by Brom
“GRAB HOLD!” Nick screamed. “GRAB HOLD, PETER! OR YOU WILL DROWN!”
Peter made no effort. His eyes seemed to be welcoming death.
“GODDAMN IT, PETER!” Nick shouted. “DON’T QUIT! DON’T YOU DARE—” Nick saw the tree—an entire tree tumbling right for them. “Oh shit!” he cried as the limbs smashed into the boulder, raking across the stone, tearing Peter from his grasp and pulling them under in a tangle of twisting branches. Then all was churning bubbles and tumbling darkness as sharp pebbles and twigs and leaves pelted his face and arms. Nick’s chest began to tighten, white spots flashed across his vision, and he realized he was going to drown after all, after all the crap he’d made it through, and he managed to be mad.
Nick slammed into something solid, and thick fingers grabbed hold of his arm, yanking him from the current. He fell onto a rocky bank, coughing and spitting out water. He heard a tired sigh and wiped the water and mud from his eyes. There, towering above him, was Tanngnost. Behind the troll stood Drael and four elves; behind them, sitting on the ground, was Peter, looking like a drowned rat.
“Nicky?” came a cautious voice. Cricket came up to him. She looked torn between relief and horror.
“Get away from him,” commanded a stern voice. A Devil Nick knew as Cutter glowered down at him. Nick had never heard more than two words from Cutter, had rarely seen him join in on the games or jokes. He was a serious, reserved kid with dark, severe eyes, and Nick was alarmed to find those eyes locked on him now. Behind Cutter stood the remaining Devils, seven of them, and every one of them looked ready to slit Nick’s throat.
“He owes us blood,” Cutter said and slid his knife from his belt.
“Oh looky, the children are going to play,” came a little girl’s voice.
Nick spun around to see the three sisters, a handful of barghest, and the witch.
The Devils surrounded Nick.
Nick looked for Peter, but Peter lay crumpled in a ball, his hands wrapped around his head, lost to the world around him.
“You can’t do that!” Cricket said. “You can’t just kill him. Tanngnost, make them stop!”
The troll’s eyes were filled with resigned sadness, but he made no move to stop them.
“Avallach demands your life,” Cutter said, and the Devils nodded in agreement.
Nick looked from face to face and what he saw chilled him. Their faces—so like the Flesh-eaters in the village—filled with the same fanaticism, the same need to spill blood to appease their god.
“Leave him alone,” came a low, flat voice. Peter.
The Devils exchanged confused looks.
“But Peter,” Cutter said. “He killed Sekeu. He—”
“No,” Peter said. “It wasn’t him.”
The Devils actually looked disappointed.
“Then who?” Cutter asked.
Peter didn’t answer. He just held his head in his hands.
“We’ll sort this out later,” Tanngnost said. “For now we have to keep moving. The Lady can’t be far.”
Peter’s head jerked up. “What? What did you say?”
“The Lady, Peter. The Flesh-eaters have her.”
“She’s alive?”
“Yes. Didn’t you know?”
Peter was on his feet, he grabbed the troll’s arm. “You saw her? You’re sure?”
“Yes,” the troll said. “I thought you knew.”
Peter’s eyes lit up, suddenly alert and eager. “Let’s go!”
THE CAPTAIN STOOD on the bank of the dark, rising water and watched the body drift past. A woman from the fort, floating facedown, her long hair reaching out like tentacles in the swirling current. A moment later, a portion of a roof drifted by, then two more bodies, a man and a woman, then a pig.
He looked to the heavens; for the first time in so many centuries they had the stars and moon—like the face of an old and dear friend—to light their way. God, what a welcome sight. But it did them little good when the very land was collapsing beneath their feet. The ships had succumbed to the sea ages ago. They’d stored the boats upstream from the fort. But if the fort itself was gone, how could they ever find the boats?
