Burning Ashes

by James Bennett

  I’m right in front of you, numbskull.

  Ben groaned, his stomach burning, a dark sun dawning on him. He might not have trusted Von Hart, but Von Hart had trusted him. At least, trusted his love of humans, his unshakeable sense of duty. Maybe even his need for answers, the conviction that Ben would follow him. And why not? He’d chased Atiya all the way from London to Cairo. And Jia from the Alps into China. The envoy had wanted to greet his returning queen, that much was clear. Perhaps to bargain with her. To plead … though it seemed he’d been quite aware of the gamble he was taking and so, in typical fashion, he’d left the sword out of the picture. Somewhere that the Lady couldn’t reach it. Across the gulf of the nether. The gulf of earthly dreams. In this way, Von Hart had kept an ace up his sleeve, a bargaining chip in case his plan, his entreaty, went wrong. If Ben had been his escape route, then the sword was his get-out clause.

  But Caliburn was more than that. The full weight of Ben’s position landed on his shoulders. The envoy hadn’t just placed a sword in his hands, but the fate of the world. The Lady wanted to stick the blade through the heart of the circle and, in darkness, in death, fulfil it.

  The heart of the spell. She can’t reach it.

  Thinking this, he looked across the surface of the lake. He squinted at the sword, weaving, useless, in the air. One thing. One thing left to do … And there, in silver, in lunewrought, he saw himself reflected. To all intents and purposes a naked, bloody figure on the ice, a man who had never been a man. The onetime Sola Ignis. Benjurigan. Guardian dragon of the west. Flame-haired, pale and wounded, his embers dying out, pooling all around him.

  Get up. Get up, you oaf.

  Muscles screaming, Ben stretched out a hand. With an effort of will that threatened to break him, he extended a trembling claw. Talons splayed where his fingers had been, scrabbling at the ice. Teeth gritted, he dragged himself forward, one claw over another. A red carpet smeared the frozen surface as he crept for the circle.

  The Lady, focused on her efforts, didn’t notice him approach. The seconds crystallised around him, the chance trickling out. Trickling out like the stuff in his veins, an hourglass of blood. There’s no time. How long until the vanguard arrived, screaming out of the nether? No time. Silently cursing, he reached the inner ring and hauled himself under her, under her quivering belly, crawling between her legs. Only then, as the sword slashed down, did she vent a shriek. Over the thrumming of the blade, her outrage shook the sky. Ben looked up, seeing himself reflected in eight eyes, furious at his intrusion. And behind her rage, the understanding that she was too late to stop him.

  I am not … nothing …

  With the last of his strength, a blink of will, Ben forced draconic brawn into his body. He rose, an awkward mass of scales and horns, from the graven ice. Half-formed, a rhino-sized brute, he reached out for the pendulum blade, his claw closing around the crossguard. And with a grunt, a blast of ash, he wrenched Caliburn from her grip.

  Closing his eyes, he thrust the sword into the ice. Into the heart of the circle.

  The effect was immediate and dazzling. The sky boomed. A cannonade of magic. Wild. Unleashed. The last of it. The last. As Caliburn stabbed the surface of the lake, half of its length embedded, a web of cracks went riddling out, the ground rumbling. With it went light, loops and arcs of power, lit by the legendary blade. The glyphs shone, rippling out in blazing rings, a bright rosette with Ben at the centre, clinging onto the hilt.

  Somewhere above him, the Lady shrieked, her fear plain. As the light intensified, the sour blue brightening to silver, she hunkered over him, reaching for the sword. The radiance washed out the night, the lake, the mountains and the gate. All was swallowed by white.

  In the glare, he caught her intent. Her alien thirst. Her hunger. With magic, with lunewrought, she would suck up the soul of the world, draw the last of the magic into herself and leave the Earth to die …

  But another intention, draconic, mortal, had stolen her chance, curdling with her ambition.

  You’re too late, my lady. Your story was already over.

  In Ben’s skull, memories wheeled, visions sparked by the blade.

  Who are you? What are you?

  In his head, he heard Rose. Or rather saw her. She was staring at him in Central Park, a hand to her mouth, shocked by his inhuman strength.

  Then, high in the Alps, he saw a cable car dangling by a thread, the passengers wide-eyed and screaming, taking in the dragon in the sky.

