Jack of Ravens

3

Freed from obligation for the rest of the day, Jerzy led Church to an inn at the end of a shadowy alley. The Hunter’s Moon was a low, labyrinthine pub of numerous rooms and annexes, smoky and stinking of sour ale. The hubbub of voices never dipped. Church was mesmerised by the bizarre clientele: unfeasibly tall, unnervingly short, unnaturally thin and grotesquely fat, horns and tails, scales and wings. Church felt as if he was looking at a pop-up diorama in a nursery story book.

He was introduced to a big, bearded hunter named Bearskin, who had the eyes and odour of an animal; to a tall, needle-thin man with a stovepipe hat who called himself Shadow John; and to a cackling mad old crone by the name of Mother Mary. Jerzy led him to the only vacant table in a nook beside the stone fireplace where a pile of logs blazed to dispel the damp.

They each had a flagon of a potent ale that brought back painful memories of the nights Church had spent around the hearth in Carn Euny.

‘Drink up, good friend.’ The Mocker grinned humourlessly. ‘The first eight flagons are always the hardest.’

‘Is that the answer? Drown yourself in an alcoholic haze?’

‘There are few pleasures in life. Best to embrace them with open arms.’ Jerzy took a long draught. His surgically enhanced grimace made it a difficult task and ale flooded out of the corners of his mouth. ‘Excuse my manners.’ He wiped his face with the back of his hand.

The barman collecting flagons slapped Jerzy on the back and bellowed, ‘Hey, it’s the Mocker! Tell us a joke!’

Without missing a beat, Jerzy said, ‘There is no point. Life is meaningless. We strive and we suffer. We shed our tears, always expecting something good just around the corner, but it never materialises. And then we die.’

The barman stared in confusion for a moment, until his gaze fell on Jerzy’s unflinching grin and he gave a burst of raucous laughter. ‘Good one, Mocker! And then you die! Good one!’

When he had gone, Jerzy said, ‘You’ll find your little pleasures where you can in the Court of the Soaring Spirit. Steal your moments and hold them dear.’

‘I don’t intend to be around for long.’

It was the Mocker’s turn to stare before breaking into laughter. When he saw Church was not joking, the sadness returned to his eyes. ‘There is no escape from the Golden Ones. If you try, if you attempt anything that brings you under suspicion, they will place a Caraprix in your head. And then your life is over. Besides, where would you go?’

‘There’s a woman waiting for me a long way from here-’

‘A love? A true love?’

‘Yes. And I’m going to get back to her. Nothing’s going to stand in the way of that. Not two thousand years … not some overambitious species that think they’re gods … not monsters or brain-worms or secret assassins.’

Though Church’s face was expressionless, his voice was taut with a passion that brought a surprising tear to Jerzy’s eye. ‘Why,’ the Mocker said, his voice cracking, ‘that is the most remarkable and beautiful thing I have heard in all of the Far Lands. I remember … I remember someone … before all this …’ His eyes welled up and he wiped them dry with his ale-sticky hand. ‘I am sorry, my friend. There are many wonders in the Far Lands, but much that has been forgotten, and one of those things is that pure and powerful love of which you speak. We are all bereft here, and I think we all know it, which is why we hide it so well. There is a reason why so many of the races of the Far Lands are attracted to your world.’ He sniffed loudly, then blew his nose into a red silk scarf. This calls for a song. A ballad to break hearts-’

‘No.’ Church held up his hand as the Mocker prepared to sing. ‘Not a sad song. Something to raise the spirits. To say that I’m getting out of this place.’ He smiled as inspiration came. ‘There’s a singer in my time … dead now, but he had a fantastic voice and a lot of style. Some might have said he was unfashionable, but to me he had old-fashioned class, and that’s a quality you just can’t manufacture.’

‘Class,’ Jerzy repeated.

‘Here, let me hum you a few bars. Then I’ll teach you the words.’

It wasn’t long before Jerzy’s powerful, emotive voice filled the Hunter’s Moon. The first verse failed to penetrate the rumble of voices, but then a wave of silence rolled out until it encompassed the entire inn, every drinker rapt. When the song ended, a deafening cheer demanded more, and by the time Jerzy had run through it three times whole sections of the inn were singing along to ‘Come Fly With Me’, ruminating about the wonders of going down ‘Acapulco way’ and to ‘Llama land’, while a being with a horse’s head brayed that ‘weather-wise, it’s such a lovely day’.

Church laughed heartily at the hilarious incongruity of the scene, and for a while his laughter masked sharper feelings as the song reminded him of a world that may as well have been on the other side of the universe.

When Church and Jerzy finally stumbled out of the Hunter’s Moon, night had fallen and a full moon lit up the clouds in a sliver of sky above the ramshackle, overhanging buildings that turned the street into a chasm. At street level, only irregular, guttering torches provided islands of illumination.

