Mark Chadbourn - Jack of Ravens

‘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.’