Burning Ashes

by James Bennett

  Then, with Caliburn in one claw and du Sang in the other, Ben turned his back on the pyre and flew off into the night.

  TWELVE

  And minutes later, the expected gratitude:

  “Connard! Imbecile!” The moment that du Sang spat the garlic bulb from his mouth, he had quite a lot to say. “You refuse me dragon fire and now this? You pluck me at whim from certain doom. What have I ever done to you?”

  “Well …” Ben left the thought hanging.

  Du Sang wailed, clutching himself with withered arms, his prune of a face wet with tears. “How long must this go on?” He was asking the night, it seemed, and not his unwelcome rescuer. “Another century? Five? All I want to do is die.”

  The two of them were standing atop the Arc de Triomf, the huge gate of red brick that loomed over the broad, tree-lined mall leading to the park. Even from a quarter-mile away, the flames lit the sculptures adorning the arch, the noble bats and the angels with their wreaths of victory, but Ben was feeling less than triumphant.

  “I heard you the first time,” he growled, and he had, months ago under Paris. He didn’t have the time or the breath for sympathy. “Is that why you pointed Mauntgraul to the Invisible Church?”

  The Vicomte stared at him, his eyes glinting with malachite scorn. Then he seemed to remember who he was talking to. He straightened, lifting his chin with a soft yet audible creak. The motion confirmed Ben’s suspicion before the boy spoke.

  “Oui,” he said, without a trace of apology. “With all this anarchy loosed upon the world—your fault, I might add, not mine—someone was going to give me what I want. Who better than the White Dog? Dragons, it appears, are like buses. And Mauntgraul was quite, quite mad. The harp had stripped away most of his mind and what he had left was … well, malleable, to say the least. The fragment in his keeping did the rest, leading us from England to Italy, a bargain I thought beneficial at the time.” He smiled, never a pleasant sight. “Nothing personal.”

  “It felt kind of personal when half the monastery landed on my head,” Ben said.

  He ignored the Vicomte’s accusation, near the knuckle as it was. My fault … The Sola Ignis, Guardian of the West, hadn’t turned out to be much of one. He couldn’t argue with that. But that didn’t mean he had to admit it, especially not to the sorry bag of bones before him.

  Du Sang shrugged. “Like me, you have a bad habit of sticking around.” The Vicomte turned to look at the fire, a sigh rattling through him. “No matter. It was all a waste of time. Even dragon fire wasn’t enough, quelle surprise. Down there, that whole performance.” He indicated the building in the distance, blazing merrily, with a flick of his hand. “Knowing my luck, I’d have probably survived it.”

  “You need a helpline,” Ben told him. “And a surgeon.”

  With a tut, du Sang looked down at the stakes protruding from his body. As Ben watched, the Vicomte began to pull them out, the faint sound of wood scraping against bone making him wince. One by one, the boy dropped the stakes to the ground in a black and sticky-looking pool of blood. Venting the odd grunt here and there, he continued speaking as he did so.

  “So the harp shattered, according to my spies. Something about an old Fay portal and a fiesta of phantoms. You can’t have come all this way to ask me for news, Monsieur Garston. The fallout is hardly a secret at this point. So tell me, what do you want?”

  Ben opened his mouth to speak, but du Sang went on in his usual tone, velvet over thorns. “You’ll be looking for your friend the envoy, I’ll wager. Has he really got you chasing after him again? Mon dieu. People will talk.”

  “I know where he is. And he isn’t my friend.”

  “Oh? Do you imagine he’ll be waiting around on that godforsaken island? Simply for you to try to stop him? No. He’s gone, Benjurigan. Into the north. Into ice …”

  “Sounds like you’ve had an ear to the ground despite your recent trouble.”

  “You’re always within three feet of a spider,” du Sang told him, by way of explanation. “Even up there.”

  Up there. Spiders could get just about anywhere, Ben knew, and the creature before him had the command of a million of them, whispering along the strands of his web.

  But Von Hart would have to wait.

  “Something that looks like King Arthur has invaded London,” he said, after a breath. “There’s a whole army of the fuckers dragged from the Sleep. Or what’s left of the Sleep. Arthur’s using some kind of … magical accelerant. A horn of ivory and gold. A fancy-looking ball-ache if ever I’ve seen one.”

