Jack of Ravens

10

In the dark before dawn, Church found himself carted from the roundhouse and fastened to a stretcher of wood and straw harnessed to Tannis’s horse. They set off at a slow pace that still amplified every rut and bump in the main street, and was barely less uncomfortable when they passed onto the sweeping grassland. Church was vaguely aware of other riders accompanying him, but their identities remained unknown.

For a while he was transfixed by the stars and for a moment touched a sweeping sense of wonder rarely felt outside childhood. But after an hour or so, branches closed in overhead, bringing with them a feeling of claustrophobia and a dull background drone of dread.

Tannis clearly felt it, too, for he said quietly but insistently, ‘Go slow. We are no longer alone.’

The rocking motion became a crawl, the thud of hooves barely a whisper. Church could hear the breeze rustling through the upper branches and the tinkle of a nearby stream, but nothing else. It was too dark, and death increasingly tugged at his sleeve.

‘The dark powers do not want us to reach Boskawen-Un.’ It was Conoran’s voice.

‘They come for Jack, Giantkiller?’ Etain this time.

‘He is a threat to them. They recognise this. That is why the Poison-Spider was set in his body. They did not wish a direct confrontation,’ Conoran replied.

‘Then he must be a great warrior indeed, ‘Tannis said with awe.

Church faded out for a while, and when he fought his way back to consciousness the atmosphere had grown even more tense.

‘Where? Towards the west?’ It was Etain’s friend Owein, cautious and intelligent.

‘No. Look north.’ Branwen, as flinty and insistent as ever.

‘What are they?’ A touch of horror in Etain’s voice. ‘Are they men or beasts?’

‘No time now to discuss their nature,’ Conoran said. ‘With the Giantkiller near death, we do not have the strength to fight them.’

‘Gods.’ Owein’s voice was scared. ‘See how they move through the trees? So fast and low. Surely they must have come from beneath the sea. Are they Fomorii?’

‘Enough talk!’ Conoran snapped. ‘Tannis, draw your slingshot.’

Church heard the creak of animal hide, and then the harsh clack of a flint being struck. A second later there was a whoosh and a crackle. A bright ball of light flared in the gloom before arcing across Church’s line of vision and disappearing into the trees. The tinder-dry summer wood flared up and quickly became a deafening roar. Above the crackling flames, Church heard a terrible sound, like furious pigs disturbed during feast.

‘Ride with the wind beneath you!’ Conoran bellowed.

Church was rushed along, bouncing so wildly he was convinced he would be jolted unconscious any moment. Somehow his delirium preserved him, and after ten minutes he dreamed a river took him to a night-land where a single boatman waited.

Eventually they came to a halt. He could only guess that their pursuers had fallen back. Someone lit a fire, which drove some of the aching chill from his bones, but its red light was uncommonly thin and he felt as though he was looking at it down a long tunnel. The others must have wandered away to forage for food, for their voices retreated to a distant tremor.

For a long time Church hovered in that limbo until the overwhelming odour of engine oil mysteriously appeared. An old woman’s face loomed over him, eyes red-rimmed in a face so filthy it looked as though the grime had been accumulating for decades. Her wiry hair was greasy and matted, and her breath was so foul it made Church gag.

‘Gods answer to gods, answer to gods,’ she whispered in a voice like rending metal, ‘and somehow the Voice of Existence trickles through to men.’ Church felt as if he was lying next to a massive generator; the atmosphere was distorted, infused with such an overpowering dread that he felt he might go insane with the intensity of emotion. ‘Hold hard. You must see the dawn,’ the woman continued.

And then she was gone in the blink of an eye, leaving Church unsure whether she had really been there.