  This was followed by the boom of shells, pounding in his ears. The tanks in Cairo, firing on a monster that burst from the roof of a shattered museum. A beast that shouldn’t be.

  In China, he saw people running and screaming. Dragons locked in battle—impossible battle—thundering across Tiananmen Square.

  In newspapers. On radio waves. On TV screens. The news of him had spread like fire.

  And in London, his city—the dragon city—how many eyes had turned to the heavens, watching him snake through the ash and smoke, a creature from the pages of myth?

  Hundreds. Thousands of them.

  All these things, the Pact had forbidden. The Lore had served to prevent.

  And the Lore was over.

  It was only a moment, nothing more, but in the whirl of images, the blinding light, he grasped its meaning.

  Somewhere in the glare, Caliburn said, “Now. Now you see.”

  He did see. Because his journeys had exposed him to the world, blowing the lid off an eight-hundred-year-old secret. But with the collapse of everything he knew, everything he’d tried to protect, the humans hadn’t greeted his presence with fear alone. He realised that now, the sword pressing the wisdom upon him.

  Not with fear alone. No. Also with belief.

  It was in him, this belief. Like the touch of lunewrought, he was stained by it, tainted with credulity. Gripping the sword, he forced his memories into the blade, this bright catalyst, and into the heart of the circle.

  The Lady screamed. Fangs bared, she tore at him, trying to wrench him from the sword. Pincers raked his spine, sparking off scale and horn. Shrieking, wailing—the light was hurting her, he realised, spearing into her deformed shape, the diseased, murderous core of her. In a blast of silver, Nimue released him, relinquishing her claim. The radiance was too much for her, driving her away from the Locus. She scuttled away over the ice, spurned by the arcane energy. Steaming, hissing, the light ripped into her, finding her presence foul, at odds with the kindled spell. Here, at the heart of the world, Caliburn, the Sword of Albion, world-cleaver, demon-slayer, harp-breaker, ignited the circle of protection, fuelled by the fire of belief.

  And the circle, branded in the earth by forgotten gods, designed to protect Creation from the dark, shuddered and did its work.

  Everything was silver now. The lake. The mountains. The sky. Glittering veins fanned out from the rings, exceeding the bounds of the circle. The radiance snaked over the ice. Onto the shore. Up into the peaks. The stars fled from its touch. On a shimmering disc, Ben lay, a spinning coin in the emptiness, the ocean of splintering light. With an understanding beyond his own, universal, vast in scope, he realised what was happening. The rivers, he thought, these streams of faith, would go rippling out from the sword, shooting through the bedrock, over the seas, setting fire to the other circles. The sword would restore the ancient spells.

  I can hope. I can hope that at the end …

  In his grip, the sword burned, growing molten. The blazing core was devouring the blade. The gilded dragons bubbled on the hilt, losing their shape. The runes, indecipherable, sank into the fuller, rubbed out. Runnels of gold bled through his fingers, searing his scales, his flesh. Then the lunewrought warped, the blade bending. Liquid beads spilled into the circle, feeding its beating heart. Gems popped from the melting quillons, glimmering, a little sadly, on the ice. Then they too were gone. Inhaled. Eaten by the light.

  Even the gate, the hole in the world, couldn’t withstand the brilliance, the rejuvenated m
agic. With a rush of air, a blast that tore snow, trees and rock from the surrounding slopes, the fissure in the sky twisted and churned, a black spindle, shuddering in the glare. The gate throbbed, once, twice, unreality fighting reasserted mass. Fighting belief. And then, with an indrawn breath, a rumble of hooves and the echo of screams, the gate boomed shut, a wound sealing in the air.

  The door of Creation had closed.

  For long moments, the lake blazed. The circle spun, silver and aflame. Ben clung onto the heart, aching, groaning, the light squeezing his brain. Nausea raged in his guts, and he vomited, hot on the snow. Blood fanned out around him. So much blood. Too much …

  And then, silence. Silence and snow. The night swept in, strewn with stars, the circle fading under the sky. The mountains, black, drank in the echoes, the retreating tide of magic. Darkness lay between them, but it was only darkness, deep, yet earthly. The wind whistled out of the north—a little peevishly, Ben thought, keen to reclaim its reign in these lands. Somewhere, the sea roared, crashing against the cliffs. Ice shifted and cracked, a slow, ceaseless dance. In the distance, a bird squawked, as though challenging the still.

