“Never!” Campbell hissed. The Other at his side slapped him, hard, in the face, and the Scotsman’s right eye was once more filled with blood.
“Quiet,” the knight said. “You have no choice in the matter. You have been bitten, and you will turn. That is the way of things.”
He looked at Sean.
“You are silent, my young swordsman. Do you share your friend’s sentiments?”
Sean smiled, and let his fangs show.
“I am pleased to be here,” he said, “in the presence of the royal blood. If you would untie me, I would like to share in the great ceremony.”
William of Rennes looked confused.
“You are of the blood...that much I can see. But you do not feel quite right. Not yet. Mayhap you are not yet fully turned? You will stay bound until I am certain.”
The knight motioned with his head, and Barnstable moved to take hold of Mary Campbell’s feet. The Milecastle man’s eyes were dead and stared straight ahead.
Rennes lifted the chalice above his head and began to chant.
“Baphomet, prince above and below, have pity on us.
“Baal, prince of the seraphim; Baalberith, prince of the cherubim; Astaroth Prince of the Thrones, pray for us.
“Abraxas, be with us tonight and witness the birth of a new servant in your presence.”
The room went cold, as if a door had just been opened and winter let in. High-pitched whispers echoed in the bowed ceiling, and a thin sweat rose on Mary Campbell’s body. Sean felt the thing move inside him again, and the fangs slid wetly in and out of his gums. Suddenly he was thirsty— very, very thirsty—and once more he heard the deep bass thud of Campbell’s heart. Then the woodsman’s song began again, and he was able to calm himself somewhat...but the Other was closer to the surface now.
Rennes held the chalice over Mary Campbell’s body and his chant grew louder.
“Give him the strength of Behemoth, the wisdom of Carreau and the virtue of Belial.
Bring him to your bosom, and give him the gift of blood.”
He dipped his hand in the chalice, removed it, then let the blood flow through, and the first drops of blood fell on Mary Campbell’s body. She shuddered, only once, then was quiet one more. Silver tears sparkled in her eyes.
“Men of the Watch...to me!” Martin shouted as he dragged Megan’s unconscious body away from the gate. He got her behind the cannon, and turned back towards the wall.
Barclay was already rushing musketmen to cover above the gate, and the smith’s men were coming off the wall, but the dark army was advancing fast.
Martin saw with dismay that there was only one water butt still standing. The bellows were lying on the ground beside it, and Martin was manhandling them into position when Toby arrived at his side.
“Three ranks, silver shot, in front of the gate. Now!” Martin said. “And send someone for Fitz and Menzies. We need more bellows and bulb, and we need them now!”
The smith didn’t stop to salute.
A volley rang out from above, and blue flame scattered along the front rank of the advancing Others...but they didn’t slow.
All along the wall cannon fired, and the air was once more full of smoke and the taste of powder.
“Load, silver shot!” Martin shouted.
The front rank of twelve men had taken up guard in the gate, with the other two ranks behind them, the third being ready to step in and fire when the second stepped back to load.
Martin and four others managed to drag the water butt behind the ranks.
“Get the cannon loaded, and have tapers ready at the fuses!” Martin said. “If we have to fall back, I want three cannons fired simultaneously.”
He turned back, just as the front rank of his gunmen fired their first volley. Barclay’s men joined in overhead, and the Others fell in a heap of burning, screaming flesh. For the first time, the blackness faltered. The Others fell back, only to be replaced by three ranks of the Boy-King’s mind slaves.
“Front rank to the rear!” Martin called out. “And reload with standard shot!”
The musket-men fell back.
“Front rank...fire!”
The mind-slaves staggered, and several fell, but their ranks kept coming forward.
“Barclay!” Martin shouted. “Ready the oil!”
He looked up to see the old soldier salute him.
“Musketmen, fall back in ranks! Ten paces!”
The men fell back, but kept firing into the ranks of the attackers. They kept falling, but those behind walked over then and surged forward until they were at the gate.
