Tom Harper - The Book of Secrets

A bolt of lightning crackled across the clearing from the end of Urthred’s staff; it lifted the goblin off the ground and sent him spinning into oblivion. The Wanderer jumped back, stabbed the next attacker and turned to thank-

‘Urthred!’

Seeing his chance, the black knight had waded back into the battle. The goblin army were like dogs at his feet. He towered over Urthred, whirling his mace over his head. Urthred turned; he flung out his staff and shouted an incantation.

But the lightning strike had drained the last of his magic. The spiked mace head struck the staff and splintered it in two. The surrounding goblins edged back obediently, forming a circle around the two combatants as Urthred wearily drew his sword.

‘Get to the tree.’

On screen, Urthred was swaying like a drunkard, ducking and rolling to avoid the thundering sweeps of the mace. Through the speakers, Randall sounded close to exhaustion. Nick glanced at the oak. Above its tangled roots a glowing sphere had appeared, a ball of light hovering among the branches like forbidden fruit.

The black knight must have known what it was. With a roar of fury he swung the mace and struck Urthred on the side of his head. He crumpled to the ground. The goblins shrieked in triumph as they poured in to finish him.

‘Randall?’

There was no answer. The black knight strode towards the tree, kicking goblins out of his way as he walked. Nick checked his health. His avatar was bruised and bloody, his robes torn. One more blow would finish him. There must be fifty goblins between him and the tree, and the black knight was almost there.

We slipped between two houses and crouched behind a wattle fence. Night had almost fallen: the battle had become a fog of blurred shapes and sharp sounds. Some of the Armagnaken had kindled torches, windows in the darkness revealing ghastly tableaux of savagery.

I heard footsteps to my left and ducked down. Through the gnarled weave of the fence I saw a woman run past, closely followed by two Armagnaken. One carried an enormous club which he swiped merrily as he pursued her. It looked too huge to wield, until I saw it was actually a lute held by its neck. He must have plundered it from one of the houses. He swung it again, missing the woman and smashing into a post he had not seen in the dark. With a twang and a groan, the lute shattered. He tossed it aside and carried on.

The way was clear. We vaulted over the fence and sprinted over the open ground to the mill door. My foot snagged on something; I almost tripped, but fear drove me on. Grey clouds puffed up like spectres around our feet as we crossed the spilled flour. Then we were inside.

The mill smelled like a stable. Straw crackled underfoot, and dust in the air coated my tongue. I heard the toil of stone, the creak of axles, the rush of water under my feet. Oblivious to the horror outside, the mill grumbled on. I found it strangely comforting.

I put out my hand and steadied myself on Kaspar’s shoulder. We felt our way forward through the cluttered room, careful lest we catch ourselves in some piece of the mechanism.

We reached a wall and edged along it. I felt a door, pulled it open. Cold air rushed over my face together with a blast of noise: the rattles, splashes and squeaks of the wheel turning in the mill race. Looking down, I could see silver foam where the paddles churned the water.

‘Not that way,’ I whispered. I left the door open to admit what light there was and carried on.

All of a sudden the room lit up like a lantern. I spun around, blinking. Two Armagnaken stood in the door. One was a hunched ogre of a man, with a hooked nose and bulging cheeks; he carried a burning brand in one hand and an axe in the other. His companion was very different: an angel, with soft fair hair gone gold in the torchlight, buttery skin and slender shoulders. It was a strange beauty to behold in that awful moment.

They saw us at once. The ogre whooped with delight; the angel smiled. He lifted his arms into the light, and I saw they were drenched in blood up to the elbow. He carried a sickle.

The ogre went to his right, picking his way over the debris of fallen rafters and broken furniture that littered the floor. The angel stayed by the door, watching. The smile never left his face.

Kaspar raised his dagger and moved towards the ogre. He ducked under the shaft of the mill wheel, which was still spinning, and skirted the stone in the middle of the room. I should have gone to help but I held back, paralysed by terror. The knife in my hand felt feeble as a reed.

The ogre let Kaspar approach. He was in no hurry. The millers must have been making some repairs when the Armagnaken found them. A wide plank stood across two sawhorses, the saw blade still wedged into the cut it had begun. It formed a natural barricade between the two men. They eyed each other like two cats across a wall. Kaspar crouched. He looked quicker than his opponent, though doubtless the ogre was more practised.

But perhaps he had killed enough. With a look of disdain, he lowered his guard. Kaspar saw his chance and moved forward. At the same time, almost as if he was too weary to carry it, the ogre let his torch slip from his hands.

Everything after that was a nightmare of fire and horror. As Kaspar sprang forward, he kicked up a plume of sawdust from the floor. It swirled and caught the flame from the torch. In an instant, the dust exploded in a cloud of flame. Kaspar landed in the inferno with a scream, stumbled back, caught himself on the upraised plank and was knocked back into the flames. I ran to him.

But I had forgotten the other Armagnak. He came the moment he saw me move, dancing across the spinning stone wheel. Monstrous shadows swayed behind him. He swung his sickle at my head and I jerked back. Almost far enough. The back of the blade caught my cheek: it should have been blunt, but he had honed the tool so that both edges were razor sharp, tapering to a wicked point that could have flicked out my eye with a single prick.

Blood streamed from my cheek. The angel advanced towards me. Silhouetted against the fire, he looked like Death himself. I scrambled back on my hands. To my left, Kaspar writhed in flames. Even above the roar of the fire I could hear his screams.

As I scuttled back, my palm pressed against something hard and thin on the wooden floor. A long nail, probably dropped by the carpenters. I balled it in my fist, the point just protruding between my knuckles, and struggled to my knees as the angel approached. He thought I was praying and laughed, delighted. His left hand made a blood-soaked sign of the cross, while his right raised the sickle for the sacrifice.

I toppled forward, stretching my arm towards his boot. Perhaps he thought I was beseeching him for mercy, for he hesitated with his blow. The nail sank in with all my weight behind it: it pierced his bare foot and went clean through into the floor.

He howled and swung the sickle wildly, but I had already rolled clear. He tried to follow but could not: for a moment he was nailed to the spot.

I ran to Kaspar. Half his clothes had burned away: beneath the charred cloth I could no longer tell what was skin, ash or bone. I turned him over to smother the flames, but each time I moved him they seemed to creep around to the other side.

The fire had spread across the middle of the room now – an impenetrable rampart. The only way out was into the river. I picked up Kaspar in my arms and dragged him towards the high door. The moment I stood smoke rushed into my lungs. My head swam; dizzy with lack of air I almost fell on top of poor Kaspar. He was barely conscious.

I looked back. The angel was still there: he had ripped himself free, leaving a hunk of bloody flesh nailed to the floor. He came limping towards me through the smoke. The blade he held burned with reflected fire. Below me, through the open door, water spilled over the giant wheel.