  Ben lay on the ice, the shadows folding around him. Soft, dark wings. Partly scaled, partly naked, he curled in an ungainly heap, looking up at the heavens. His breath swirled in front of his face. Passing clouds, growing thinner by the second. Bruised and broken, he lay, embracing the gradual creep of sleep. He was numb now, the wound in his belly rimed with frost, the heat slipping out of him. If only he could focus, draw on a flickering flame of will, staunch the flow of blood. It was still there, the magic. Still there. He could feel it in his bones. The Lady hadn’t stripped him of it, for all her violence. The circle around him blazed on, hidden deep in the earth. Would it take that much to reach for it? Reach for the light, beg for its power in this lost and frozen place …

  But he was tired. Too tired. And so cold. So very cold. The last ember winked in the hearth and he couldn’t stoke himself to act.

  Nimue, Our Lady of the Barrows, was gone. Just like the envoy. Gone. He couldn’t see her on the ice, but even if he managed to turn his head, he somehow knew that he wouldn’t see her. No charred carcass on the lake, her legs curled in the air. She’d been a ghost, nothing more. No, a fairy tale. She’d never truly belonged to this world. None of them had. The Fay.

  He looked up at a shooting star, arcing through the darkness, and he made a wish. Didn’t they say you could do that? Well, he could hardly trust to legends. Legends were given to change and unreliable, full of fancy and wild ideas. But he could hope. He could hope, sure. The Long Sleep was undone and the Remnants would be stirring, rousing in the deep. Dragons. Giants. And worse. There was no way that he could stop that now. Whatever remained of the fabulous beings and beasts, the children of the Fay, they would find themselves blinking in the light of the modern world—a woken world—with no Pact, no Lore to guide them.

  Would there be war? Certainly. Chaos, magic and fire? Grand schemes to rule the world? Yes. Without doubt. It gave him a strange kind of comfort. Because the world would go on. In the end, the world would go on.

  Red Ben Garston smiled in the darkness, the shadows enfolding him.

  There would always be stories, he knew. He might have laughed, accepting the truth of the matter. There had always been a king in the mountain. Swords in stones and sleeping gods. And giants in the earth, in those days and this. As long as there were tongues to tell them, there would always be stories. Once upon a time and happy ever after.

  All myths have their season. And in time, even dragons have their ending.

  Acknowledgements

  I wrote Burning Ashes for Britain, drawing on the rich mythology of my homeland and with a mind to the authors who inspired a kid in countless libraries across the land. Those books, I believe, became the thread on the loom of my imagination. The visions of T. H. White, J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, Mary Stewart, Alan Garner and Susan Cooper, then as now, certainly filled my mind during the writing of this novel. In some ways, Burning Ashes serves as a love letter to a golden age, or perhaps the dream of one, and its childhood remembrance.

  But those who deserve my thanks for their kindness and assistance as I travelled and wrote are as scattered as the four winds, proving yet again that stories belong to everywhere and to everyone.

  Firstly, and once again, I’d like to thank agent extraordinaire John Jarrold for his unflagging support and encouragement. A good agent is worth their weight in gold, and believe me, Mr. Jarrold is the Fort Knox of agents.

  Thanks to Anna Jackson, Joanna Kramer, Lindsay Hall and Sarah Guan, my editors on both sides of the pond. And to all the Orbit team, Tim Holman, Brit Elisabet Hvide Busse, James Long, Emily Byron and Naz. And not forgetting Tracey Winwood for another fabulous book cover. I’m so grateful for your support, artistry, insights and patience.

  Thanks go out to a whole slew of bloggers and reviewers for picking up these books, the most notable of whom I’ll mention here. Ed Fortune of Starburst Magazine, Theresa Derwin of Terror Tree, Paul of The Eloquent Page, Aoife Lawlor of Storyful, Claire of Brizzlelass Books and Michael Grunier of Kickstand Sound. Thank you for reading and for having my back.

