Relics bp-1

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  As I had feared, the darkness inside was absolute. It seemed to pour out over the threshold like spilled ink. But the beam from my lantern cut through and broke the spell. I stepped inside and closed the door gently behind me. I had rehearsed the next move in my mind over the last endless hours of waiting. Laying my pack down, I untied the knots that held it together. The splints fell away easily, and I unfolded the oilcloth to reveal the dead woman inside. I did not care to look at her: the blackness of her skin seemed to have some affinity with the shadows around me, and I felt my flesh begin to prickle. Rubbing the sweat from my hands, I padded over to the reliquary, from which the lantern beam was striking shards of metallic brilliance. I propped the lantern on the nearest pew so that it threw its light lengthwise across the lid, searched out the catches with my fingers and opened them. Then, with my flesh crawling in earnest now, I slowly raised the lid itself and let it settle back on its chain.

  In the dim light, Cordula had lost even the vestige of benign peace she had seemed to possess that afternoon. Now she lay rigid and clenched, her hands like talons. I could hardly bring myself to touch them. They were hard as wood and very smooth, but at least the rings came off, clicking faintly but horribly over the knuckles. I lifted off the pectoral cross and laid it, with the rings, on the oilcloth behind me. Then the slippers. That was worse: the feet were more dead than the rest of the body, somehow; at once pathetic and threatening. I bent over the coffin and slipped my hands around the body. As I lifted, I inadvertently looked into the saint's face. It was strange how Cordula had retained so much more of life's vestige – essence, as Gilles had said – than had the stacked bodies on the ship. I could sense disapproval in the raised eyebrows, and a warning in the curled, desiccated lips. A warning…

  And then I heard it, a faint chink chik! chink chik! not much louder than the cicadas but out of place in the choir of the night. Metal against metal. I let go of the body in my arms, and it sank back into its nest of linen with a faint whisper. On my haunches now, I laid my forehead for a moment against the cold silver of the coffin. The worst had come to pass, as it had to. I was dead. This would teach me to volunteer. I would never see Anna again. All these thoughts and a hundred more hurtled around my mind like sparrows trapped in a room. Then I noticed that the sound had not come any nearer, and was quite unhurried. Perhaps there was time… for what? Quivering, I reached up, grabbed the lantern and set it on the floor, glass against the stone of the altar. Instantly the shrine was plunged into complete darkness. I did not wish to crush the other body or trip over some hidden thing, so as quickly as I could I crawled on my belly to the door. Prying it open, I slipped outside into the little sunken space.

  The noise was indeed some way off. It seemed to come from further up the mountain, not from the direction of the village, which gave me a crumb of hope. With infinite slowness I peered over the edge of the hollow. There it was: a light, a red light, swaying with the gait of the invisible person who carried it. A mere spark of fire, the bearer must be a quarter-mile off, but walking fast. Then, as I watched, it flickered out, then reappeared, then vanished again. The bearer, or bearers, of course – it had to be Tom and the two piggish Franks. God of grave-robbers protect me, could Kervezey be with them? How had they managed to make it back so soon? The Captain had been wrong: Kervezey must have been nearer. Or perhaps it was just a goatherd. But goatherds did not carry lanterns, did they? That red spark was an English watchman's lamp, or I had never seen one. So it was Tom and his friends at best, and the worst did not bear thinking about. They were after Cordula. They would not expect to find me. I could probably get away – they would be here in a few minutes, but if I ran now…

  I would have to make the switch, or Kervezey would get the relic. I knew I did not have time. But perhaps… Suddenly I had the notion of a plan. I would let Kervezey or whoever was out there believe that they had surprised me in the act. I wanted them to see me drop the prize and run. Surely they would believe that they had the real saint, who would be back in her coffin, waiting, with any luck, for one of us to come back for her. Meanwhile I would have to pray that the Franks would make off with the False Cordula in a hurry, and not chase me. I could not think why they would do that, but enough had gone wrong tonight already. At least I would have the advantage of knowing the path, though that was little comfort, and I would be able to outrun those two fat fools.

  Slithering back into the shrine, I found the lantern, singeing my fingers on the hot steel. I fumbled Cordula's rings onto the Egyptian corpse, worked the slippers over the knotted toes until they were secure, and stuck the pectoral cross into the folds of muslin that Gilles had swaddled her with. Only now did I see what a good job he had done with the face: only a serious inspection would show the fraud. But his work would not be wasted. I had the advantage there: I had seen the real relic, and they had not. I wrapped the false saint loosely in the oilcloth so that her face showed, bound the splints back roughly into place. I gathered her up under my arm – strange to carry what once had been a living person as easily as a bundle of dry twigs. I reached for the lid of the coffin, pausing to take a last look at the face of Saint Cordula. She would be Tula now for a while longer. Again I felt her essence creep over me, caressing gooseflesh. I had not forgotten her warning.