He glanced at the sorceress, or demon, or whatever she be. She stood nude, muddy, with dried blood streaking down her face and breasts. They’d strapped a rope around her neck and pulled her along, kicking and beating her when she’d fallen. But she didn’t seem to feel any of it, only stared ahead, eyes focused on nothing. The Captain was disgusted by this senseless torment. Her spell was broken. They should kill her and be done. But the Reverend demanded they bring her back to the church, to burn her upon holy ground, to burn her before God. Only there was no more holy ground. So what would these madmen do now?
The wall of mist was sliding down from the sky, pulling away from the shore, evaporating even as he watched. Soon the sky and the sea would be clear. How many untold days and nights had he prayed for this? And now their prayers were answered. Now what? What good did it do them if they had no boats? They were still just as trapped—proof that God was merely playing with them.
Most of the men paced in tight circles or shifted aimlessly from foot to foot, staring slack-jawed up at the stars or down at the rising water. The others kneeled around the Reverend and lent their voices to his prayer as he paced rapidly to and fro, face to the heavens, begging God for a miracle.
The Captain kept Danny close. He saw the fear on the boy’s face. The Captain scanned the horizon. There was no more high ground. Water bubbled up everywhere, streams, creeks, and rivulets were converging, rapidly covering all the remaining land. Soon they’d all be in the sea. Another bit of thatched rooftop slipped past. They might not have any boats, but if he could rope together some of this debris, Daniel and he might be able to drift to shore. Only he didn’t believe the Reverend would allow it. No, if a miracle didn’t present itself, he was sure the Reverend intended for them all to go down together. Now, he thought, while the Reverend’s distracted, it’s a good time for us to slip away.
The Captain spied a clump of boulders and bushes banking the water not thirty feet away. If they could get past that unseen, they’d be free. He grabbed the boy’s hand and headed away. They’d barely made ten strides when a fervent voice called out. “Where are you going?”
The Captain knew that the Reverend was addressing him, but he kept walking.
“Captain.”
The Captain cursed under his breath and turned.
“Captain, where are you going?”
“Trying to find higher ground,” he lied.
“There is no high ground.”
“We shall see.”
“Bring me the demon child,” the Reverend said coolly.
The Captain felt Danny press against him, the boy’s hand tighten in his grip.
“Demon child?” the Captain said, and, realizing he was almost shouting, forced himself to lower his voice. “Daniel has led us to the sorceress. Has proven himself free of any demons.” The Captain let his hand drop to the hilt of his sword. He continued to withdraw, one step, then another.
The Reverend’s eye blazed. “We’ll let God be the judge of that. Now bring me the boy.”
When the Captain didn’t comply, the Reverend nodded to Ox. The giant and a dozen men fanned out, surrounding the Captain.
The Captain looked from man to man, searching for a loyal face. He found none. These men were scared, fearing for their immortal souls—they’d do whatever the Reverend asked. There’s nothing for it, the Captain thought. If he drew his sword, both Daniel and he would be dead in an instant. He whispered to the boy, “I’ll not leave you. I promise.”
The men approached warily, keeping a keen eye on the Captain. Ox pointed his sword at the Captain’s throat while a guard pulled Danny away. “And his weapons,” Ox said. The Captain eyed him sharply as he was stripped of his sword and knife. Once the Captain was disarmed, Ox grinned and smacked the Captain twice lightly on the cheek. “Good man.”
Ox
yanked the boy over to the Lady. He snatched the loose end of the rope tied about the Lady and looped it around the boy’s neck, binding them together. Danny let out a strangled cry as the giant jerked it tight. Ox slapped Danny on the side of the head. “Stop your whining, brat.”
The Captain clenched his hands into fists, fought to hold himself in check. He felt sure they’d all be dead soon. None of this should matter, but it did.
“ANGELS!” a man cried, his voice breaking with emotion. He pointed out across the water. “A city of angels.”
As the fog swirled away, towers of glittering, spiraling lights materialized out of the night.
“The Kingdom of Heaven,” the Reverend called, raising his arms out before him. He fell down to his knees, tears falling from his eyes. “God’s Kingdom has come for us at last!”
