The Claws of Evil

by Andrew Beasley

  The cell had been home to so many prisoners in its time, it was as if their fear had seeped into the brickwork. Suddenly Moon felt alone and very afraid.

  Please don’t leave me in here alone for too long, Ben, he prayed.

  Although Ben’s head was pounding when he regained consciousness, he was glad that Mickelwhite had stepped in to stop him when he did. He didn’t understand what had come over him on the rooftop and felt ashamed of what he had done; even though Bedlam had started it.

  Ben had no idea how long he had blacked out for, but he knew that it must have been most of the day. He had never felt more tired and drained. It wasn’t just the result of his physical exertions either. Ben recognized that something unnatural was taking an appalling toll on his mind and spirit. Something small and round and silver. It was as if he had acquired a leech that was slowly and steadily sucking the life from him, leaving a shell that looked like Ben but was completely hollow on the inside.

  As he opened one eye it took him a second to recognize that he was back in the Under again, and that they were all there to “greet” him: Captain Mickelwhite; twitchy Jimmy Dips; Alexander Valentine, looking more sickly than before; Hans Schulman, with his square Germanic shoulders; poor crippled Munro; and, last in line, a puffy-faced John Bedlam. Ruby Johnson was there too, standing behind the others, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

  Not one of them looked pleased to see him, Ben thought.

  That also probably explained why they were all standing up and he was bound at the wrists and lying on the floor.

  While the boys glared at him, Ben noticed that Ruby was steadfastly avoiding catching his eye. She looked uncomfortable and obviously felt ashamed, and Ben was pleased; that was the way that traitors should feel. And yet, there was still a part of him that would have found a crumb of comfort in her emerald gaze.

  Ben curled up in agony as a really juicy kick in the belly helped him to come completely to his senses. He looked up to see John Bedlam on the end of that boot, grinning wickedly through fat lips and a black eye.

  “You kick a bit like a girl, too,” Ben quipped. Same-old, same-old, he thought: laughing on the outside, hurting on the inside. He tensed his stomach muscles, ready for a second visit from Bedlam’s boot.

  But for the second time it was Mickelwhite who was his saviour. “Leave it, John,” he said. “We have been summoned to the sanctuary to give an account of last night’s little excursion.” He made a small sound then to prove that this was his idea of a really witty comment. “I will be very interested to see how our new associate talks his way out of this one.”

  So will I, thought Ben, as they led him away.

  They came to a halt outside a pair of massive bronze doors. They towered above Ben, four times as tall as he was. Like the door of the armoury, they were covered with images of angels and winged beasts with the heads of birds and lions and bulls. Ben looked closer and then recoiled. These angels were savage. They fought with teeth and claws and swords and spears, and other weapons that he couldn’t name, but which would be just as effective at cutting out your heart. They were not at all like the fat-faced cherubs he had seen at Cowpat Cowper’s Sunday school.

  Nor were they like the noble angel who flew with the Watchers.

  “When we are inside the sanctuary, nobody speak without my say-so,” said Mickelwhite curtly as he led the way.

  For the first time ever, Ben felt like doing exactly as he was told. And yet...

  “Blow me down,” he said as he stepped inside. He really did want to hold his tongue but he just couldn’t help himself. The sanctuary of the Legion was an architectural miracle. Every Londoner was so in awe of the work of Sir Christopher Wren and the dome of St Paul’s. If only they could see the work of Alasdair Valentine, thought Ben.

  The craftsmen of the Legion had laboured underground to build a cathedral of their own; equal, but opposite. It was filled with a thousand candles: on the floor, in niches, in the walls, on pillars, in sconces. And yet they couldn’t create enough light to fill the inky shadows that encircled them. There was movement in those pools of darkness, Ben realized; shapes that were not quite human, whispers and spiteful laughter.

