by Robin Jarvis
*
With his open beak squashed into the mud, Quoth groaned miserably and waited until he had gathered enough strength to push himself over before attempting to move.
Wincing from the agony of his wounds, he somehow managed to squirm on to his side. Then looking about him, he was horrified to discover that he was lying right next to Aidan's body and was gazing straight at his upturned face.
The gypsy's glazed eyes were staring fixedly up at the night and Quoth shuddered woefully.
‘Master Neil,’ he lamented. ‘To what ignoble end hath we all come? Wouldst that I could die at thine side.’
‘Neil...’ a weak voice whispered.
The raven blinked in astonishment arid sat up in spite of his painful cuts and throbbing bruises.
The voice had come from Aidan. The man was still alive.
Lurching to his feet and dragging his damaged wing behind him, Quoth hobbled closer to the dying human and gazed forlornly upon his blood-soaked face.
‘Alas,’ he wept. ‘Lackaday, our hopes art in ruin and thy valour wast for naught.’
Aidan's lips quivered as he strove to speak, but death was stealing over him and in a hoarse whisper, he said, ‘The tramp... Neil... find him... find Tommy...’
And with those words, the leader of the descendants of Askar died.
Quoth snivelled into his feathers and solemnly lay his head against the man's bloody brow.
‘So passeth a noble knight,’ he mourned. ‘And hereafter the day shalt be a shade more dark than before.’
Dejected and downcast, a tear trickled from the raven's eye and ran the length of his beak to splash on to the ground. Then his bald head crinkled as he frowned and the bird looked at Aidan in wonder as he realised the importance of his dying words. One single, slender chance still remained and only he could prevent the awaiting doom from descending.
Staring out across the valley, Quoth watched the Valkyries swarm above the town. The Tor where he knew Tommy would be hiding appeared an awfully long way away and he would never reach it in time even if he ran without stopping. Yet as he gauged the great distance, a new resolve hardened in his breast as the bird's hope swelled.
‘Master Neil,’ he murmured, ‘thy ragged raven shalt save thee—else die in the attempt.’
Pattering across the grass to where the broad, sloping hillside stretched down before him, Quoth opened his useless wings and gave the ground a determined scratch with his claws.
‘Upon my shoulders dost doom now lie,’ he told himself, summoning his strength and flexing his feathers. ‘Craven and timid thou art Quoth—yet cringing shalt avail thee naught at this the last hour.’
Hopping from foot to foot he gave an experimental flap of his wings, then began beating them more forcefully as he set off, running down the hill.
‘Thou canst do this,’ he squawked. ‘ ‘Tis no great matter. The lowly sparrow and base bluebottle doth accomplish the feat every day.’
Over the ground he charged, leaping and bound- ing into the air, feverishly thrashing his feathers, but no matter how hard he tried he never rose more than a few inches.
‘Do not abandon hope!’ he yelled. ‘Think of thy master!’
But in his mad, frantic rush, Quoth's foot caught on a stone and, wailing fearfully, he tripped and fell headlong into the wind. Squeezing his eye shut he waited for the crash as he tumbled beak over claw, and his hopeful spirits were utterly crushed.
Yet the expected crunch into soil and sod did not occur. When the raven tentatively opened his eye, to his overwhelming joy he found that he was sailing high above the ground, riding the night air and gliding over the hill—he was flying.
There was no time for the fledgling to enjoy the new experience. Fanning out his wings still further, he flew over the roofs of Hill Head and, taking a circuitous route across the fields to avoid the horde of raven women—made for the Tor.
Cold was the gale which streamed through the meagre feathers about Quoth's head, as he shot like a bullet towards the lofty summit of the majestic mountain and circled once about the tower of Saint Michael, before diving into one of the two archways at its base.
Within the solitary building, Tommy's dishevelled figure sat upon the hard ground, his collection of religious icons spread meticulously about him in a carefully arranged circle. Surrounded by the angelic cards and cherubic figurines, with the flames of three nightlights flickering over the enclosing stones, he chewed his toothless gums and covered his face with his cap as the noise of the Valkyries echoed about the vaulted sky outside.
Suddenly, into his sanctuary a manic bundle of quacking feathers came bursting, and the tramp cried out in alarm as Quoth tumbled to an ungainly, skidding halt before him.
‘Fie! Fie!’ the raven shrieked even before he had picked himself up from the sorry heap he had landed in. ‘Thou art needed, old man!’
Tommy stared at the demented bird and huddled into a frightened ball. ‘You get out of Tommy's refuge!’ he shouted. ‘Leave him alone.’
‘The future doth teeter upon a knife edge!’ Quoth retorted, scampering over to him. ‘The Twelve hath made Master Neil captive. He shalt be killed less thou give him aid! I can do naught alone—I beseech thee, old one.’
