James Blaylock - The Aylesford Skull

Friend or foe? Finn wondered, looking at the stranger, whose face showed no reaction at all to Narbondo’s chatter. Finn thought of the old woman who had tried to save Eddie in Angel Alley – the byway rightly named in that regard – and wondered if this were yet another angel, tolerably strange, to be sure, but welcome if it were so.

The man stared at Eddie and nodded, and then at the woman who gripped Eddie by the collar. From out of his coat he took a long pistol.

Narbondo’s face underwent a change, although he recovered from it quickly. He had expected the man, Finn thought, but not the pistol, and was worried now that he had overreached himself. He must know, however, that Lord Moorgate possessed one of his own. Moorgate’s right hand was held down along the seam of his trousers, hidden from Kraken’s view.

Kraken’s lips were pursed, and he looked from one to the other of them, as if contemplating whom to shoot first. He stopped when his gaze reached Narbondo once again – a gaze of intense loathing – and he nodded slowly, as if having decided. Finn braced himself, glancing again at the door. He would move fast when it started, with no goal but to take Eddie through the door, leaving the stranger to deal with the others. If it meant knocking the woman down, or worse, then so be it. He and Eddie were dead otherwise.

“You!” the stranger said to Narbondo, his voice shaking with anger. “The fiend that flieth by night! I’ll see you in damnation. What I do here is in the memory of poor Mary Eastman, by God, and young Edward, your own brother. I been awaiting this day, and now it’s upon us…”

Quit talking , Finn thought. Do what you’ve come to do .

Finn glanced at Lord Moorgate. Still no sign of the pistol, but he was ready. The stranger fell silent at last and took careful aim at Narbondo, a distance of maybe fifteen feet, Narbondo brassing it out like Satan.

Shoot him , Finn thought. Kraken steadied his hand, set his feet, squinted down the barrel, and Lord Moorgate shot him where he stood.

Kraken spun around, caught himself, staggered forward two steps, and looked with shocked surprise at Moorgate. The pistol was still in Kraken’s hand, and he raised it again, aiming it at Moorgate now, who pulled the trigger of his own pistol a second time. The pistol misfired, and then misfired again. Now, as he fell, Kraken shot at Moorgate, blowing splinters out of the door beyond. He held onto the pistol, kneeling and looking around him, one hand pressed against his chest, blood flowing through his fingers. The woman flung the door open and ran out, Eddie shrugging away from her and running toward Finn. Narbondo and Moorgate followed the woman out of the cellar, Sneed in their wake. Eddie had pressed himself against the wall and put his hands in front of his face.

Someone slammed into Finn, knocking him down. Finn rolled clear and sprang to his feet, throwing himself toward Eddie, Kraken’s pistol ringing out right behind him. The Crumpet hurtled through the open door, looking back wildly with his one good eye.

“Go on!” Kraken said to Finn. “Take to the wood! I’ll see to myself!” And with that Kraken staggered away into the darkness of the tunnel, pulling the door shut behind him.

Finn grabbed Eddie’s hand and hauled him out into the sunshine. Ahead stood the pond, the Crumpet on the far shore by now. The others had disappeared, but everything would change as soon as it was perceived that Kraken was no longer a threat. There was shouting now from the direction of the unseen millwheel – a hue and cry – Narbondo no doubt rallying his men to face Kraken’s pistol. The only real shelter was the wood, which lay to their left – southwest, given the position of the sun – and soon Finn and Eddie were running for all that they were worth in that direction, Eddie moving faster than Finn could credit.

They reached the brook that turned the millwheel, and followed it deeper into the wood along a narrow trail, Finn listening for sounds of pursuit. He slowed the pace. There was no use exhausting Eddie, and with any luck they would have a long way to travel before nightfall. The stream ran south, toward the Medway, toward home, and the trail was well enough traveled. It would take them somewhere without a doubt, and anywhere was better than where they had been.

“Follow this brook if you lose sight of me,” Finn told Eddie. “Do you hear me?”

Eddie said, “Yes,” and nodded his head, seeming to understand very well.

“Don’t leave the path unless you must. If you follow the path you’ll end up somewhere hopeful. Tell them you live at Agatha Walton’s place, Aylesford.” Despite Eddie’s nodding again, Finn made him repeat the gist of it, just as George had done to him, but he felt a measure of futility.

The brook curved around toward the west and then straightened, again heading south. Aylesford lay below them, Finn thought: ten miles, twelve, maybe. They could walk it well enough in four hours if Eddie held up, or perhaps beg a ride from a willing farmer. He looked back and saw no one, but when he looked forward again, he nearly ran into Eddie, who had slowed down, peering ahead of him dubiously. There was a dead man lying across the path twenty feet farther on, his shoulders and head in the brook so that the water washed over his face. Finn didn’t need to see the face, however, to know who it was – George, from the clothing and the bald head. He gestured Eddie forward, warning him not to look, although Finn had to, out of respect or so it seemed to him.

The back of George’s coat was stained with blood – the work of Sneed’s knife, no doubt. There were no other visible wounds, but there were footprints along the muddy bank of the brook, a mess of them, half of them perfectly enormous. George had put up a fight, but McFee – it had to be he – had apparently drowned him. There was nothing to do for him, and no time to dawdle in any event. They moved on at an even pace, Finn telling himself that George had done the right thing by helping them, although the thought was moderately cold comfort.

There was a noise then, off to the right – someone – the Crumpet, running at a sort of gallop through the trees, angling across to cut them off, the tails of his blue coat flying up behind him. Eddie apparently saw him as well. He needed no encouragement, but ran like the wind up the trail, Finn behind him, pacing himself, glancing to the side in order to watch the Crumpet’s approach. The man would cross their path forty or fifty feet ahead, where there was a clearing along the brook. The water was deep enough and rocky enough to slow him down, but it wouldn’t stop him. Something else would have to stop him.

“Don’t look back,” Finn shouted breathlessly. “No matter what happens. Follow the trail, like I told you!”

And with that Finn leapt into the brook, landing atop a stone, leapt to another, and then across, running hard along the water’s edge now, in packed sand and leaves, relieved to see that Eddie was flying up the trail some distance ahead. Who would the Crumpet want, Finn wondered, for he couldn’t have the both of them.

The distance between them was closing fast. Finn took two half steps and threw himself into a tumble, rolling into a ball, straight into the Crumpet’s path. He was struck hard, the Crumpet grunting and pitching forward, kicking Finn a glancing blow on the side of the head in passing. Finn was up onto his feet, his head reeling, seeing that the Crumpet was splayed out in the stream, struggling to rise. Eddie was out of sight, although the Crumpet would catch him easily enough once he was up and moving again. And so he was, almost at once, stumbling across the stream as if to follow Eddie, driven either by loyalty to Narbondo or by fear. It wouldn’t do. Finn picked up a big stone with both hands and ran forward, pitching it at the Crumpet’s head, striking him above the neck, so that his head jerked back, and he fell to his knees, coming down hard and shouting a curse when his knees struck.