They were both worse for alcohol, and Church mused continually about heading for the city walls and making a break for freedom. Eventually, he gave in to Jerzy’s common sense and allowed himself to be led towards Niamh’s residence, the Palace of Glorious Light, where a chamber was being prepared for him.

In the distance thunder rumbled and soon fat drops of summer rain were finding their way between the eaves to splatter on the cobbles. The shower quickly became a downpour that gushed from the gutters in torrents. Church and Jerzy sheltered in a wooden porch beside bunches of garlic and lavender hung to dry.

‘You’d think in Fairyland someone would have been able to magic away the rain,’ Church muttered. Jerzy found this amusing and snickered for a full minute.

Church silenced him with a hand to his mouth. A deep cold had materialised in the pit of his stomach: a warning sign, though there was no movement and no sound beyond the driving rain.

‘What is wrong?’ Jerzy hissed.

‘Something’s coming.’ Church clutched at the dry, ancient wood of the porch wall.

Jerzy looked out past the water sheeting off the porch roof. As if on cue, the staccato clip-clop of hoofs on the cobbles rose up. Church’s heart was pounding so hard he thought it would burst. Blue sparks fizzed around his fingers and when he removed his hand from the wall an imprint was burned in the wood. Jerzy’s white face glowed in the gloom. Now he could feel it, too. He clearly wanted to ask Church what was approaching, but the words would not come.

The steady hoof-beats drew nearer. It was the sound of a rider taking his time, surveying the area. From around a sharp bend came a shape darker than the surrounding shadows. Church held his breath as it approached the first circle of torchlight.

The horse appeared first, a strong black stallion liveried in black leather, but with armour on its head and around its eyes, though much of it was crusted with brown rust. The rider too was swathed in black. A sodden cloak hung like bat-wings, and beneath it was a long black tunic, though it was so terribly tattered it appeared to have been stitched together from rags. Underneath that, Church could just glimpse dull flashes of armour, all of it rusted. The cowl of the cloak was pulled low over the rider’s head to keep off the driving rain.

Though he did not know why, Church buried himself in the depths of the porch next to Jerzy’s now-trembling body.

When the rider was just a few feet away, he reined in his mount so that both man and beast were stock still, listening, smelling, sensing.

He wants me, Church thought. He can feel the Pendragon Spirit in the same way I can feel whatever drives him.

And then the rider looked in Church’s direction and it felt as if the world was falling away.

It was Etain, her dead, mouldering face accusing him of betrayal. Her eyes burned across the gulf between them, and they spoke of a deep, abiding hatred that even the grave could not soothe.

Church stumbled away from that chilling gaze before she saw him, but she was already urging her horse gently towards the porch. From beneath her cloak she slowly drew a rusty sword that made a grinding noise as it rasped from the scabbard.

Church had no weapon with which to defend himself, but how could he oppose her anyway when deep down he believed she was right to hunt him for vengeance?

Thunder boomed and forked lightning threw the street into stark relief. Church’s heart jumped along with it. He might get a little way down the street before Etain ran him down and took off his head with that rusty sword. He might even get a little further, but he knew from what he saw in her face that she would never relent, however far or fast he ran. Sooner or later he would feel the cutting edge of her revenge.

Fear was mounting in Jerzy, too. His grin now looked sick and horrified beneath his terrified eyes, and he clutched Church’s shirt pleadingly. Looking around, Church’s gaze lighted on a possible escape route.

‘Follow me. Keep low,’ he whispered into Jerzy’s ear. Church saw the Mocker silently put all his trust in him, just as Etain and the others had done.

Church bounded into the pouring rain. The horse reacted with a feral hiss, raising its head and baring its teeth with a viciousness uncharacteristic in horses. Etain’s sword ripped fully from its scabbard and sliced through the air. Church ducked low and kept running as the sword whisked mere inches above his head. Behind him, Jerzy shrieked like a little girl.

Church had to fight to keep his footing on the wet, slippery cobbles. He splashed through a puddle almost as wide as the street and propelled himself upwards to grab a wrought-iron mounting supporting a creaking sign that read ‘Hardwick Chalmers, Candlemaker’. The mounting was ornate enough for Church to find a handhold and he pulled himself up using the wall for traction. In a second or two, he had hauled himself onto a small slate roof over the candlemaker’s main window. He could hear Jerzy whimpering and scratching below; he had failed to gain purchase. Church leaned down, grabbed his hand and dragged him up just as Etain spurred her steed towards them. Jerzy’s feet kicked the air just above her head. The roof groaned and threatened to collapse as he crashed onto it.

‘We can’t stay here!’ the Mocker cried.

‘No. We climb.’ Church indicated a path up using window ledge, shutter and a network of rooves on various overhanging annexes that at the second storey were barely a man’s width apart.

Jerzy whimpered again. Church’s gaze was drawn to Etain, who had thrown off her hood. Her sleek black hair was plastered against her head, and there was a hint of lividity around her jaw and lips. Her eyes were utterly black, radiating malice.

