The Pillar of Horns

Chapter One

Milton ran, his legs screaming in rage at the amount of exertion. Running had not been part of the deal. A nice trip around the town, a robust but ultimately gentle hike across the island, and then a nice rest back in the hotel. Not this. Not sprinting across the hills, mud splashing from Milton's over expensive boots. Behind him, echoing in the night was the sound of hooves striking the earth, a strange mixture of squelching and clacking as they struck dirt and stone respectively.

It can catch me. It must be able to? Milton thought. He was in his late fifties and heavyset, his stomach hanging over his khaki trousers. This trip, taking up hiking, it had all been part of a push to get healthier in his advancing age. His doctor had warned him he was risking a heart attack, something he now longed for. Anything to escape the nightmare that followed him.

He stumbled for a moment, his mud-caked feet slipping slightly on the wet stone. The terrain was rougher than it had seemed when he had arrived on the island. Staggering off the boat, wobbling heavily as his legs adjusted, it had seemed almost idyllic. Sure, there were rocky regions along the coast, and a section of high cliff faces, sheer drops carved by the rain. Those were outliers though, as though they had been stapled to the rolling fields and pastures in a vain attempt to make the island seem somehow even more Scottish than it already was.

Milton MacTavish considered himself a true Scott. He wasn't. Milton had spent most of his life living in Maine, in a small suburb just outside Portland. He had been obsessed, in the way many Americans were, with his ancestry, tracking down every link he could to what Milton unironically called "the old country". He had been elated to find some long distant cousin who had moved to American from Scotland. Milton changed his surname, covered every conceivable furnishing in his house with tartan, and had even taken to calling potatoes "tatties" much to the annoyance of anyone who would listen. It had been a particularly exasperated colleague who had finally snapped at Milton, telling him he should at least visit the place first.

Rather than take it as the frustrated rage it was, Milton had considered it a helpful suggestion. He had booked the flights that night, packing his new hiking equipment into his suitcase shortly after. It was perfect after all, he had decided on hiking as his venue for exercise, intending to enjoy the Maine wilderness. Milton thought it looked a little bit like Scotland if you squinted. Now he was going to be able to indulge his new hobby and visit his ancestral homeland, it had seemed like fate.

Milton was cursing his fate now, as he sat at the edge of a sharp drop. It was from his best guess about twelve feet. He was slowly edging himself forwards, preparing to jump. He could still hear the hooves from behind him, they were slowed now, almost taunting. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pushed himself over the edge.

As Milton hit the ground he collapsed into a roll. Mud sprayed into the air, a thick sheen covering his coat. He felt a sharp pain as something, almost certainly a stone, slammed into his back. Milton had tossed his backpack when his pursuer had first appeared, fearing its weight would have slowed him down. He longed for its cushioning now, as he struggled to right himself. He pulled back one damp sleeve of his jacket, using the still clean jumper beneath to wipe muck from his eyes. He looked up at where he had dropped from, into the face of the thing hunting him.

It was huge. Milton had seen stag, on the television at least, but this seemed bigger. Much bigger. It looked in the night sky, silhouetted by the moon. Huge antlers spread from its head, but their pattern seemed unnatural, every spur twisting off at right angles into strange geometric shapes. Hanging from them was a collection of metal rings. They varied in style and complexity as they spread outwards from its head. The innermost was simple, plain and wrought in bronze, whilst the furthest most pair were golden, intricate twisted braids of metal. They jingled lightly as it moved its head, warm breath escaping in mournful clouds as it did. Its eyes were milky white, illuminated by a soft light, two tiny specs in the night sky, like stars. Its tail was long, a slithering flicking whip. Its fur stopped where the tail attached, thick scales taking over. Its fur though, that was what unsettled Milton the most. He had assumed at first, that it red, a bright crimson shag covering its body. Now though, close to the infernal thing he could see that it was slick wet with thick scarlet blood. It covered it entirely, dripping from the tips of its fur, seemingly pouring from some unseen place, an endless river that coated the creature entirely.