  Everywhere that Ben laid his eyes, he found something to be afraid of. The columns that he had seen in the Egyptian’s workshop were dwarfed by the ones here. Each massive pillar took the form of a man or woman with the head of a beast, their faces evil and cruel, their arms arching forward to support the vaulted roof. And as their hideous splendour drew his eyes up to the domed ceiling, Ben was chilled to the marrow by what he discovered there.

  There were...creatures... What else could he call them? Horrible things, that roosted in the eaves, holding tight to the stonework with strange elongated hands and feet, and nails like talons. Their bodies might once have been human, but their heads and wings belonged to a nightmare.

  The bird-men, Ben realized with a gasp. No wonder poor Mr. Smutts had been scared half to death.

  Mickelwhite brought them to a halt in front of a vast golden throne and then kneeled before it, his head bowed. Ben followed suit, but not before he had taken a good look at who he was bowing to.

  Claw Carter sat upon the throne.

  Ben knew then that he had been terribly wrong to compare this man to his father. Jonas Kingdom was decent and honest and down to earth. Not full of selfish ambition and vanity like the man seated before him.

  How could I ever have wanted to be like Claw Carter? he wondered.

  Although his hands were still tied behind his back, Ben could feel the ache of the Legion mark. He wished that he could scrub it off. Perhaps he could put his hand into a fire and burn it away?

  He thought of the Coin in his pocket and wanted to be rid of that too.

  “I have been informed of your failure,” Claw Carter intoned in a sonorous voice. “I am...disappointed.” Ben guessed that something far worse than a dressing-down was coming their way. “You all know the Legion law...” Ben didn’t, but he couldn’t put his hand up to ask. “You must decide amongst yourselves,” Carter continued. “You must choose which one of you shall carry the punishment, or all face the wrath of the Feathered Men.”

  Carter observed them with a sardonic smile: Ruby Johnson buttoned down tight, while the Legion boys shuffled anxiously.

  And Benjamin Kingdom, looking on with absolute contempt.

  The more chance Carter had to study Ben, the more he could see the possibility that he could be the Hand of Hell. He was an angry boy, strong willed, defiant. Those were all great qualities in a general of the Legion. Provided, of course, that he could be trained to do as he was told. What was the point in having a fighting dog, if it didn’t come to heel when its master snapped his fingers?

  If Ben Kingdom could be made to obey him, then Carter would definitely be able to make a place for him in his future plans. And fortunately, two more bargaining chips had fallen into his lap that night. Both were languishing in the cells. Both were men that were dear to Ben Kingdom.

  Carter wondered how much pressure he would have to put on his captives before Ben capitulated. Was the boy so pig-headed that one of them would have to die first? One of them knew where the Coin was, that was certain. Just as it was certain that they would hand it over to him in the end, beg him to take it from them. Every man had his breaking point.

  In the depths of the dark cathedral of the Legion, at the far end of the long nave, was what Carter considered to be its greatest wonder: the steeple. On the surface, a steeple always stretched upwards, a finger pointing the way to Heaven. Here in the Under, it stretched down towards the centre of the earth. A huge black pit, that even the candlelight could not penetrate, descending through solid rock. Rumours said that there were beings that lived at the bottom that had never seen daylight at all.

  What would it take to break Ben Kingdom? thought Ca
rter. Would it be sufficient to dangle him over the edge? Or would he have to be thrown in and left in the darkness for a while?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Ben said nothing in his own defence. Mickelwhite and Bedlam could hardly wait to point the finger at him and the others fell quickly into line. All except for Ruby, who folded her arms and refused to take part. Instead, Ben took the opportunity to wriggle his wrists free while they were busy settling his fate, letting the rope drop silently to the floor.

  The more time he spent with the Legion, the more he recognized that these people were not his friends. He was more alone here than he had ever been in Old Gravel Lane.

  His mother’s Bible was still in his pocket and his right hand reached for it then. His heart always ached for her at Christmas. He had known her for one day, and he had missed her every day since. He missed Nathaniel as well, he realized. Looking back, they should never have allowed imaginary walls to be built between them; grief should have brought them together, not pushed them apart.

  Ben thought of his father too. His dear, beloved pa.

