Jonathan Stroud - The Creeping Shadow

It was Lockwood’s rapier, of course, and for a few heartbeats he and Rotwell remained locked in that position, both straining, neither moving. Kipps had been frozen for an instant; now his neck slowly concertinaed down into his shoulders until his head was clear of the shivering blades. White-faced, he lurched away.

Steve Rotwell was taller than Lockwood, and considerably heavier. He exerted his weight on the sword; Lockwood, by careful twists and adjustments of his slim wrist, offset the force. Otherwise neither moved.

“I made a prediction earlier,” Steve Rotwell said. “Do you recall it?”

“I do,” Lockwood said. “You said I’d cross you.” He gestured around at the burning building, at the screaming employees disappearing into the distance. “Does this count as crossing you? If so, congratulations—you were right.”

“That wasn’t all.” Rotwell jumped back, swinging his sword away. He kicked a spar of burning wood at Lockwood, who jumped clear; it shattered against the crate behind him in a starburst of sparks. “I promised to deal with you when that happened. And so I shall.”

He drove forward, twirling his rapier in a series of grandiose loops. Lockwood parried him once, twice, a third time, but was forced backward off the platform. He jumped lightly onto the earth, with Rotwell thudding down behind him.

“Years of work,” Rotwell said. “Years of careful study, and you’ve ruined it in one evening.”

“You brought it on yourself!” Lockwood was still on the defensive, straining to cope with the older man’s savage attack. “Your experiments unleashed terror on Aldbury Castle! It’s because of you that so many ghosts were raised! Dozens of people were killed! And all because your man in iron armor was out there, walking on the Other Side, stirring up the dead.” He gave a deft shimmy and struck at Rotwell’s wrist, but the blow glanced off the ornate hand-guard of the sword.

Steve Rotwell drew back. “You do know more than I expected…but I don’t think you understand it all. If you did, you’d realize that the unfortunate deaths of the villagers was a small price to pay.” With a twirling double stroke he knocked Lockwood back into the suspended iron chain. “And the same can certainly be said of your death, too.”

He aimed an almighty blow downward; Lockwood ducked aside and the sword sliced straight through the iron chain. The portion of chain attached to the post fell to the floor. The rest was at once sucked inside the circle, like spaghetti being drawn into a giant mouth, and it disappeared.

Lockwood stumbled away, closer to the circle and its column of circling ghosts. He looked weary, and I thought I understood why. My own experience beyond the circle had left me weakened. My limbs were like water, my head still spun. If Lockwood felt anything like me, it was probably all he could do to hold the sword.

“He’s beating him,” Holly gasped.

Kipps nodded. “He’s got Lockwood cold.”

“Or so he thinks.” George had a final standard flare in his shoulder belt. He took it out, winked at us, and hurled it straight at Rotwell’s head. At least, that’s what I assume he was aiming for. In actuality, the flare sailed clean past and landed by the edge of the circle of chains, where it exploded with great ferocity. When the smoke cleared, fires burned on the ground and the chains were blackened and twisted. Some of the links had almost split. At once the shapes inside the circle began to cluster at that spot.

“Ooh, that’s not good,” Kipps said. “Cubbins, where did you ever learn to throw?”

“He didn’t, basically,” I said. “That’s the problem.”

I ran past them and jumped off the platform.

Lockwood and Rotwell were clashing blades once more. Lockwood’s sword was moving with desperate speed, but his face was pale. He was defending all the time, being edged back toward the circle. Rotwell sensed his chance. With two mighty swipes he knocked Lockwood backward, close to the weakened chains. The Visitors within sensed his proximity; they thronged at the boundary in ever greater numbers, pale hands reaching, mouths agape. The psychic roaring from the circle increased. I could see the broken chains stir slightly as a force pushed on them from inside.

Lockwood still had his rapier up. He parried, he dodged, but his normal energy and control had gone. The next moment, the sword was gone, too. Rotwell had contemptuously struck it away. Lockwood jumped back. He stood at bay in front of the iron circle, thin, pale, helpless—and still defiant. He stared at his enemy with blazing eyes.

“In a minute,” Steve Rotwell said, “I’m going to kill your friends. But the first honor goes to you.” He lifted his rapier.

And that was when I arrived.

Yes, Rotwell had his sword arm raised, but he was also stooping slightly, back bent, bottom out. In every respect, he presented an excellent target. I swung my boot in and around like a soccer player zeroing in on a goal.

It was a terrific kick, if I do say so myself. I connected well. Rotwell shot forward, straight at Lockwood, who flung himself to the side. Rotwell toppled right across the iron chains and lay sprawled on top of them, one arm lost in the haze beyond. He blinked; he grimaced. He gave a deep-throated cry of fear. He tried to rise. But ice was already crusting over his back; it grew out in thin fingers across the surface of his hair. With a mighty effort he got to his knees—you could see the sinews straining in his neck. But something prevented him from going farther. The gray shapes were congregating close. Something was tugging on the arm inside the circle. It jerked him inward, once, then twice. Both times, he succeeded in pulling himself away. But his strength was gone. Ice extended over his forehead, crested his cheekbones, ran down his chiseled jaw.

It was all over for Steve Rotwell. He made a last effort, cried out a final time…

And was sucked inside the circle. It happened so fast, so silently, so weightlessly , it was like he’d been inhaled. One moment he crouched there, a bulky man, encased in spreading ice; the next, the chains were completely empty. Steve Rotwell, chairman of the Rotwell Agency, was gone.

The gray shapes swirled in triumph. The chains shivered—the broken links moved across the ground. Something inside had struck against them with considerable force. They would not hold for long.

Lockwood got unsteadily to his feet; he picked up his sword. White-faced, he grabbed my hand, hurried us toward the others. “George.”

“What?”

“We’ve got to destroy the circle. That monster flare of yours. Now might be just the time for it.”

“What? Big Brenda?”

“You’ve given it a name?”

“I’ve grown kind of attached to her.” George pulled the silver coconut from his belt and hefted it in his hand. “Oh, very well. Want me to throw it?”

“No! I mean—why not give it to Lucy? She’s closer. No—just pass it to her. Don’t throw.”

George gave it to me. I was surprised by how heavy it was. “It’s got a timer switch, here, Luce,” he said. “What do you think? Set it to two minutes?”

I looked at the broken circle, at the mess of forms that pressed against the ruptured links of chain. There was Emma Marchment’s ghost, hollow-eyed and red of mouth; there Solomon Guppy’s swollen form. There too, I thought, half-hidden in the broiling mist, was something in a bright blue dress I recognized far too well. Very soon the links would break and the circle would open, and these spirits would spill out into the world.

I turned the dial and flicked the switch. “I think one minute would be about right,” I said. “How fast can we all run?”