He reached the tree and looked down the other side of the ridge. Miller lay in a crumpled heap where he had fallen, but his eyes were closed, not glassy. Mallory threw himself down the incline. Miller’s eyelids flickered open at the vibrations in the ground.
‘Mallory. I knew you’d come for me.’
‘Don’t fool yourself, Miller. I was looking for a pub, and here you are littering the highways and byways.’
Miller smiled, then coughed. Blood spattered across his chin. Mallory knelt down to examine Miller’s wounds: his stomach was badly torn and he’d lost a great deal of blood, but hadn’t had the benefit of the Court of Peaceful Days to put him right; and he still had both his hands. So it was Gardener, Daniels or Hipgrave who lay dead somewhere in the vicinity of Bratton Camp.
Sophie let out a startled cry as she came over the ridge and saw Miller, but without a second thought she ran down and helped Mallory administer what treatment they could with the contents of his medicine pack.
‘I didn’t think I’d see you again,’ Miller muttered deliriously to Mallory. ‘I saw Daniels go down - it hit him in the face. I don’t know what happened to Gardener, or Hipgrave.’ Tears came at the memory.
‘Save your strength, Miller,’ Sophie said gently.
Miller tried to focus on her face. ‘Sophie? What are you doing here?’ Then, ‘I knew you two would get together.’
Mallory and Sophie didn’t look at each other, but instead busied themselves stitching and daubing ointment. Miller couldn’t feel their ministrations, and after a while drifted into a delirious semiconscious state.
Mallory pulled Sophie off to one side. ‘I don’t think he’s going to make it back.’
‘I might be able to help.’ She turned to the others. ‘We need vervain to quell the pain. And see if you can find any mallow, though we’ll be lucky at this time of year.’ She reeled off another five or six plants unknown to Mallory, each containing some healing attribute. While the travellers headed off to find the items, Sophie said, ‘Give me some time on my own. I need to meditate.’
Mallory watched her sitting alone on the top of the ridge, staring into the banks of grey clouds. She looked small in the wild landscape, and part of it, wrapped in the wind and the long grass, the oversized cloak giving her a fragility that only served to emphasise the simple beauty in her features. She remained there, unmoving, graceful, for fifteen minutes before slowly making her way back to him.
‘This will work?’ he said.
‘If I focus correctly.’
‘You don’t just say a spell?’
‘Nothing would be that easy, would it?’ The wind whipped a strand of hair across her face. ‘The words and the symbols of the ritual are a different kind of language that communicate with the subconscious where the ability lies.’
He made to ask another question, but she put two fingers to his lips to silence him before moving on to Miller. Mallory took himself to the foot of the lonely tree where he could watch the proceedings. Her voice, chanting softly, escaped the whistle of the wind as she knelt over Miller’s fragile form. After a while, she threw her head back and said something loudly; he didn’t recognise or understand the word but it made his ears ring. He thought, though he couldn’t be sure, that he heard an echo rolling across the bleak grasslands.
*
The ritual lasted fifteen minutes, and when she made her way back to him she looked exhausted. For a while, she sat next to him in silence, slowly drifting back from wherever she had been.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Sometimes it takes a lot out of you, depending what you’re trying to do.’
No longer delirious, Miller appeared to be resting peacefully. ‘Did it do the trick?’ Mallory said.
‘It should be enough for you to get him back to the cathedral.’
‘Thanks.’ It was expressed with restraint, but the simple act of saying it warmed her to him.
‘You’re welcome.’
The others drifted up and sat around quietly before Sophie arranged them into parties to search for wood to make a stretcher for Miller. It took them an hour to construct one, and by the time they set off they knew they wouldn’t reach Salisbury before nightfall. Though none of them said anything, Mallory could see the fear buried in the travellers’ faces.
They broke for dinner just as the sun was setting. They’d already agreed not to set up camp for the night. Mallory judged that they would be less of a target if they kept on the move, but either way he knew the odds of them making it home safely had shortened considerably.