  Stuff the Legion, stuff the Coin! What was he hanging around here for? He had a family to rescue.

  “Come on then!” Ben shouted. “You’ve picked me, so let’s get on with it!”

  Overhead, one of the Feathered Men shrieked and Ben felt a shiver run the length of his spine as the creature detached itself from its resting place and took to the air. It dived down, its taloned feet reaching out towards him, like a kestrel seizing a hare. The creature screeched as it descended and Ben could see its thin yellow tongue inside the black maw of its mouth.

  A moment of panic flooded Ben’s chest and he realized that he hadn’t returned the Coin to its hiding place in his hat. Could the Feathered Man smell it on him? he wondered. Did he stink of Roman silver?

  Thinking on his feet, Ben thrust his hand into his pocket and whipped out the battered Bible, holding it out in front of him like a shield. In the stories that he loved, vampires were repelled by garlic and werewolves by the touch of silver; perhaps this might have the same effect on these nightmare creatures? Ben fancied that he saw fear in its cold avian eyes and it shrieked all the louder as it recognized the holy book. The Feathered Man pulled out of its dive at the last instant, but not before it had ripped the Bible from Ben’s fingers and scattered its pages across the floor.

  So this is it then, thought Ben. Whichever way he counted them, the odds of getting out alive were just too great. He was trapped beneath the ground, surrounded on all sides. Alone and unarmed.

  Mickelwhite was laughing. The Feathered Men were screaming.

  Claw Carter was clapping, his hand slapping against his claw in great amusement. “Bravo!” he said. “I like a boy with spirit.”

  “Oh really?” said Ben, Carter’s arrogance proving the spur he needed to keep on fighting. “Well you’ll love this then.”

  Looking round for inspiration, Ben grabbed one of the metal sconces, ripping off the fat candle to reveal the sharp iron spike beneath. Then, holding it in two hands like a spear, he began to edge his way towards the door.

  Carter continued to applaud.

  Schulman made a lunge for Ben but only succeeded in colliding with Mickelwhite, sending them both sprawling when Ben jabbed with his makeshift weapon. Valentine tried to work his way behind Ben but, swinging the heavy sconce like a club, Ben brought him down.

  Carter snapped his fingers then and made an ugly rasping sound, which the Feathered Men clearly understood to be an order. Ben watched as they responded. Three more Feathered Men dropped down from the roof and began to circle him in the air, like vultures waiting for the moment to fall on their prey. Meanwhile, Bedlam began to close in, grinning manically. Ben spun, managing to keep him out of arm’s reach with the sconce, but he was getting tired and they all knew it.

  Without warning, one of the Feathered Men swooped down and grabbed hold of Ben’s weapon with its clawed feet and then, with a single beat of its wings, yanked it out of his grasp, leaving him defenceless. The other two foul creatures didn’t waste their opportunity, diving down and knocking him to the ground, their talons piercing Ben’s flesh as they half-carried, half-dragged him back before the throne.

  One of the Feathered Men hopped onto Ben’s chest, punching all the air from his lungs, and pinning his arms to the ground. It studied Ben with its huge eyes; unblinking, unfeeling. It opened its beak and rasped a shrill cry in Ben’s face. It was like looking into the face of a nightmare, thought Ben. Everything that was dark and evil had come to visit him.

  The sanctuary fell silent.

  “Where were we?” said Carter with fake forgetfulness. “Oh yes, I remember. You have chosen the victim to pay the price for your failure.”

  The Feathered Men handed Ben over to Bedlam and Mickelwhite, and they bundled him across the stone floor until he was standing on the edge of a precipice. Although Ben resisted and dug in his heels every inch of the way, there wasn’t much he could do against their kicks and shoves. Bedlam pressed his bruised and swollen face against Ben’s and rasped in his ear: “Got anything clever to say this time, mate?”

  Ben’s feet dangled half on and half off the lip of a hole so deep that no light could reach the bottom. The slightest push from behind would send him tumbling. Above his head, the Feathered Men squawked their approval, their shrieks as sharp as a razor’s edge. Ben was right out of witty comebacks.

