Саймон Морден - The White City

And then◦– did she hear that? It sounded like a cry, cut off, brief and uncertain. Maybe her ears weren’t as good as her eyes. She’d have to find a clearing, and check on foot. She circled again, finding a place nearby where a fallen trunk was rotting into exuberant life and a ring of saplings fought towards the light for dominance. It wasn’t ideal, and the springy trees whipped her as she landed, but she was back on the ground, rubbing her sore, bare arms and gazing into the shadowed undergrowth of the forest.

She cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘Luiza! Elena!’

There was no response. Not even bird calls.

Which struck her as odd, as there was always noise◦– tweets and trills and caws◦– along with the flashes of colour that marked the startled warning behaviour of the birds as they trooped by underneath. It was more than that, though. It was almost perfectly quiet.

She shivered. This wasn’t normal behaviour for Down. Down was generously alive: something was always on the move.

She dropped her arms, then raised them again, bringing the forest floor with her: twigs, leaves, fragments of bark and browned petals. Little beetle things wriggled their legs frantically as they were suddenly denied the ground.

There, almost behind her, just beyond the edge of the clearing: a grey-green smudge the same colour as the dappled shadow. She clenched her fists and threw the hovering debris in one thick stream at her target. The outline of a man appeared, raising his arm against the spray of dirt and turning away so most of it struck his back and shoulders.

The deluge petered out, and the last few sticks rattled back to the ground. Her effort had left her momentarily breathless, and she didn’t have the energy straight away for another attack. In the calm, the camouflaged figure straightened up and grew more visible.

As did his wolves, which materialised out of nothing and after a moment’s straining on their iron-linked chains, were free to bound towards her across the clearing. Their shaggy heads were low, their powerful legs pumped, speed not magic blurring their oncoming shapes.

‘Fuck,’ said Mary.

Mama was telling Dalip how smart her nephew was◦– one of her nephews, at least◦– when he noticed the first crow on the map box. That it fixed them with one beady eye was nothing out of the ordinary. Both of them were used to having one or other of Crows’ birds nearby.

It cawed and ruffled its feathers, and Mama looked around for something to throw at it. It didn’t matter that they weren’t discussing anything important. She just didn’t want Crows eavesdropping on every last thing they said.

‘Shoo,’ she said, flapping her fingers at it. ‘Go on, get.’

Then there were two, hopping and flapping.

‘This isn’t a joke, Crows.’ She levered herself to her feet and batted at the birds with her hand. They easily avoided the swipe, rising and settling as it passed. When they landed again, there were three.

Dalip stared at the crows just as another of them folded itself out of nothing and started to hop from foot to foot. He pushed himself upright and scanned the horizon. Crows himself wasn’t in sight◦– didn’t seem to be in sight◦– but there was clearly something wrong.

Mama’s cry made him turn around. A good dozen glossy black birds burst up from the lid of the box and into the sky. They cawed and called, their wingbeats clattering as they scattered.

‘Stay with the maps, Mama.’ He took a few steps towards the dunes. ‘Don’t let anyone near them. Especially not Crows.’

He started to run, across the soft dry beach and then up the unstable seaward face of the first dune. He’d almost broached the top when instinct made him duck.

Mary, flying hard and fast, flashed inches over his head. Loose sand, stirred in her wake, left him blind and spluttering. He spat and blinked, and tried to dust his face free. By the time he could see again, they were almost on him.

There was no finesse in the man’s first attack. He was out of breath already, red in the face and unsteady. He lunged with his heavy-bladed machete when he should have swung it, and all Dalip had to do was sway to one side to avoid the blow.

He reached out, pushed the man’s outstretched arm away and down, trapping it against the sand, and followed through with his open palm against the side of the man’s head. He went down, with Dalip on top of him.

He tried to free himself, while Dalip kept his weapon-hand pinned. He arched his body and kicked his legs, and scrabbled his fingers towards Dalip’s face.

Dalip punched him in the throat, and ended the argument. He now had a machete, weighty and long, which he took a second to scoop up before running back towards Mama. She was one side of the map crate, waving her small knife at the green-grey-garbed man on the other side. He was circling at the same speed she was, but he was just toying with her: he could have stepped over the trunk and batted her weapon aside without risk. Mary, back in human form, was running towards her, a writhing mass of seaweed lifted from the strand line building behind her.

‘Mama,’ she called. ‘Duck.’

She didn’t have a clear shot until Dalip had almost reached him. He skidded to one side to avoid being caught in the brown, slimy mass that smothered the other man.

‘Get the maps,’ he said. ‘Down the beach, go.’

Mama pocketed her knife and gripped one of the rope handles. She started off, backwards, dragging the box with her. Mary caught up with her, took the other handle and together they ran towards the sea.

The knocked-over man started to rise. The tendrils of seaweed slid slippery on to the sand, and he shook the last of it off. He was leaning on his knife-hand, and Dalip would never have a better moment.

All he had to do was raise his machete and bring it down hard on the man’s wet hair or sandy shoulders. He looked at the length of metal extending from his hand, clutched at the cord-bound handle, felt the weight drag his arm down. He hesitated, half-raised the blade, then lowered it again. He made a decision, stepped back, and let him stand.

The man wiped the last of the slime from his rough face and narrowed his eyes at Dalip.

‘Won’t save you,’ he said. ‘I’ll beat you like I did last time, and I don’t have to stop, either.’

Recognition flared. In the woods, by the river, where the Wolfman caught up with them all, this man had helped kick and punch Dalip insensible.

‘Where is he?’ asked Dalip. He set his feet apart, bent his knees, lifted the machete ready to either parry or strike.

‘He’s coming, boy. He’s coming.’ His own blade was shorter, but pointed and double-edged. He made a swipe at Dalip’s forearm, and steel rang against steel. He tried it again, and Dalip moved fast and countered with ease.

For Dalip, there was a gratifying moment of re-evaluation from his opponent, who tried to get past Dalip’s guard again, once, twice, and each time his blade was knocked aside. Dalip watched him closely, looking out for weaknesses or strengths just as Stanislav had taught him.

‘You can still leave,’ said Dalip. ‘Go. Run.’

That seemed to infuriate the man, who lunged wildly at him, grunting with effort.

Without having to even think, Dalip turned away and kept turning, using his momentum to swing his machete down and through the man’s unguarded wrist. The blade was blunt. It didn’t slice cleanly, but all the same, bones cracked and blood sprayed. The man staggered and fell, folding in on himself and shrieking.

It was the noise, rather than the injury, which turned Dalip’s stomach. He checked his position, and sprinted across the beach to Mary and Mama. The map box sat between them.