  "You might be safe after all, my lady,' I murmured, and brought down the lid. Then, grabbing my lantern, I made my way outside. This time I did not bother to hide the light. I could not see the other lantern, but the clinking noise was nearer, and I thought I could hear the crunch of footsteps. Now I needed to wait. I could definitely hear footsteps now, and I began to count them. How many men where there? I judged that they would enter the circle from the same opening they had used that afternoon, as they must be following the same path. That would allow me to show myself, drop the bundle and then put the shrine between me and them as I ran. For the first time I felt grateful for the lamp-black on my face. Thorn was secure in her sheath.

  They were coming. I could see red light playing along the passageway I was watching. I steeled myself. I wanted to scream as the energy of fear flooded through me. Grabbing the ring of the door I slammed it hard and ran up the steps, light in one hand, False Cordula under the other arm. I made myself stand in the open, hearing nothing but the pounding of my heart. Then, much quicker than I had expected, the lantern was through the opening, washing the circle with red, and one, three, four outlines followed. They had been running, and stopped awkwardly. If they hadn't seen me, they were blind. Then another two men stepped into the light, and then one more. Seven men. They weren't leaving much to chance, I thought bitterly. I had to move right now, so I cursed loudly in French, flung my lantern in their direction and took off. Swearing again, I dropped the body. Then I was sprinting for the wall and the alley beyond.

  I made it to the fig-tree and paused to look back. They were not subtle, I thought, as I watched the distant figures bent over something on the ground, red light held above them. It was too far to make out details, but I thought that one figure stood up briefly and squatted down again. Then I saw another of the men stand and begin to walk with the lantern towards the shrine. The swine were going to check the coffin. I had failed. Then for the second time that night I heard a goat bell. First one, then another, then a hollow, distant chorus of them. A high whistle whipped through the air. A goatherd must be driving his flock along one of the alleyways that led to the shrine – by the sound of it, he was coming from the village. The man with the lantern stopped and ran back to his fellows. That was more like it: at least they were moving now. One of them picked up the bundle, took the lantern and loped out of my view.

  'Go on then, you bastards, go on,' I hissed under my breath. I could just see them in the fading red glow. Two more shapes left, but the other four stood their ground. I was about to slip away when the two reappeared with my little lantern. They played the beam around and then, to my horror but not my great surprise, it shone full up the passage towards me, and all s
even men were following. That was enough. I took off at a crouching run.

  Without the False Cordula it was much easier to climb down the crag. I had perhaps a furlong on my pursuers. I knew the ground, but they had a light. I had to reach the slope above the beach. Pavlos and the others would hear me yell from there. And then? I shrugged to myself. And then I would grow wings and glide back to the Cormaran. There probably would be no 'and then'. I dropped into the long gutter and slid down on my front, feet first into the dark. My foot caught on a jut at the bottom and I barked a shin. Then I was in another crevice which I did not remember. It was easy at first, a stone ladder, but then it narrowed and before long I was hanging on by fingers and toes. I had come the wrong way. I couldn't climb back – no time. Between my legs I could just see the smooth top of one of the cyclopean boulders right below me. Without thinking I let go. I dropped for bone-tingling moments and struck, bending my knees and rolling. But I rolled too far and before I could stop myself I was in the air again. I crashed through the canopy of a tree, grabbing vainly at the dry branches, and hit the ground hard. This time I was winded badly, but staggered to my feet, felt no broken limbs and set off again at a wounded lope. There were voices above me.

  'I can't see him!' said someone: a voice full of ugly Balecester menace. 'Bring the fucking light.'

  'Follow Tom, then. Christ, it's a fucking cliff – thinks we'll break our necks, does he?' ‘I’ll break his fucking neck for him.'

  That was the pig-eyed one. So Tom was already on his way down. Where was Kervezey? I was sure he was there. Tom and his two friends were after me, with Kervezey and the rest of his company. More Balecester thugs, probably. Them I didn't care about. They would be big and slow. If I could stay ahead of them they wouldn't be dangerous. Tom was not a killer, I was sure: Christ knew what he was doing in this. But… I cut that thought off. Just keep running.