The last of their provisions went quickly and when they picked up the march again, they were all still hungry. The sunset was a hallucinogenic mix of angry reds and florid purples, spectacular in its own way but oppressive. They watched the shadows race voraciously across the flat landscape with trepidation, wishing they had more weapons, torches, anything that could give them even the illusion of security.
Sophie stayed with Mallory at the head, undisputed leaders of the expedition. Though they couldn’t be described as friendly, the travellers were less suspicious of Mallory because Sophie had accepted him. They trailed behind, taking it in turns to pull Miller’s stretcher. Eventually night fell, but there was enough of a break in the clouds to allow moonlight to illuminate their way.
‘I still can’t believe how much the world’s changed.’ Sophie snuggled deep in the cloak for warmth. ‘Yet there’s been so much good with all the bad. Take the Craft - it was strong before, but nothing like now.’
Mallory rarely took his eyes off the landscape as he continually tried to discern which shadows were benign and which posed a threat. He had already seen silhouettes circling them, low and bestial, but so far they had chosen to keep their distance. ‘We’ve gone back to a time before science and reason and technology, when people relied on the power within them,’ Sophie continued. ‘What we have is so important, Mallory, yet we’d all lost sight of it. The Fall, for all the suffering, has let us forge a link with the people we used to be, and should be.’
‘Try telling that to someone whose family has just been wiped out by an illness that shouldn’t exist in this day and age.’
‘I know, it’s easy for me to say. But I’m just trying to see the big picture.’
He laughed, then caught himself.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I wonder how my friends back at the cathedral would take my consorting with a witch.’
She snorted derisively. ‘It’s about time we got rid of all those stereotypes your lot foisted on us. We were the original religion—’
‘You’re not going to lay claim to that, are you? Murray and Gardener had an academic approach, but they made huge leaps of logic when they claimed there was a heritage for Wicca stretching back to prehistory.’
‘There might not be an unbroken line, although that’s debatable. But there’s still a basis of ancient traditions.’ She looked at him askance, a little surprised. ‘You’re very well informed, Mallory. Did you have Burn The Witch classes at the cathedral?’
‘I’m just well read, one of my very many strengths.’ Away to his right, something was keeping pace with them, staying low. He only caught sight of it when the ground rose slightly and it was briefly silhouetted against a moon-silvered cloud.
‘One good thing about the Fall is that Wicca is in the ascendancy once again after centuries of repression.’
‘Don’t get all whiny about it,’ he said. ‘You’re in good company with all the beliefs Christianity has repressed over the last couple of millennia. Everything from tribal faiths in Africa to Taoism in the Far East.’
‘What’s up with you, Mallory?’ Incomprehension filled her voice. ‘You’re not a Christian - you don’t believe in anything, or so you said. So how can you do all this … fighting for something you don’t believe in?’
‘I told you - it’s a job. It pays. It keeps me alive.’
‘You’re a mercenary.’
‘
Well, if you want to get into name-calling … witch.’
She couldn’t contain a smile at his ridiculous humour and had to look away. ‘Don’t you take anything seriously?’
‘Yes, sex and alcohol.’
‘I bet you’re a bundle of laughs in bed.’
‘It’s not supposed to be funny. With me it’s a spiritual experience. You should try it some time.’
‘I’d rather cut off an arm,’ she said, though he thought he saw the first glimmer that she might mean the opposite.
‘Anyway, where’s your broomstick?’
‘I have one, but I don’t use it how you think. And you’d better get any stereotypes out of your head quickly,’ she said. ‘No hooknosed crones carrying out nasty business over bubbling pots. We were the original wise women, offering advice and help to anyone in the tribes or villages. And we did good deeds, generally, because we all know that whatever we do is brought back to us threefold. It’s all about balance, Mallory … a universal constant you can see just by opening your eyes and looking around. But not something your Christian colleagues would ever understand with their horsehair shirts and ascetic, sexually repressed lifestyles.’