“Pour the oil!” Martin ordered.
A sheet of fire fell in front of the gate, and the mind-slaves burned as the musket-men poured volley after volley of shot into them.
The pyre of bodies in front of the gate grew higher, and the stench of burning flesh assaulted Martin’s nose. Then the Others started to throw themselves forward on top of the flames.
Again Martin waited until the flames were almost smothered before starting to pump the bulb- saturated water over the top of his musket-men and into the mass of writhing bodies. They screamed as they boiled.
But the water didn’t last long...less than a minute passed before the stream from the bellows began to falter.
“Barclay. More water!” he shouted. Barclay’s men poured their buckets, and the onslaught was slowed once more, but it only gained Martin enough time to get the musket-men out of the way. He ordered the rear rank to man the cannon. Tapers were quickly lit, but it was almost too late...the Others were so close that Martin could see the reds of their eyes.
“Fire!” he shouted.
The wall of Others blew apart in an explosion of blood and gore.
“Reload!” Martin shouted, but it was too late. A dark wall of Others had already filled the hole made by the explosion and were pouring into the courtyard. The wall was breached.
“Abraxas be with us in our hour of need
“Come hither and witness the birthing of your new prince.
“We give you the blood of our regent, Baphomet.”
The knight sprinkled drops of blood the length of Mary Campbell’s body. The room grew colder, and the condensation from their breath froze in the air in front of them. The velvet drapes writhed as if covering a nest of snakes, and the tall candles flickered and flared. The head in the chalice began to mutter in a language that Sean had never heard before—and something answered it, something foul and old that whispered in the eaves above their head.
Campbell muttered prayers under his breath, but he didn’t stop sawing on the rope at his wrist.
The knight dipped his hand in the chalice again, and brought it down towards the naked woman’s belly.
At the same instant as the first blood was smeared on Mary Campbell, her father finally managed to cut through his bonds. Sean turned his back, and the Scotsman sliced through the ropes on his wrists in one smooth action; then, just as smoothly, drew the knife through Sean’s forearm.
Sean stepped forward and, before the tall knight could move, let his blood flow into the crucible and over the head that sat in it.
William of Rennes laughed.
“I don’t know what you think you are doing. But your blood is most welcome to Baphomet.”
“I don’t think so,” Sean said, and laughed as the blood in the crucible began to boil and seethe. The head screamed...
…and in Derby, the army of Others shuddered and halted in their rush forward.
“More oil!” Martin shouted, and a new sheet of flame fell from above the gate, cutting a score of Others off from the army beyond.
“Musket-men forward!” he ordered, as the Others seemed confused and disoriented.
“Fire!”
The volley cut a swathe through them, and a second brought them to the ground, but the defenders didn’t have time to celebrate. The fire below the gate was doused almost as quickly as it had started, and the darkness surged forward once more.
And this time there was a greater blackness with it, a dark place that reminded Martin of something he’d seen before—a sign of the Boy-King, or one of his close cohorts. He was proved right when the Others burst inside the gate, bringing with them a huge creature that seemed to fill the gate space with its bulk.
Martin had seen this one before...it too had stood with the Boy-King in Jedburgh when he raised the army. It was nearly eight feet tall, and built like a great forest bear. It was difficult to tell whether it was covered in hair or fur, so dense was it matted. It wore a tunic made of human flesh roughly sewn together, bits of it still bloody.
It had talons instead of fingernails, and it’s feet only showed three huge toes on each, but the face was human, even if the rows of teeth in the mouth were not.
The musket-men quailed, but Martin stepped forward to meet it, raising his own musket as he did so.
The tall knight stared, aghast, at the boiling blood in the chalice.
“What have you done?” he whispered.
Sean and Campbell were not waiting to find out.
Campbell stabbed the Other beside him. He missed the heart with the first blow, and the Other stepped forward. Campbell had to grab its arms and together they waltzed around the room.
