Tom Harper - The Book of Secrets

A mounted knight galloped out of the forest on a monstrous horse. Moonlight glinted on the wicked spikes that bristled from his black armour, each bedecked with a ragged ribbon that fluttered in the rushing wind. Nick, who had seen that sort of thing before, suspected they were shreds of the flesh of vanquished enemies. A small armoury of morningstars, swords and axes hung from his belt, while his right arm held an obscenely long lance.

The Wanderer drew his sword. ‘The Death Knight’s not a novice character. They must have been here before.’

‘They probably bought it off some Korean kid on eBay.’ Urthred the Necromancer clenched his fist. A cloudy haze came out of his staff and spread into a dome of light that wrapped itself around him.

‘They won’t have a clue how to use it.’

The knight circled his horse round. Suddenly, it kicked up on its hind legs. A gout of fire erupted from its mouth and hosed the clearing with flame. The ground turned black; a shrub burst alight.

‘Maybe they bought the kid as well,’ said Nick.

‘Does it matter?’ Emily slid into the chair next to him. ‘What happens if you die in the game?’

‘You drop out; you can’t get back in for forty-eight hours.’

‘Is that so bad?’

‘Our connection to the FBI mainframe’s being routed through the game. If we die in Gothic Lair, we’ll be logged off and the program will shut down.’

‘It’s worse than that.’ Randall was backing towards the tree, crab-walking slowly so that the magic shield came with him. ‘I didn’t have time to secure the connection at this end. If they get into it, they can trace you right back to where you are.’

‘So what do we do?’ asked Emily.

‘Don’t die. And don’t let them get in the hole by the tree.’

The knight lowered his lance and charged.

We halted at a crossroads in the forest. Night was coming: for the past hour the pilgrims had fallen silent, anxiously peering around every corner for any hope of lodging. The riders at the head of the column conferred with the fat priest. I heard fragments of an ill-tempered discussion. One remembered an inn another mile towards Strassburg; the other did not, but was certain that the side road led to a village where we could find shelter. The pilgrims grew restive. The sun dipped below the trees.

Eventually they decided we would make for the village. We turned down a rough track that led through the forest towards the river. Soon the warm smell of woodsmoke reached us, promising hearths and fires and roasting meat. We hastened on, desperate to outpace the darkness and the monsters it might bring.

‘Listen,’ said Kaspar.

‘What?’ I strained my ears. All I could hear was the babble of the river, and the wind shivering the trees. ‘I hear nothing.’

‘It’s sunset. Why are the cocks not crowing? Where are the barking dogs and the screaming children? The church bells?’

Shouts suddenly shattered the silence. The riders spurred their horses forward; the pilgrims rushed after them, desperate not to be left behind. Kaspar and I, bringing up the rear, followed. We rounded a corner and there was the village.

It was not large: a dozen houses and barns, set around a small church in a clearing. Beyond the church, on the riverbank, a stone mill stood over the water on pilings. The village was deserted. The creak of the wheel turning in the current was the only sound.

As my eyes adjusted to the hazy dusk I saw why. The village had been devastated. Splintered doors dangled on broken hinges. The ground outside the mill was white as snow where a sack of flour had been cut open and spilled. In several places it was stained with blood. The smoke we had smelled was not a kitchen fire or a baker’s oven; it was the ashes of houses.

The guards rode around the village, swords out, peering through smashed windows and open doors. Most of the pilgrims knotted together in the open ground outside the church, though a few dared to explore. One, a woman in a white dress, made for the church. Perhaps she wanted to pray; perhaps she thought we could shelter there, for – alone among the buildings – its roof was still intact.

‘Where are the villagers?’ Kaspar wondered.

‘Perhaps they’d already fled.’

Kaspar pointed to the dark stains on the carpet of flour. ‘Someone hadn’t.’

One of the riders trotted over. Twilight hid his face under the brim of his helmet, but his voice was grim. ‘We must leave.’

‘Leave?’ Even in that awful place, the fat priest sounded outraged. ‘It is almost dark. Who knows where the men who did this are? If we take to the road now, we may blunder into them in the dark and all will be lost.’

‘The ashes are still warm. They cannot have gone far – and they may come back. We found three mules tethered behind a stable.’

‘I would rather-’

A shriek shrilled through the village. The priest cried out and fell to his knees; the pilgrims clutched each other and stared around wildly. But it was a lament, not a war cry. It came from the church. The woman who had gone to investigate it stood in the doorway. The skirts of her dress were spattered with blood, her face a mask of anguish.

‘Do not come here,’ she cried. ‘Do not look on this.’

Ignoring her warning, several pilgrims rushed towards the church. Kaspar tugged my arm. ‘How much money is in your purse?’

‘Enough to make me worth killing.’

‘Perhaps we can bribe the guards to take us to Strassburg. If they carried one of us each…’

The knot of pilgrims had begun to drift apart: some to gaze at the horror in the church; some to the empty houses; some sidling towards the barn, perhaps thinking they might commandeer the mules for themselves. Above all this confusion, the two riders sat on their horses and talked urgently.

They broke off their conversation as they saw us approach.

‘What do you want?’

‘To help,’ said Drach.

‘Do you have a sword?’

‘A plan. This rabble cannot defend itself with pilgrim staffs and clasp knives. Our only hope is to ride for help.’

The guards exchanged impenetrable looks.

‘Happily, my friend here has a purse full of gold. If you brought us to the nearest town, we could hire a company of men-at-arms and bring them back. But we would have to hurry, before the Armagnaken get wind that we are here.’

‘A sound plan,’ said one of the riders. ‘Shall we explain it to the priest?’

‘There’s no time.’

‘Then let’s go. We- Christ in Hell!’

Without warning, his horse reared up with a terrible scream. Blood streamed down its breast, black in the twilight. A crossbow bolt jutted out below the neck. Kaspar and I leaped back, just avoiding the flailing hooves as it crashed to the ground. Its screams mingled with its rider’s as it crushed him.

From out of the forest, we heard the screech of devils as the Armagnaken burst into the village.

The horse spat another burst of fire down over them. The shield dome dimmed and flickered – but held. As soon as the flames stopped, Nick charged. Smoke from the charred landscape obscured his approach. He saw the giant hooves in front of him and jumped. The horse reared up to protect itself; hooves flailed, but it hadn’t yet recharged its fire-breathing ability.

Nick hung in the air. He raised the broadsword over his head, then brought it down in a hammer blow on the black knight’s helm. The force of the impact threw Nick back up, giving him time for another hacking swing at the knight’s neck before he dropped to the ground. The knight reeled.

Nick’s eyes flicked to the bottom corner of the screen where a colour-coded bar displayed his enemy’s life force. He swore. He’d barely scratched him.