  Special thanks to Danie Ware, genre-bending author, doyenne of Forbidden Planet and, most importantly, friend, for all her help with my launches and events. Thanks to Julie “lizard queen” Hutchings, Ian the Beer Colonel and J. B. Rockwell for the arm punches and props.

  Ditto to Adele Wearing of Fox Spirit Books, my feral and furry knight gallant and all-round champ. Hugs to everyone involved with that bushiest of bushy indie publishers.

  Thanks to Sarah Pinborough, Lavie Tidhar and Elizabeth Chadwick for the retweets, kind words and chuckles.

  On a personal note, I’d like to thank Anne-Mhairi Simpson for her generosity and Greg Smith for the online pep talks.

  Much love to all my family, as ever. I realise I travel far and wide, but you are often in my thoughts. I owe so much to your belief in me. Thanks to Ben and Karl for giving me shelter when I most needed it.

  Last but not least, a big thanks to all the unexpected angels I met on the road as I wrote this novel. Eduardo and Lucia in Valencia and Bratislava respectively. Bernat and Tony of Plata Bar, Barcelona. Liz and Khalid in London (hi, Kiyana!). Mike in Hanoi. Edward in Puerto Rico. Andrew of Canada. You all kept me smiling and pushing forward, and you will always have my friendship.

  And thank you, Britain, for the dreams you gave me.

  extras

  about the author

  James Bennett is a British writer raised in Sussex and South Africa. His travels have furnished him with an abiding love of different cultures, history and mythology. His short fiction has appeared internationally and the acclaimed Chasing Embers was his debut fantasy novel. James lives in London and sees dragon bones in the Thames whenever he crosses a bridge.

  Find out more about James Bennett and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net.

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  BURNING ASHES

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  Author of The Girl With All the Gifts Mike Carey presents the first book in his hip supernatural thriller series featuring freelance exorcist Felix Castor.

  Felix Castor is a freelance exorcist, and London is his stomping ground. It may seem like a good ghostbuster can charge what he likes and enjoy a hell of a lifestyle, but there’s a risk: sooner or later he’s going to take on a spirit that’s too strong for him.

  When Castor accepts a seemingly simple ghost-hunting case at a museum in the shadowy heart of London, what should have been a perfectly straightforward exorcism is rapidly turning into the Who Can Kill Castor First Show, with demons and ghosts all keen to claim the big prize.

  But that’s business as usual: Castor knows how to deal with the dead. It’s the li
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  CHAPTER ONE

  Normally I wear a czarist army greatcoat—the kind that sometimes gets called a paletot—with pockets sewn in for my tin whistle, my notebook, a dagger, and a chalice. Today I’d gone for a green tuxedo with a fake wilting flower in the buttonhole, pink patent-leather shoes, and a painted-on mustache in the style of Groucho Marx. From Bunhill Fields in the east, I rode out across London—the place of my strength. I have to admit, though, that “strong” wasn’t exactly how I was feeling; when you look like a pistachio-ice-cream sundae, it’s no easy thing to hang tough.

  The economic geography of London has changed a lot in the last few years, but Hampstead is always Hampstead. And on this cold November afternoon, atoning for sins I couldn’t even count and probably looking about as cheerful as a tricoteuse being told that the day’s executions have been canceled due to bad weather, Hampstead was where I was headed.

  Number 17, Grosvenor Terrace, to be more precise: an unassuming little early Victorian masterpiece knocked off by Sir Charles Barry in his lunch hours while he was doing the Reform Club. It’s in the books, like it or not; the great man would moonlight for a grand in hand and borrow his materials from whatever else he was doing at the time. You can find his illegitimate architectural progeny everywhere from Ladbroke Grove to Highgate, and they always give you that same uneasy feeling of déjà vu, like seeing the milkman’s nose on your own firstborn.

  I parked the car far enough away from the door to avoid any potential embarrassment to the household I was here to visit and managed the last hundred yards or so burdened with four suitcases full of highly specialized equipment. The doorbell made a severe, functional buzzing sound like a dentist’s drill sliding off recalcitrant enamel. While I waited for a response, I checked out the rowan twig nailed up to the right of the porch. Black and white and red strings had been tied to it in the prescribed order, but still … a rowan twig in November wouldn’t have much juice left in it. I concluded that this must be a quiet neighborhood.