‘Now who’s dealing in stereotypes?’
Her rant was well rehearsed, and even though Mallory knew her arguments, he let her continue while he tried to keep track of whatever was stalking them.
‘And we’re not Satanists. Does that make me mad when I hear it. There is no Satan in the pagan religions - that’s a Christian invention. No personification of pure evil. We look to nature for our guidance, where evil doesn’t exist, just a dark side and a light side to everything. Our deity has two aspects: the horned male and the triple goddess of mother, maiden and crone. Christianity demonised the male one, turned him into Satan with the horns and the tail and the cloven hooves, but he’s really a god of nature, embodying aspects of the flora and fauna—’
‘Sorry to interrupt your history lesson, Sophie, as interesting as it is, but we’re about to be attacked.’ It seemed that his sword whispered as it slid out of the sheath; an aural trick, nothing else.
Before Sophie could say anything more, the shape loomed towards them. At first, it appeared to be on its knees, then loping like a wolf and finally upright. Mallory had the unnerving feeling it was floating an inch or so above the ground, its legs motionless.
One of the travellers had made the mistake of drifting off to one side. He was in his forties, but prematurely aged through drink and too many drugs, his hair thin on top but long and wiry down the back. He saw it first and let out a shriek that made Mallory’s blood run cold. The traveller was rooted for a second, then half-turned to run, but it was too late.
Coming up fast on him was a thing with the body of a man, but a head that was just a white skull with an angry red light seeping out of its hollow orbs. Its clothes were black, tattered in part as if it had been wrapped in a shroud, but gleaming black armour lay beneath.
The creature shimmered as it bore down on the traveller, appearing to change shape slightly so that its limbs elongated, the hands stretching into bony talons. It swung one and took the traveller’s head off at the neck.
One of the girls fainted, hitting the turf as a dead weight. Mallory could feel the desperate eyes of the other travellers heavy on him.
The thing fell down on the corpse, tearing with its talons in a frenzy until the body fell apart. Then it ducked down into the soft tissue and began to feed so ravenously that the blood flew like rain.
Mallory’s first reaction was to look after himself, but he couldn’t do it. He gripped the sword with both hands and took a step forwards.
At Mallory’s movement, the creature raised its head, the bone now stained scarlet. Mallory wished it would let out some growl so he could characterise it as flesh and blood, but it was as silent as the grave. It launched itself towards him, eerily lighter than air as it tore across the distance between them.
The ghostliness wrong-footed him so that he wasn’t ready for the force of impact. It felt as if someone had thrown a full oil drum at him. He went down underneath it as screams erupted all around.
It didn’t use its talons immediately. Instead, those seething red eyes began to inspect him. Mallory had the feeling of being dissected, his hopes torn apart and thrown away, his fears peeled back. He could smell the traveller’s fresh blood, but beneath it there was the odour of loam and rotting vegetation. It opened its mouth briefly, then closed it with a clack of bare teeth.
Mallory acted just as it launched its attack. When it shifted its weight to raise a bony hand he rolled to one side, brought up his knee and levered it off him. The thing was already flinging itself back at him like a cornered wildcat. He tried to bring up the sword, but there wasn’t room and he could only jam it crossways between them awkwardly. The creature’s talons were just a flash. If Mallory hadn’t snatched his head away instinctively it would now be bouncing alongside the traveller’s.
He tried to fend it off with his left arm, but to his horror it brought its skull down sharply and closed those ferocious jaws on his forearm. He yelled with pain, but at the same time seized his opportunity to arc the sword around into the creature’s ribs. It felt as if he’d swung it into the trunk of an oak tree.
But it did enough. The creature released its grip on his arm and recoiled, still silent even when Mallory yanked the sword out, bringing part of a bone with it. In that instant, Mallory knew no earthly sword would have had any effect; the dragon-sword sang in his hands, setting his nerve endings alight.