The Captain found himself questioning his own senses. Could this be Heaven? He saw lights in the sky, some hovering, some blinking, others shooting along. Were those indeed angels? He heard a horn blaring somewhere in the distance. The breeze picked up, and he caught strange, unfamiliar smells, similar to oil and turpentine mayhap, and familiar smells as well, of fish, garbage, and sewage, like the canals of Venice. Did Heaven smell of sewage? The Captain didn’t think so.
The horn again, louder, closer, but not like any horn he had ever heard before. Again, a long, continuous burst, this time much closer, much louder. Whatever it was, it was heading their way. The Captain searched through the last traces of the mist. There, a great glow coming toward them out of the night!
“A vessel,” someone shouted.
Yes, thought the Captain, he could hear the water plowing against its bow, could see two levels of lanterns along its port side; this was a vessel, a magnificent vessel.
The Reverend got up off his knees and walked toward the approaching vessel, his arms outstretched. “The Lord has come for us.”
NICK SAW THE Manhattan skyline break through the Mist, close enough he could just make out a few figures milling about the docks. The sight caused them to stop in their tracks, but only for a moment, as the land was disappearing beneath their feet. At this point, they were barely staying ahead of the tide.
“There they are!” Peter hissed, and pointed. And so they were. At least seventy Flesh-eaters clumped together on a spot of high ground.
Nick had no idea what the plan was. There was nothing they could do against that many men, and they’d all be in the harbor soon anyway. But this didn’t seem to slow Peter down; he sprinted headlong after them, leaving the rest of them racing to catch up and Tanngnost huffing and puffing not to be left behind.
A horn blast broke the silence. A ferry! Nick thought. It sounded nearby. There! He could see its lights and…oh no, it looked like it was going to crash right into the Flesh-eaters! Nick recognized it at once as one of the Staten Island ferries. The ferry appeared to be trying to turn, trying to avoid a landmass that shouldn’t even be there. The men leaped back, scrambling out of the way as the ferry slid to ground. A moment later, they were climbing up the front deck and boarding the ferry. This should prove interesting, Nick thought.
The barghest raced past, followed by the Devils and elves, all heading for the ferry. Nick realized that if he didn’t get onboard he’d be going for a late-night swim, and took off after them.
The ferry reversed its engines and the water began to boil. The stern swung about, broadsiding the bank. Peter leaped onto the railing at the rear of the boat; the rest of the Devils and elves followed suit, then the barghest. Cricket splashed through the knee-high water until Peter pulled her up. Nick got a leg on deck, heard girlish giggles, and watched the witch and her daughters crawl up the sideboard like spiders.
Tanngnost brought up the rear, his long, galloping lope splashing through the swirling tide. The troll got a hand on deck and Peter, Cutter, and Huck helped haul him onboard just as the ferry pulled away into open water.
Now what? Nick wondered, and watched the last of the island disappearing into the bay. It wasn’t sinking, but crumbling and dissolving, like stirring cocoa powder into milk. Sparkling phosphorescent vapors bubbled to the surface and evaporated into the air.
Nick thought he would’ve been glad to see the last of Avalon, but now, as an unexpected forlornness clutched him, he realized he didn’t, at least not like this. He felt he was watching the very heart of the world dying, disappearing, and sinking away forever.
PART V
Ulfger
Chapter Twenty-Five
God’s House
The Captain ran his hand along a girder. A ship of floating steel, he marveled. He glanced from light fixture to light fixture. Light without flame. These things were indeed miraculous, but they were not miracles. There was an explanation. These men and women were just people, not lost souls on their way to salvation, nor were they angels, despite the miraculous city or marvelous ship. He watched a balding man with sagging jowls and blotchy skin backing away, falling over his own feet as he stumbled up the narrow stairs to the second level. No, most certainly not angels.
The fore cabin had been full when they’d boarded. But once the passengers had gotten a good look at the bedraggled crew of castaways, they’d quickly scrambled to the back of the ship or upper decks. Even now the Captain could see a few horrified but curious faces peeking at them from around walls and down the stairwells. He noticed there was one passenger who had not given up her seat, an elderly woman wrapped in a fuzzy yellow afghan. She didn’t look so much horrified as simply perturbed.