Church tore his gaze away and jumped to a window sill across the way. His feet skidded off the wet wood, forcing him to grab onto a banging shutter for dear life.

Jerzy grabbed the other shutter. ‘Oh no! I will fall! I will die!’ he cried into the storm.

‘Just keep climbing!’ Church shouted. ‘We’ll get away over the rooftops.’

‘If we are not struck by lightning or blown off by the gales!’ On cue, more lightning flashed and earthed overhead and Jerzy released a terrified howl.

With the rain lashing down like stones, scaling the buildings was slow and perilous. Fingers gripped guttering that threatened to tear out of its fixings, and boots slipped on tiles made glass. The wind channelled between the buildings in savage gusts that plucked at Church and Jerzy when they were at their most precarious. They scrambled and slithered, knocked elbows and knees, became soaked to the skin, every second fearing they were about to fall.

And then, miraculously, they were at the summit. Rooftops stretched out all around, baked-orange tiles, dark-blue slate, sodden wooden planks, punctuated here and there by spires and domes, towers and cupolas on the gothic upper storeys of the larger buildings. The lightning illuminated the scene, a welcome relief after the gloom of ground level. But the wind was stronger up there and the rain was like bullets of ice.

Jerzy pointed to a hulking structure of stone, gold and glass with monolithic walls, ramparts and turrets. ‘The Palace of Glorious Light,’ he shouted.

Movement in the gulf between two rooftops caught Church’s eye. He expected to see water streaming from a gutter, or lightning shimmering off a window pane. Instead he saw a sight that rooted him in its nightmarish intensity.

The horse was coming up the sheer side of the building, negotiating eaves and overhangs as if it were on the level. Sometimes it would flatten itself, almost crawling like some giant insect. Etain remained mounted on its back, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on her prey. Church could read the bitter betrayal in them with each flash of lightning.

Jerzy’s fingers bit into Church’s shoulder. ‘She wants our death. Who is she? Do you know her?’

Church didn’t answer. He realized that their only possible escape route was across the rooftops to the palace, a journey of lethal inclines and vertiginous chasms.

He grabbed Jerzy by the shoulders to squeeze the paralysing fear from him. ‘She’ll kill us if she catches us. And that’s why you’ve got to stay with me. Move as fast you can. We can help each other.’

The words proved true within minutes. Jerzy grabbed the back of Church’s shirt to prevent him from sliding backwards down a steeply pitched roof. Church spread himself out like a starfish to gain some traction, but the rain was running so hard it felt as if he was lying on the bed of a stream. Somehow he made his way back up the pitch of the roof and clutched a leaning chimney stack for support. Propelling himself down the other incline, he let the momentum carry him across the next street.

Jerzy kept pace, running and leaping with all the supple strength of a professional tumbler. Church’s muscles burned with every jump, and as his exhaustion increased the chance of making a fatal misstep grew.

At one point the lightning struck so close it demolished a chimney stack mere yards away. Burning brick and blackened shards of pot flew like missiles. Church and Jerzy dived for cover, their momentum almost taking them into a hidden gulf between buildings.

Church made the mistake of looking back. Etain guided her horse eerily over the rooftops, never faltering, never deviating from its relentless path. Yet whatever its supernatural abilities, it was clear the horse could not ride at speed in such precarious circumstances.

Lights glimmered in the numerous windows that dotted the sheer sides of the palace. Just when Church thought they might reach it, Jerzy lost his footing as a tile shattered under his weight. He rolled and bounced down the roof, tearing off other tiles that cascaded into the dark, and came to a halt at the very edge, where he clung to a creaking guttering by his fingertips.

Church could still reach the palace if he abandoned Jerzy. Head down into the rain, Etain was now only two roofs away. Church skidded down the roof and grabbed the Mocker’s thin wrist. Pressing his foot into the gutter, he levered Jerzy onto the roof.

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’ the Mocker cried pathetically.

By then it was too late. The sound of cracking tiles signalled Etain’s arrival on the next roof, her face fierce and bloodless.

‘Preserve me …’ Jerzy whispered, but the rest of his sentence was lost in a boom of thunder. Etain had drawn her rusted sword and was urging her steed to make the last leap.

As the thunder rolled away, it revealed another sound, like skis on snow. Etain recoiled, an arrow protruding from the centre of her forehead. She pulled it out with a sickening sucking sound and casually tossed the shaft to one side.

But then the air was filled with arrows raining down. Many slammed into Etain and her horse without any effect, but the intensity of the volley was enough to hold her back.

Church and Jerzy scrambled up the roof to see the Palace of Glorious Light alive with archers. Immense nets had been thrown from the ramparts to the surrounding rooftops, and down them descended more archers loosing arrows.

The Mocker bounded joyfully across the remaining distance. Church allowed himself one last backward glance before he reached the safety of the nets.

Arrows protruded from every part of Etain. Her unflinching gaze never left Church until she finally turned her mount around and retreated into the night.