Now the thing hung back, floating eerily from side to side, its hideous red-stained skull cocked as it surveyed him in a new light. It only took a moment to size him up before it attacked again, unannounced and with rattlesnake speed. Mallory had the merest instant to respond; he shifted weight, parried, but it was like trying to fence with a cloud of claws and snapping jaws.
For fifteen minutes the battle raged back and forth. Occasionally, Mallory would sneak through the creature’s defences to slice into his unbelievably dense body. More often it would catch him a glancing blow that would make his teeth ring, or raise droplets of blood with a rake of its talons. But with each wound, Mallory felt the dull rage within him grow colder and harder, focusing his mind, sharpening his reactions. He couldn’t see Sophie or the travellers - even their cries were lost to him. Everything was centred on the grinning skull, the abomination that had no right to cause suffering when so much already existed.
He saw the opening, instantly dissected tactics and all possible responses, then acted with a swiftness that turned his sword arm to a blur. The dragon-sword drove into the creature’s chest, and then Mallory gripped it with both hands and drove down with all his strength. It felt as if he was forcing the blade through stone.
As the thing began to split in two, Mallory snatched the sword free and slashed. The red skull flew free, rattled on to the ground and bounced across the turf.
Mallory staggered back, catching his breath after the exertion, still shaking with the battle rage. Sophie stepped in to support him.
‘Are you OK?’ she said, with deep concern.
He steadied himself, then quickly herded her away from the carcass, still quivering with its death throes. ‘Let’s get moving.’
‘You need to rest. We’ve got to treat your wounds.’ She gently dabbed at a deep cut on his forehead.
‘Too risky. Anything else out here won’t give us time to rest.’
Reluctantly, she agreed. The travellers, who were now looking at Mallory with new eyes, grateful but awed, picked up Miller’s stretcher and set off as fast as their weary legs would muster.
They hadn’t gone far when the girl who had fainted cried out once more. Mallory followed the line of her pointing finger to the place of his battle. In a pool of moonlight, the creature was rising up from the ground, body rejoined, skull firmly reattached. It steadied itself for a second, then turned towards them.
‘It’s not going to le
t us go,’ the girl moaned.
Mallory cursed, feared he wouldn’t have the strength and the luck to defeat it again, wondered how many times he’d have to attempt it before the bony jaws were feeding on his own lights.
‘Get moving,’ he said.
‘What are you going to do?’ Sophie said.
‘Just get moving. I’ll catch you up.’
‘You’re stupid—’
Eyes blazing, he spun round, but his voice was low and moderated. ‘You’ve got a responsibility to these people who trust you. And you need to get Miller back. This is my job, for better or worse. You do yours.’
She marshalled the others without further discussion. They headed off, but her voice floated back to him. ‘Catch us up, Mallory. We need you.’
Then it was just him and the thing sweeping over the grass, black shroud flapping in the wind, jaw open in a silent scream.
He fought for a half-hour this time, eventually stabbing the sword through its right eye socket before shattering its skull. He spent the next ten minutes chopping the body into chunks no bigger than a bag of sugar before lurching away, exhausted.
He caught up with the others, and this time they had fifteen minutes’ grace before the thing came at them again.
Three more times he battled it. Each fight lasted longer, each time he grew weaker, picked up more wounds, undoing all the good works of the Court of Peaceful Days. After the last one he was convinced he wouldn’t be able to do it again.
Sophie remained silent, but her eyes never left him. She understood his suffering, knew there was no point in discussing it, but in her silence there was a support that gave him an added reserve of strength.
The fluttering silhouette was against the now clear sky of the horizon when they came over a rise to find serendipity. Scattered across the downward slope were the picked-clean bones of soldiers, their shredded uniforms blowing in the breeze. A tank stood silently, a hole rupturing its side; Mallory had no idea what could have committed such a devastating attack. And beyond it was a covered truck, the driver’s door sagging open where the occupant had been torn out.
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