Sean turned and hit his Watcher with as much force as he could muster, knocking it backwards. It gave Sean enough time to kick over one of the tall candlesticks. Flames began to lick at the velvet drapes.
He broke the pole which carried the candlestick over his knee. Now he had weapons. He held the two sticks out in front of him, making the sign of the cross.
The Other spat on it and kept coming. It was smiling right up until Sean drove the ragged edge of the stick through its heart and out through its back.
“Campbell!” Sean shouted.
“I’m a mite busy, laddie,” the Scotsman said, then saw the stakes in Sean’s hands. He nodded and pushed the Other away, at the same instant as Sean tossed a pole towards him. The Other stepped into it, and Campbell staked him in one smooth movement.
Sean turned back to the altar.
William of Rennes was still staring into the chalice, a look of horror in his eyes. Wisps of smoke rose from the bloody head, and it began to scream. The knight put the chalice down on the altar and threw off his robe. He still wore the rusty chain mail, and his face was grim as he drew the black sword from behind his back.
Campbell motioned with his head.
“You take this one,” he said. “I’ll deal with your Constable.”
Barnstable hadn’t yet moved, still holding Mary Campbell’s feet and staring sightlessly forward.
“Just make sure he doesn’t die easy,” Sean said. “He killed my Thane. For that I would see him suffer.”
The velvet drapes off to his right were beginning to burn and thick black smoke started to roll towards the ceiling. He was going into a fight with an armoured Other, with only a wooden stake for a weapon and a leather vest for protection. And his only companion was a man so badly bitten that he could turn at any time.
He smiled and let his fangs show before stepping forward.
Sporadic hand-to-hand fighting had broken out in the yard. Above them Barclay’s men were pouring both oil and bulb-water into the mass of Others. Cannons boomed and muskets roared, both loud against the Church bells and the renewed frenzy of the pipes and drums beyond the wall.
The tang of powder almost masked the taste of death and the smell of flesh boiling as the Others below the gate screamed and died.
Martin raised his musket and shot the giant bear-like Other at point-blank range, then groaned as he realised that he had not loaded with silver. The shot blew a hand-sized hole over the beast’s heart, but it didn’t slow. It barrelled towards Martin, as fast as the fastest horse.
Before he had time to react, Martin was struck a blow on the side of the head that knocked him off his feet. He felt sudden wetness as blood flowed down his neck and shoulder.
“No!” he heard a voice shout.
Martin’s head rang, and when he looked across the courtyard, everything was blurred and falling in and out of focus. But he could see enough.
Old Menzies had arrived in the courtyard, driving a cart loaded with water butts. It was obvious he had just seen Martin being felled by the beast.
Menzies manhandled a pair of bellows so that their hose was in one of the butts, and aimed at the bear-like Other. He started to push the bellows—but the creature was too fast. He only managed to squeeze out one spurt that fell short of the beast.
With a scream of rage that froze everyone in the yard, the Other leapt at the cart and gathered Menzies, bellows and all, in its great embrace. The doctor looked like a small child in its grasp. It raised the man to the great jaws and bit deeply into his neck. Martin screamed in rage. He saw thick black hairs sprout along his hands and arms, talons bursting, bloody, from the ends of his fingers. He felt the muscles on his back ripple and rearrange themselves, and felt great fangs grow in his mouth. He howled his rage and sorrow to the moon, and the dogs on the wall above him joined his cry.
Oblivious to his wound, he got to his feet and leapt high onto the broad back of the Other.
Sean knew that his only chance was if he kept out of range of the great broadsword. He circled the knight, just beyond his reach.
“I can wait you out,” the knight said. “You are both turning, and will be of the blood soon.”
Sean kept quiet. The flames were spreading now, and one of the velvet drapes was already fully burned, with the fire spreading to two others. Above William of Rennes’ head he could see that the rafters of the roof were beginning to smoulder.