  “It’s the Horn of the Twrch Trwyth,” du Sang told him. He pronounced the old Welsh name “torc trew-eth,” which was close enough. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the myth. After all, it’s one of yours.”

  Ben nodded. Of course. He knew the tale, all right. It had been at the back of his mind as he’d lain half-conscious in the ruins of Bala. He was hardly one to sniff at fairy tales, but the story of the boar went way back, back to the earliest days of the Old Lands. The ferocious beast, a cursed prince of Powys, had ravaged the lands between Porth Mawr and the Black Mountains in the once-wilderness of South Wales. After a long and arduous hunt, King Arthur had slain the boar and fashioned himself a hunting horn. Presumably a feast had followed, complete with mead and bacon.

  “Yeah, well, thanks to the horn I’m outnumbered. I’d like to call in some back-up.”

  “But the envoy—”

  “The envoy will keep.” I hope. “I’m not going to leave the humans to die.”

  “Bold words,” du Sang said. With a care that betrayed his affection, the Vicomte raised a hand to his face and Ben could see the spider dangling there, the little creature spinning a thread between his fingers. “I wonder how you intend to go about that. It seems that your One True King has been far from idle. My friend here whispers of a pyre in a grand public square. People in chains, dragged back to the city. Arthur intends to make a great hecatomb, you see. A sacrifice to the Lady. A thousand screams to welcome her return. With fire, with fear, he prepares a throne for Nimue, the Queen of the Fay.”

  We are not what we were …

  Nimue’s sadness breezed across Ben’s mind, the memory making him shiver. Was she sending the cavalry or not? He didn’t know what to think, and dreams … well, dreams weren’t exactly reliable. He was almost too embarrassed to share his insight.

  “I had … a vision.” He shook his head as if to clear it, dispel the memory of the Orchard of Worlds and its strange, celestial fruit. The truth was that the visitation had been no dream, not in the ordinary sense. “The Lady told me that she was coming to help us, to restore the world somehow.” Let your world drink from the font, the eternal source of magic, she’d said. “Just like the Troth promised us.”

  “Ah, when magic blossoms anew in the world. That old story.” Du Sang chuckled, the spider weaving back and forth under his hollow gaze. “Then it comes down to a simple question. Who do you believe? A dead king bent on dominion or a vanished queen offering salvation.”

  That was easy. “Neither,” Ben said. And he meant it. “The Lady reckons that the king woke up because she’s opened the way again, the Silver Ley leading to Earth. But Arthur has gone rogue, or so she said, the old spell turned sour. That’s why he’s doing the whole ‘dark side’ business. But I’m guessing that’s not the whole story.”

  Never, ever trust the Fay.

  “I see. Then you’ve chosen your path. The path of rebellion. Of war.” Du Sang grinned. “Vive la mort!”

  The light in the Vicomte’s eyes, catching both the fire in the distance and the dawn, told Ben that he found the idea rather exciting.

  “I didn’t choose it,” he replied. That was down to Jia. “But I’ll play the hand I’ve been dealt.”

  “Oh? With what? A bad attitude and an antique—sacre bleu!”

  Ben stepped closer to du Sang. The Vicomte had been staring at the inferno, the smoke billowing into the sky. There was light growing on the hor
izon, pushing back the night, but the boy didn’t seem particularly alarmed by it. Not half as alarmed as he was when Ben raised the sword, the blade flashing.

  Du Sang hissed. “Lunewrought.”

  “Caliburn, actually,” the sword replied, all glittering pommel and blade. “The Sword of Albion. And as for antique, I think you’ll find that I was forged in—”

  “One strike.” Du Sang cut the weapon off, a hand stretching out, his fingers trembling. “One strike and you’d turn me to dust. End this nightmare. The Fay metal has ever been a bane to our kind.”

  “Charmed.” Caliburn gave a modest cough. “I must confess, there aren’t many who can withstand my legendary might. For one thing, I’m unbreakable. For another, I can slice through most things as if—”

  “Oh no, you don’t.” Ben took a step in retreat, raising the sword over his shoulder, safely out of the boy’s reach. He’d seen what the sword could do, down there in the Gothic Quarter, and he didn’t fancy watching a repeat here. Not yet, at any rate. “I’ve got a job for you, du Sang. Help me out and later—maybe—we’ll talk about it.”