  It was probably half a mile to the olive grove, and I would be out in the open once I left the field of boulders. The great smooth rocks were a maze here, and I had to work my way through. Worse, shepherds had built walls between them in places, and twice I had to climb over them. As I jumped down behind the second one, I looked back. The pre-dawn glow was just beginning to suffuse the sky, and it was a little easier to see. Four figures were clambering painfully down the face of the crag. Two were almost at a standstill, one of them waving my lantern aimlessly. No sign of Kervezey. He must be on the ground. Squeezing between two more boulders I was clear. There was nothing for it. I sprinted.

  The air had cooled, and it was good against my face, but I felt hideously exposed. It was not dawn yet, but it was not exactly night. I could see the horizon, and Hrinos, a shadow on the empty sea, hanging as if skewered on the end of the spur down which I raced. I seemed to be running to the island. I took the first steep place in two jumps that jarred my bruised legs. I looked behind but no one followed yet.

  The grove was getting closer. I could not understand why I was not being pursued. Perhaps one of the oafs had fallen off the crag? I had come to one of the old walls that occasionally wandered across the track, and leaped up through the tumbled stones. I steadied myself to jump down. I heard, very clearly, a soft thud and a split second later I was lying, open-mouthed, face-down on the track beyond. My mouth was full of sand. The cicadas were making an odd, scattered clattering. I must have slipped, I thought, and picked myself up. Instantly I keeled over hard on my side. I could not seem to move my left leg. Whining with fury I tried to roll over. How perfect, to get this far and break my own leg. A gut-churning slash of pain ripped through the inside of my thigh. I clapped my hand down and knocked something hard, which set off another landslide of agony. Panicked, I fumbled, and looked down. Christ! An arrow – no, too short: a bolt – had gone through the muscle of my thigh behind the bone and was sticking out of my britches. It doesn't hurt that much! I thought queasily, and then I saw the bolt was a leather-winged quadrello. I had been shot by the same crossbow that had murdered Will. What I had thought were cicadas were more bolts ticking into the wall every few seconds. One hit the top and cartwheeled off into the sky over my head.

  I sat up and instantly my mouth was full of puke. Spitting and gagging, I had an odd moment of clarity. I saw very clearly in my mind's eye that I had been hit by the first shot, an absurdly lucky one in this light. The crossbowman was not incredibly skilful, if his wild shooting now was any indication. If I could get away, at least I probably wouldn't be shot again. But I would have to do something right now. Right now. And all I wanted to do was lie back and go to sleep. No. I stuffed the neck of my tunic into my mouth and bit down. Grabbing the leather fletching I jammed the bolt further into my leg until I could feel the iron head break the skin on the other side. Shouting silently into my gag I snapped off the fletched end and yanked the rest of the shaft through and out. Suddenly there was blood: a lot of blood. I would have to bind it, but not now. I staggered up and found I could stand and put a little weight on the wounded leg. The bolt had cut the meat but not the tendons, thank Christ, and I began to hop away. As I picked up speed I found I could use the leg somewhat. The feeling had come back and while that made it a pillar of agony I could at least make it do my bidding.

  I squeaked as a bolt hissed past me. Another clattered on the track behind. I picked up speed, arms out like a child playing at birds. Now I could hear their voices, and I wondered if I had been unconscious back there, and for how long.

  'I see him! Look, there!' That sounded like Tom. They must be nearly at the wall. Yes, there was the lantern, bobbing along, much too near.

  I had almost reached the olive grove. I stumbled once, and heard a scrap of high, cruel laughter, like a buzzard calling over the moor. Kervezey. I wondered if he had shot me. But here was the first tree. I threw myself into its shadow and looked back again. They were over the wall and coming fast. I wondered if they had used up all their bolts. The crossbow wouldn't be much use among the trees anyway. I limped on into the heart of the grove and dropped behind the roots of a vast old tree. I had to think now. I had another furlong to go beyond here before I could start to drop down to the beach, in the open again the whole time. Once I was on the steep slope, though, it would be roll and tumble the whole way down, and at the bottom at least there were men to even up the odds. I stood up to run again, but sank back to my knees. I was very, very sleepy all of a sudden, and a livid mist was creeping over my eyes. I was tired, oh God how tired! The rough bark of the olive felt so good against my forehead. No! I had to stop this. But I knew that I was losing too much blood. I did not know any more if I could make it out of this wood. And now it was too late in any case. The lantern was entering the grove. 'There's blood, sir!' 'Bleeding like a fucking hog, boy!'