  Carter could see the fear in Ben’s eyes as he gazed into the pit. It was a delicious moment, and Carter savoured it. If Ben Kingdom was to become the Left Hand, then his rebirth was destined to be a painful one; the ancient texts were clear on this. Betrayal, suffering and torment would all be required if Ben was to be stripped of every last shred of goodness that might remain within him. The Left Hand would be a creature governed by hate, bitterness, and spite. This young man, who rolled with the punches and came back smiling, would have to be put to death, and replaced by a new Benjamin Kingdom, who looked at the world with resentment, not excitement.

  Carter allowed his own eyes to explore the depths of the pit and he shuddered. There was no question that Ben would come out a different man.

  Carter glanced at his pocket watch. “It is now almost eleven,” he declared. “We shall meet again at midnight and make good this act of contrition by casting your sacrificial offering into the pit.”

  That would be me then, thought Ben soberly.

  He gazed down into the endless black until he began to feel dizzy. Was it his imagination or could he hear scurrying and whispering in the depths?

  Apparently, when the clock struck twelve he would be finding out.

  After Carter had issued his decree, Ben was marched away. Although he had just hours to live, he was grateful nevertheless to get out of that hateful place.

  Naturally it was Mickelwhite and Bedlam who were given the task of taking Ben to the cell where he would wait until it was his allotted time to die. The other members of the brigade had all seemed as relieved as he was to get out of the sanctuary and had slunk away into the Under as soon as they got the chance. Ruby Johnson included, Ben noted.

  So this was it then, Ben realized coldly as he arrived at the dungeon door. Ladies and gentlemen, Ben Kingdom stands before you under sentence of death.

  “Hope you like your new accommodation,” said Bedlam, opening the stout wooden door and propelling Ben inside with a shove that sent him falling face down on the floor. With his hands tied behind his back again, Ben had no way of saving himself and he landed heavily, his face slapping against the flagstones, his mouth tasting rotting straw and stale urine.

  Ben wanted to say something to prove that they hadn’t beaten him, but his mouth was full of blood and his heart was full of fear. In the end, he managed to scramble up onto his knees and spit at Bedlam’s feet, forcing out a hollow lau
gh.

  Bedlam reacted in a flash but Mickelwhite was quick to restrain him and hold him, snarling, in the doorway.

  “Patience,” urged Mickelwhite. “Let’s see if he’s still laughing when we throw him in the pit.”

  I wouldn’t count on it, thought Ben as the cell door slammed shut and the heavy key turned in the lock. He listened to their footsteps receding into the distance.

  The only light in the cell came through the grilled window in the door, but the rattle of claws on stone told him that he was not alone. His flesh crawled. Rats.

  He watched a filthy rodent as it scuttled out of the shadows and made its way towards him. Ben backed away. “Get out of it,” he hissed, kicking straw in the rat’s direction but to no avail. He knew it was irrational – it was only a rat after all – and yet with each twitch of its whiskers, each jerk of its pink naked tail, each flash of its long yellow incisors, Ben could feel his calm being gnawed away.

  Then a sudden movement from the inky black at the far end of the cell caught Ben’s attention and he turned to see a missile whistling through the air. The stone struck the rat hard enough to make it yelp and then scuttle quickly for the safety of its bolt-hole.

  “Good shot,” said Ben. Then, his back wet with nervous sweat, he searched for his rescuer in the gloom.

  “Come here, boy,” said a familiar voice from the darkest corner of the cell. “Let me get those ropes off you.”

  “Mr. Moon!” said Ben, delighted. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “Welcome to my world,” said Jago Moon. Ben wasn’t entirely sure whether he was joking.

  Gratefully Ben turned his back and let the blind man set him free. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and he rubbed his wrists where the ropes had chaffed his skin raw. Overwhelmed with questions, he slumped down on the straw beside Moon, not sure where to start. “So you’re a prisoner too then?”