  The Vicomte hissed again, but he sank back into himself, a bundle of shadows and rags. Ben couldn’t help but notice the dawn light spilling across the horizon, twinkling off the sea to the east. Nor could he fail to see the smoke coiling off du Sang, faint tendrils of mist rising from his head and shoulders, his undead flesh responding to the kiss of the sun. He didn’t know how long the vampyr could stand out here catching a tan and anxiety plucked at him, urging him to leave.

  The Vicomte retained his composure, however, wearily accustomed to the break of day.

  “You want me to find the Remnants, isn’t that so?” he asked, unable to hide his incredulity. “You want me to lead you to the lairs of the Remnant leaders in the hope that they’ll come to your aid. Let me see now …” A touch theatrically, he brought the spider up before his face again, his lips twitching. “We could’ve flown to Norway, ‘East of the Sun and West of the Moon,’ but I’m afraid that Jordsønn burned out a couple of years ago. Then again, there’s always a tomb in Somalia where you could summon a goddess to fight by your side—that’s if you don’t mind her possessing a child first. Problematic. How about your accountant in London? Is he as handy with an axe as he is with his secretaries? China is out of the question, of course. The Guardian of the East isn’t taking any calls.”

  Before he could stop himself, Ben lunged forward. With a growl, he grabbed the boy around his throat, sweeping him up off the ground. He swung him around as if he was a broom, his feet, skeletal, dangling over the edge of the arch.

  “You will help me, du Sang. One way or another.”

  “Be my guest, Benjurigan.” The boy shook in his grip, his body wracked by laughter. “If you think dropping me a hundred feet will make you feel any better. You can’t blame me for the delicate matter of your, ah … reputation. Even if I lead you from Mexico to India and back again, you won’t receive a warm welcome from a Remnant. The nagual will simply change into a puma and slink off into the hills. The Timingila would sooner drown than rise from her bed in the Bay of Bengal. Besides, how long do you have? Such a journey would take weeks. Months. Arthur will start roasting your precious humans a day or two from now.”

  Ben swore and let go of the Vicomte, dropping the creature on the roof of the arch. As much as it pained him, he knew that he was telling the truth. Considering the breaches in the Lore, the collapse of the Curia Occultus and the breaking of the harp, it was unlikely that anyone would think of him as Mr. Popularity and he imagined that the Remnant leaders had their own shit to deal with, such as cities, countries under siege like his own. There was no point taking it out on du Sang.

  He looked down at Caliburn, weighing the blade in his hand.

  “What the fuck am I gonna do?”

  “You were never the sharpest tool in the box,” du Sang said, a mutter at his back. “There is another way, all the same. I can’t say it’ll be easy, but …”

  Ben turned and cocked his head.

  “Spill.”

  “First you have to make me a promise. If I come with you. If I help …”

  He didn’t have to speak further. Ben exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. Then he raised the sword again, the blade rejecting the Vicomte’s reflection, the flames dancing in unsullied silver.

  “Seeing as we’re haggling, there’s one more thing,” he said. “When the time comes, when this is over, I’ll ask you where I can find Von Hart. Then, and only then, I’ll give you what you want.” He screwed up his nose, peering down it at the creature on the ground. “I’m not shaking on it.”

  Du Sang appeared to consider for a moment. Then he gave a tut and nodded.

  “Very well,” he said. “Then listen closely. I mentioned the Horn of Twrch Trwyth and it’s the horn that you want, you fool. The Long Sleep is over, but the awakening will take some time. Years, even. The horn will summon and bind the Remnants to your cause. If you plan to reclaim London, then you’ll need to raise an army of your own.”

  Ben looked up at the sky, faintly embarrassed. Back in Bala, he’d seen Arthur blow the horn for himself, summoning greenteeth from the lake and the manticore from the hillside. In all the chaos since Arthur’s awakening, it hadn’t occurred to him that he could turn the relic’s power to his own ends. Under this, he realised that he hadn’t wanted to see it. What du Sang proposed was madness, a flight into the heart of darkness, one dragon against a corpse king and an entire battalion of Remnants.

  On the other hand, it didn’t surprise him that the Vicomte had proposed a suicide mission.

  What else is there? You’ve got nothing left …

  “Then we’d better get going,” he said to the smouldering huddle of bones before him. “Hang around and I might see sense.”

  Du Sang gasped, a fleshless hand to his chest.