  The Balecester voices did not belong in here. I wondered where the nightingales had gone. All in all, this wasn't a bad place to die, I thought suddenly, but if only I could smell Anna's hair once more.

  'Wynn and James: go on ahead. Find him, and flush him if he's still moving. Don't kill him, boys, remember. He's de Sol's man and I want him alive. But be quick. The ship will be putting in below us as soon as the sun rises.'

  So it really was Kervezey, calling down my doom once more. And what about a ship? They must be trying to take the Cormaran. Well, my noble lord, I thought, you can be damned. I'll slow you down and make your creatures kill me so you won't have the pleasure: that at least I can do. I tugged Thorn out of her sheath and laid her on the tangle of roots before me. Then I remembered that she had been bound to my arm with a cloth band. The knot opened easily and as fast and as tightly as I could I tied the band around my thigh above the wound. It was too little, I supposed, and far too late, but I did not wish to be helpless when they found me. Then I pulled the chisel from my boot, replacing it with Thorn's sheath. The chisel fitted nicely into my left hand. Heavy feet were crunching through the dead leaves towards me. Then they stopped.

  'I can't see the blood anymore,' complained the pig-eyed one. Was h
e Wynn or James? I wondered. And who had the lantern?

  'Fuck. He must be right ahead somewhere. You creep round. I'll go straight.'

  Crunch, crunch. He was going to walk right past me. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Here he comes, I thought. I peeped over the root and saw him step past the nearest tree, short-sword in hand. I did not know his face. He was four strides away. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.

  I jumped to my feet, but my leg screeched beneath me and I staggered. There he was, right in front of me, frozen in surprise, but as I got my balance he recovered and yelled, swinging at me backhanded with his sword. It whispered past my face, weight carrying it wide. There was a dull twang and the sword flew off and thudded against a tree. The man was looking at me with deep concern in his eyes. The head of a crossbow bolt stood out just above his Adam's apple. Then he gave a whistling sigh and collapsed at my feet.

  'Got the cunt! Didn'I?' One of the Balecester boys had the crossbow, then. He was a good shot after all.

  Kervezey's voice, tight with rage, gave the man his answer, but I was not listening. I was a bit dizzy with elation and horror. Where had his sword gone? I could use his sword. Then I heard a crashing. I staggered round to see another white figure charging from the shadow of a thicket, sword raised. My first instinct was to lurch towards him, both arms out, and in two trance-like strides we met, both wrong-footed. I missed him with Thorn and just before we rammed faces I saw it was the pig-eyed man. I felt my eyebrow and lip split, and the pommel of his sword come down between my shoulders. I kneed him but missed and lost my balance as my bad leg gave way. I was sliding down his body as he flailed at me with the pommel. Before he could smash my skull I hugged him around the thighs and threw my weight sideways. Now he was off balance too and we crashed to the ground, my right arm pinned beneath him. I tried to turn Thorn in to stab, but he felt it and headbutted me, missing my nose but bludgeoning my split eyebrow. Blood burst over us and through one blurred eye I saw him rear up, pull back his sword and drive it down. I jerked my head away as it sliced my ear, but now he was cursing, trying to pull the long blade back out of the earth. I struck with my right hand and felt Thorn slide through cloth and air. I pulled back and the knife's hilt caught in the torn surcoat and held me fast. He felt it and, still cursing, pushed his left hand over my nose and mouth and bore down with all his weight as he worked the sword loose. In blind terror I kicked my legs and he pushed harder. I was suffocating and choking on my own blood. The sword came out with a jerk. Now my left arm was free, and I felt the haft of the chisel in my hand. As he pulled back with his sword I punched the blunt blade into the side of his head as hard as I could. He went rigid and fell backwards onto my legs, Thorn ripping out of his surcoat. I lay there sucking great racking breaths into me until I had the strength to drag myself free. As I did, one of his legs shot out and kicked convulsively. I scrambled back against the tree. The other leg jerked and, like something from the very farthest corner of a nightmare, he sat up and stared full at me. His once piggy eyes were bulging and glassy. Blood welled from them like tears and ran in thick cords from his nose. His mouth drooped as if pulled down on one side by an invisible finger. The haft of the chisel stuck out from the side of his head like the handle of a chafing pot. I cried out, but no sound came. He lurched to his feet and tottered, on stiff legs, to stand a few feet away, hands hanging uselessly, head slightly raised, as if he heard something in the trees. 'James! By the Baptist's wrinkled balls, what are you doing?'