice. “Loki . . . are you there?” The sack fell silent and stilled. Tears welled in Krampus’s eyes. “Loki?” Krampus watched the dark stain of his blood bloom across the fabric, tendrils of swirling blackness swimming and intertwining like a nest of eels until at last the sack changed from crimson to black.
He wiped his eyes and smiled. “One drop. But one drop of my blood is all it took. How many casks of blood did it cost you, Santa Claus?” He laughed. The sack remembered, because the sack wanted to remember. And the first wrong has been put right, the first of many. And the first drop of blood has been spilled, the first of many . . . the prelude to a flood.
He swayed, noticed his hands were shaking, and his smile turned into a grimace. He clasped them together, tried to steady himself. He felt strong hands on him, propping him up. Isabel. “Will it work?” she asked. “Will the sack find the key?”
“I am the master of the sack. Let us just hope I have strength enough to command it.”
He needed the sack to shift, to seek, to find the key, then open a new door. All of this had been so easy before, when he was a virile, robust spirit, but now, now the sack would exact a heavy toll, as such magic did not come without a price. He looked at his quivering hands, his frail, feeble arms and legs. I have nothing left to give. He realized the effort could very well end him. A wry smile crept across his face. And if you do not retrieve the key? What then?
He clasped the sack. “I am used up, my old friend. I need your help.” He closed his eyes and envisioned the key, held it clearly in his mind. If he had known the location, then he could’ve steered the sack, made the finding easier, the cost less severe. But he only knew the key, and so the sack would have to search, and it would use his spirit, his energy, to do so.
He felt a charge and the sack pulsed faintly in his hand. He saw the cosmos, then clouds, then forest—shooting over them at the speed of a meteor—then trees, a vast lake, then its depths, finally the muddy lake bottom.
“The key . . . I see it!” Krampus cried, and opened his eyes. He swooned and slumped in Isabel’s arms. The cave slipped in and out of focus as he fought to hold on to consciousness. He knew if he passed out now he wouldn’t come back, not in time.
He reached for the sack, got his fingers around the mouth, and shoved in his hand. His hand entered water, cold water. He pushed deeper until his whole arm was in the bag. His fingers found the lake bed, clawed the mud and clay, pawing, digging, trying to locate the key. His hand bumped something rigid. He clutched the object and slid his arm from the sack.
His arm and hand were soaking wet. He opened his palm and there, among the mud and pebbles . . . a key. Krampus wiped away the clay, revealing the same ancient Dwarven symbols as those on the manacle. The key wasn’t even tarnished; it, like the hated chain about his neck, was cast from healing ores, lost smithing arts of the Dwarven kingdom, metals that mended themselves. No matter how long one tried to cut through them, or grind them away, they always stayed whole. And none could attest to their powers more than he.
He kissed the key. “My freedom.”
He clasped the manacle in one hand, found the lock, and tried to insert the key. His hand shook so badly that he fumbled and the key fell from his fingers.
“Here,” Isabel said, and picked up the key. “Let me.”
“No!” he cried, then softer. “I have waited five hundred years for this. Have dreamed of this moment ten thousand times. I must be the one.”
He took the key from her, hesitated, trying to steady himself as his vision blurred. He found the lock, inserted the key, and turned it. There came a simple, unremarkable click and the manacle popped open. Five hundred years of imprisonment ended with a simple click. He pulled it from around his neck, gave it a final, spiteful look, and chucked it to the dirt.
He looked around the cave, his prison, at the blackened walls that held him, at the maps he’d used to track Santa, at the thousand pictures of Santa Claus, at the filth, the bones, until his eyes fell on the Belsnickels. He smiled at them. “I am free,” he said hoarsely. “I am free.” Then his eyes rolled up in his head and darkness took him.
“IS HE DEAD?” Vernon asked, sounding hopeful.
“I don’t think so,” Isabel said.
“No,” Makwa added with absolute conviction.
“No?” Vernon’s shoulders slumped. “No, of course not. Couldn’t be that easy.”
Krampus crumpled into a lifeless ball. Isabel shook him gently. He didn’t respond. The creature looked dead to Jesse, more than dead, like something that had been in the ground a couple of months.
Isabel hopped to her feet, jumped over to a pile of tattered blankets, yanked one out, and brought it over to where Krampus lay. “What are you guys waiting for? Let’s get him out of here.” The three Shawnee leapt into action, wrapping Krampus in the blanket. Makwa hefted the creature up onto his shoulder and headed for the shaft.
Vernon shifted through a pile of tools, dug out two shotgun shells. “Is this all we have left?” No one seemed to have an answer. “Damn, I told all of you we needed something around here besides bows and arrows. Does anyone ever listen to me? Wait, I’ll answer that. No, no they don’t.”
Isabel grabbed the velvet sack, pushed Jesse toward the shaft. “Time to skedaddle.”
“Any idea what we’re doing?” Vernon asked. “I mean, is there any sort of plan here?”
No one answered him.
“Didn’t think so,” Vernon sighed, pocketed the shells, and clambered up after them.
THE STARS GREETED Jesse as he crawled out from the boulders. The night had cleared and the moon cast shadows across the snow.
“I’m afraid those birds will have no problem spotting us now,” Vernon said.
They skirted the edge of a large clearing and a wide expanse of sky opened up above them. “Stop,” called a weak, raspy voice. Krampus opened his eyes; they were glassy like those of a man after a two-day drunk. “Mani.” He sucked in a deep breath, lifted a shaky hand toward the moon as though he might be able to reach it, to caress it. “So sweet. So . . . sweet.”
“Let’s go,” Isabel hissed.
“No . . . a moment. I need her magic.” He lifted his chin, bathing in the moonbeam.
The Belsnickels shifted uneasily and searched the forest in every direction.
A cawing came from far overhead and Vernon started.
“We have been found,” Makwa said.
“Yes.” Krampus nodded.
Vernon pointed the shotgun skyward.
“Save the shells,” Isabel said. “That gun don’t have that kinda range.”
Another caw and a howl came in answer, echoed up from the valley below, a long, deep howl, followed by another. Jesse couldn’t gauge the distance.
“Freki and his mate, Geri,” Krampus said with obvious affection. He smiled. “Sounds like they are on the hunt.”
Vernon gave him a severe look. “They are on the hunt . . . they are hunting us, you idjit.”
“Krampus,” Isabel said. “We must—”
“Go,” Krampus finished. “Yes.” His eyes never left the moon. He smiled as tears slid down his cheeks. He reached for it one more time, then his arm dropped and his eyes again fell shut.
“Go!” Isabel said, and pushed the big Shawnee forward, and they sprinted away.
JESSE CAUGHT A glint of moonlight off chrome ahead; found the Belsnickels waiting for him and Isabel near the rear of his truck, alert and scanning the rocks and trees. The Shawnee all had their spears and knives at the ready.