Jack of Ravens

15

The coach raced across the countryside, but however much the wheels bounced over the frozen, rutted lanes of middle England or threw Church, Will and Tom around the coach’s interior, to Church it was still moving at a snail’s pace.

To Will, used to a horse-based transport system, they were making rapid progress and he remained calm and in good spirits. But every time they stopped to feed and water the horses or to take detours to avoid bandits in the thick Midlands forests, or stopped at a roadside inn for an entire night, Church’s anxiety increased. It wasn’t just his concern for Lucia, Jerzy and Niamh, but his fear over what the Army of the Ten Billion Spiders planned to do with the Anubis Box and the crystal skull.

Myddle was far from the main coaching routes so they were forced to buy horses once they crossed the border into Shropshire. The lanes and tracks were thick with snow and the going was hard. They came upon the village in the late afternoon when the light was growing thin and the air becoming bitter.

Across the still fields where only the mournful sounds of birds rose up, they became aware of a commotion in the trees that clustered hard against the lane.

‘What is that?’ Tom strained to hear. ‘A hunt?’

Church heard the howls of dogs and the whoops of men. Vegetation crashed.

‘It is too dark to see,’ Will said. ‘This is not the time of year to hunt with dogs.’

Something broke out of the trees and lurched through the thick snow of the lane ahead. In the half-light, Church couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, but as the figure scrambled to get into the trees on the other side he accepted it was the Mocker.

Church urged his horse on. Jerzy shrieked and redoubled his efforts to get over a thick hedge. ‘Jerzy! It’s me!’ Church called.

The Mocker spun in a blind panic. ‘They come! They hunt!’

Church could hear the dogs drawing closer. The commotion in the undergrowth was loud enough to be made by ten men. Church reached down and lifted Jerzy to his saddle and then spurred his horse on, with Will and Tom riding close behind.

‘You should have kept your mask on, you idiot!’ Church called above the beat of the hoofs. But Jerzy only sobbed uncontrollably in response and Church felt guilty for his tone.

The Mocker had calmed a little by the time they reached the village. Church was hesitant about entering until Jerzy’s face was covered but Will urged them on.

‘The box?’ he shouted to the Mocker as they rode. ‘Is it still here?’

‘The riders have taken it. And my mistress!’ Jerzy broke down in another bout of shrieks and sobs.

‘We must find the direction they took and give pursuit,’ Will said. He grabbed Jerzy’s shoulder to calm him and asked, ‘They have Lucia, too?’

The Mocker fell silent, and then pointed one trembling finger. In the yard before Castle Farm House, Lucia hung from a makeshift gibbet, as cold as the impending night. Her clothes had been partly torn to reveal white skin covered with the marks of torture. Her black hair hung across her face. The quiet of the yard was only broken by the creak of the rope as she swung in the breeze.

Church was frozen in his saddle, the horrific image seared on his mind. Will ran towards the body, slowing as he neared it. Lucia was dead, there was no doubt.

Will did not turn back to the others for a long moment, and when he did, his face looked like the winter fields. ‘There will be a reckoning,’ he said grimly. Was this the work of Don Alanzo?’

The Mocker shook his head furiously and tears welled up in his eyes. ‘The people here found out she was a witch. They said she consorted with the Devil-’ His voice caught in a juddering sob.

‘She doesn’t even believe in the Devil,’ Church exclaimed. ‘It’s madness. This whole country is insane.’

‘The whole world, brother,’ Will said quietly. ‘Europe is gripped with a fear of witches and the priests fan the flames. I fear where it will end.’ The strain of the journey finally told on his face.

Jerzy said to Church, A stranger drove them to this. A man who speaks like you … a tattooed man …’

Church bowed his head. He was overwhelmed by the sheer pointlessness of everything that he did. His fears crystallised into one clear certainty: things were only going to get worse.