  “But look at me, mon ami. I am broken. I’m weak. I need time to rest and feed …”

  Ben’s face split in a grin, as cold as the creature before him.

  “How do you feel about goblin blood?” he said.

  London

  A thousand feet above Southwark, King Arthur gazed out over the city, a cold blue light in his eyes. The viewing platform on Level 72 stood partially open to the air, the pinnacle of the Shard rising to a point above him, yet he felt no chill, his flesh cooled by death. The wind stirred his beard, a grizzled rime of hair straggling to his chest, whistling through gaps in the window before him, a slope of reinforced glass supported by outriggers that knifed at the sky. All Hallows’ Eve had dawned bright and clear, with only a few shredded clouds. As the sun rose higher, the shadow of the skyscraper slipped across the streets below, across cathedral and museum and bridge, a clock hand counting the hours until dusk. The sunlight gleamed on the horn around his neck, an ancient tusk of carved sigils and gold, silent for now.

  With a satisfaction that wasn’t his own, Arthur nodded at the thought of his army encamped around the foot of this, his chosen watchtower. Down there, Bedwyr and Galahad, his knights, presided over the ranks of Remnants as the creatures made busy sharpening weapons, tending fires and gnawing on bones … So far, no one from the lands beyond the city had come to challenge him, but the smoke to the west didn’t bode well. Nor did the strange metal birds that had shuddered through the sky yesterday at noon, some with blades chopping at the air, a quiver of others shooting past his throne room at speed, close enough to make the glass shudder. In response, Arthur had decided to ride out with his knights and a small phalanx of goblins to quash the manoeuvres on St. James’s Park, the hustle and bustle there reported as the raising of some makeshift human barracks or other. He’d never been one to hide in a tower, behind ramparts and palace walls. The stairway to the spire was open and he was ready to fight.

  But first, he’d make sure to strengthen his defences.

  The magic at work in the Shard was aglow, the radiance spilling from beyond the world to ignite the towe
r like a beacon. Even in daylight, the light flickered and danced, announcing the return of the Once and Future King, drawing enemies like moths to his sleepless flame. The shadow of wings, the wyverns gyring around the spire, slipped and fluttered across his skinless face as he considered the coming battle. Humans. Gathering their nerve. The flying machines had made a pass to survey the damage, weigh up the level of threat. Gargoyles, deployed as scouts, had returned to croak about submerged vessels by the flood barriers to the east, black steel ships that bobbed to the surface, creeping ever closer up the Thames. Machines were rumbling onto Hampstead Heath too, a second contingent churning up dust and smoke. The hour was almost at hand.

  Spectral fingers, questing for knowledge, plucked at Arthur’s mind, judging the army at the gates. London was a city invaded and soon enough the people would answer, their shock resolving into vengeance. He had a day, two at most, before the vanguard sallied forth, trying its luck. An attack would’ve happened sooner if not for his wisdom in seizing the people, forbidding them to flee. He may have lost his sword, but his warrior instincts remained sharp. The preservation of London’s landmarks aside, few would sit idly by as the last of the lines stumbled into the city, the captives chained and caged. No doubt a litter of viscera and bones painted the main roads into the capital, men, women and children devoured by the horde before they could reach his sacred pyre, his tribute to the Lady and the dark half of the year. The great structure rose from the square as he stood here, readying for battle. Built by the hands of ogres, Taranis, the god of thunder, waited for the dusk.

  First, it was time to tip the scales, prepare the battleground in his favour. Having come so far, through rock, through death, the king wouldn’t leave his throne undefended. The power that drove him, a spur of unearthly will, intended to buy itself time, and to that end, to make retaliation difficult, human or otherwise.

  Machines were one thing. Magic another.

  Arthur opened his fist. In his palm lay a sprig, snapped from a tree in a park at his command and brought to him earlier, the returning goblin bowing so low that his wart-ridden nose scraped the floor. The hawthorn, devoid of blossoms in this late season, had grown hard and sharp in the shadow of winter. When he opened his hand, he saw that the thorns had pricked his skin, drawing blood as cold and as black as the twig he held. A small libation, congealed, but royal nonetheless, would fuel the ritual and the spell it sought to weave. The king raised the sprig to his hollow eyes, the western skyline framing the thorns. A voice that did not belong to him echoed from his throat, the charm intoned on a worm-eaten tongue.