The Captain walked over to the old woman. “Madam, may I?” He indicated the vacant seat next to her. She didn’t answer, just gave him a sour look. The Captain decided it best to stand. After all, it was good to have the feel of the sea under his feet once more.
“Pardon me, madam,” he began. “Do—”
“You think you could tell those damn fools to shut the door?” she said gruffly and tugged her afghan tighter around her.
The Captain followed her glare to where the Reverend and most of the men stood crammed out on the front deck, crowded so tight that they’d wedged the wide double doors open, allowing a strong, biting wind to blow through the cabin.
“You’d think they’d never been on a boat before,” the woman huffed. She leaned forward, squinting through her tortoiseshell glasses, the thick lenses distorting her eyes, swallowing up her whole face, making her look to the Captain like some dour insect. “Sure are a peculiar lot.”
The Captain had to agree, they were indeed a peculiar lot, pointing and cooing at the city like a bunch of pigeons, or wandering about gawking at the lights, prodding and caressing the seats, windows, and every shiny surface.
“Madam, if you don’t mind, would you enlighten me as to the year?”
The woman sniffed loudly, then wrinkled her nose. “Good Lord, is that you?” She leaned away from the Captain. “You smell worse than a sack of sardines.”
This brought a smile to the Captain. “The year, madam?”
“Are you asking me what year it is? Good gracious, have you been living in a hole or something?”
“Of sorts.”
“It’s 2005. No wait, 2006. It’s 2006.”
The Captain winced. “Of the year of the Lord?”
“Why yes, I’m certain. And you know how old that makes me? Ninety-two. You’d never guess by looking at me, would you? You wanna know how I stay so sharp, keep my figure? I walk every goddamn day. While those other old biddies are sitting around on their fat tushes, I’m putting in my two miles. Rain or shine. I’ve already outlived two husbands. You want to know what else?”
The old woman prattled on, but the Captain was no longer hearing her. Over three hundred years. He needed to sit down after all. How had three centuries slipped away? He’d often considered that time moved differently there in purgatory, but had clung to the belief that out here, in the real world, time was on hold. But time had not waited. His children, his grandchildren, even their children’s children�
�s children would be long in the grave. There was no one to return to. No home for him anywhere. What was left for him?
Someone was nudging him.
“What the hell’s he carrying on about so?” the woman in the afghan asked.
The Captain blinked, he’d been so lost in thought that it took a moment to understand she meant the Reverend.
The Reverend stood on the bow, arms spread wide as though ready to embrace the city, his long, black cape fluttering dramatically in the wind. He was shouting to be heard over the ferry’s engine, ranting on and on about God welcoming His children home.
“I wish I knew,” the Captain answered.
“Well, if you ask me, the cuckoo bird has done eaten every one of that man’s crackers.”
The Captain’s face hardened. “Yes,” he said absently. “Something certainly has.” And he thought of Danny—this child that he barely even knew—and realized the boy was all he had left that mattered and that the boy was at this very moment at the mercy of a murderous madman.
He stood and walked rapidly to the doors, needing to see the boy. Danny stood in front of the Reverend. The Captain attempted to make eye contact, to give the boy some reassurance, but Danny only stared down at the deck.
The Captain looked out past the Reverend. He could see they would be docking soon. Danny was running out of time.
NICK GRIPPED THE railing and held tight. They were coming upon the ferry terminal fast, too fast.
Peter, the Devils, the elves, the witch and her brood had all climbed up onto the roof of the ferry and were now peering down over the front railing. There were two decks below them. Most of the ship’s passengers were crowded on the deck directly below, the Reverend and Flesh-eaters on the deck below that, the very bottom deck.
Nick glanced over his shoulder at the pilot house. The pilot had one hand wrapped tight around the wheel as though for dear life, and the radio pressed to his lips with the other. He was jabbering away, not once taking his eyes off the group of barghest hanging from the rail just outside his window. Nick wished he’d pay a little more attention to where they were going, because it looked like they were heading straight for the pylons.