The knight swung the sword one-handed. Sean stepped inside the swing and lunged at his attacker’s heart, but the chain mail diverted the blow, Sean stumbled past the Other, off-balance. He sensed rather than saw a black shadow heading for his head, and rolled sideways just as the sword hit the floor where his head had been.
“I do not wish to slay you,” Rennes said. “You will make a fine guard for the new prince.”
Sean spat at his feet, but still kept quiet. He now had his back to the burning drapes. He could feel the heat on his neck, but could not spare the time to turn around.
The knight swung the sword again, and Sean threw himself aside, just as the metal clanged against the wall. He rolled and, in the same movement, tore a blazing fragment off the drape and threw it at Rennes. The knight had to step back quickly, and Sean followed him, getting under the sword as Rennes tried to chop at the blazing drape. But once more the wooden pole slid off the chain mail—although several rusty rings broke and fell to the stone floor.
“Laddie!” he heard Campbell call from behind him. His voice was weak and hoarse, but Sean had no time to turn—the knight seemed to have lost all compunction about killing him and swung the sword in a low flat trajectory which would have cut Sean in two if it landed. Sean leapt high in the air—amazing himself at the height he achieved—and came down while the knight was still coming to the end of his swing. He drove the pole at the knight’s heart, and yelled in triumph as it went in...but only for two inches. The knight struck down with his free hand and broke the pole.
Sean was left with a six-inch stub.
Martin was too late to save Menzies. Even as he landed on the Other’s back it had dropped the doctor’s lifeless body to the ground and trodden it into the mud. Martin howled again and dug his taloned fingers deep into the Other’s neck.
The Other reared up and swung its head from side to side, trying to dislodge him, but Martin clung on and dug deeper into its flesh.
He was suddenly splashed with water and looked up to see Fitzsimmons manning the bellows. The Other screamed and became frantic. It turned, as if to escape to the gate, but Martin climbed higher on its back and, pulling its head back with his left hand, tore out its throat with his right.
The Other fell, first to its knees, then face down in the sodden ground where it began to bubble an
d seethe. And still Martin sat on its back, pushing the huge head deeper and deeper into the mud until it fell to pieces under the influence of the bulb.
Martin rolled off the body. It too was succumbing to the bulb, but Martin didn’t notice.
He felt the hairs on his arms receding, and the talons and fangs disappearing, but he only had eyes for Menzies. He lifted the body, meaning to check for life, but it was obvious the old man was dead. There was a huge gaping wound in his neck that had already stopped bleeding, and there was no life in the eyes. Martin cradled the body and wept.
The tall knight laughed as he looked at the stub of wood which protruded from the chain mail over his heart.
“It seems I need a new mail suit. That is the closest anyone has come in more than a hundred years,” he said. “I salute you—you will make a worthy guard.”
Sean again stayed quiet and circled the knight once more—but stopped, dismayed when he saw Campbell slumped against the altar. Barnstable and Mary Campbell were gone.
Rennes laughed again.
“It seems you lose,” he said.
“Wrong.” Sean replied, moving even as he spoke. The knight raised his sword, expecting an attack, but Sean had other ideas. He dived for the second candlestick, and in two seconds, he had a weapon once again.
The knight was still smiling.
“I won’t make the same mistake twice,” he said.
“Neither will I,” Sean said.
He stepped over to the chalice and raised the newly broken pole over the head of Baphomet.
Martin felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Leave him, lad. He’s gone,” Fitzsimmons said.
Fighting was still going on all around them. Fitzsimmons had managed to get carts and barrels into position around the yard. Four separate bellows were pumping water into the yard, driving the remaining Others back to the gate where Barclay’s men above dropped more bulb-water onto them.
“Get me a stake,” Martin said.
“You don’t have to. Let me do it,” the innkeeper said—and tried to drag Martin away from Menzies’ body, but Martin screamed at him.
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