The tramp shivered and averted his eyes from the imploring raven. ‘Tommy can't!’ he gibbered. ‘Them bird women are out there, they'll get him if he steps out of his hidey-hole.’
‘Then a curse upon thee!’ Quoth snorted, his temper raging. ‘Sit here and wait for the end, yet when my master is thrown from the heights, know that his blood is upon thy hands and none of this foolish litter shalt comfort thee then!’
Barging about the tramp, the raven kicked the figurines and scattered the scraps of card and paper he so desperately treasured, and flicked his tail up in disgust.
‘No!’ Tommy warbled grovelling to retrieve them and repair the circle.
Quoth glowered at him then headed for the entrance. ‘Puny use shalt I prove to be,’ he declared. ‘Yet I must do what I can. Unto thee doth I bequeath any white feathers I didst possess—to add to the great store of thine own. Aidan was wrong about thee!’
With that he bolted from the tower and shakily took to the air once more.
Sitting in his lonely sanctuary, Tommy wiped his dribbling nose and sobbed piteously. 'Mercy on us,’ he burbled, shamed by the bird's great courage. ‘Send angels to save him and the lad. Oh, listen to them devils out there—won't someone do something? Help us, please, the everlasting darkness is here!’
Chapter 27 - The Property of Longinus
Suspended from Hlökk's powerful claws, with the monstrous crowd of Valkyries swooping around him, their reviled clangorous voices crowing and screeching in triumph, Neil Chapman ceased his struggles and gazed desolately down.
The world seemed horribly far below, beneath his dangling legs a sickening gulf dropped and fell away to where the lights of Glastonbury appeared as tiny jewels.
Hlökk's hideous croaking voice sounded above him as the creature called across the sky to its sisters, ‘Verdandi iss near. The reek of her chokess and sstifless.’
Diving in amongst them, Thought twirled in the air and laughed proudly. ‘This is the moment for which our Master hath waited these long empty years,’ he exulted. ‘Behold, down yonder—the witch ascendeth, bringing with her the instrument of her own destruction.’
Flying high above Chalice Hill, the raven women turned their baleful glances down to Wellhouse Lane where the two springs gushed and gurgled into the grids and, stretching their murderous beaks wide, honked with hellish glee.
The surface of the road was trembling. Even from his lofty, perilous vantage point, Neil could see the lane buckling and bulging as some tremendous force pushed and stretched it from below.
Creaking, the tarmac heaved as the soil beneath it thrust and pushed. The metal grates by the pavement clanked and rattled until suddenly the spreading cracks burst apart and up from the ruptured road erupted a hail of dir
t and rubble.
Over the lane, clods of earth and grinding stones were scattered as the fissure widened, and out of the depths of this newly-formed chasm there came an almighty roaring. Then, into the night spouted a torrent of water.
High the massive fountain towered, its foaming maelstrom of cascading spray snatched by the breeze to go drizzling over the town. The roads were turned into rivers as the wild, unstoppable deluge came racing out of Wellhouse Lane to flood across Chilkwell Street and course down the length of Bere Lane.
Like an icy volcano, spewing freezing water into the air, the crevasse continued to rage and grow until, all at once, the surging column dwindled—its might spent. With a final squirting rush it ceased, but the brimming chasm continued to bubble and quake as, up from the deep reaches of the earth, the controlling might of the last undine propelled two figures into the chill night air.
From the frothing fathoms Miss Veronica and Edie came, and when their heads broke through the surface of the water, they gasped and gagged, gulping for air.
Edie quickly scrabbled for the side, but the undine's power gently lifted them both clear as the floor swelled, carrying their buoyant forms out of the fissure and depositing them safely upon the road.
So was the debt he owed them for his release repaid. Edie and Miss Veronica lay upon the lane, panting and puffing like stranded fish—whilst the waters retreated back into the gulf and the red and white springs resumed their idle gurgling.
Soaked to the skin, Edie coughed and spluttered and squelchily rose, whilst a puddle formed about her sodden, dripping figure.
‘See, Veronica,’ she began, shaking herself like a dog. ‘He weren't bad after all...’
Only then did she hear the wild, baying calls in the sky and she lifted her eyes to see the dark-winged nightmares slowly descend.
‘Strewth!’ she squealed, splashing over to where the old woman was attempting to stand. ‘What's them things?’
Miss Veronica gripped her cane and peered upwards. 'Valkyrja,—she gasped, shivering at the sight of them. ‘My Captain's most terrible servants. They are horrible, Edith. Why has he summoned them here, I wonder? I hope we have not come too late!’
‘Can they hurt us?’ the girl asked.
The old woman looked anxious. ‘The creatures fear the Spinners of the Wood,’ she answered. ‘We despatched them long ago and they won't have forgotten that in a hurry. But Woden wouldn't let them harm us.’
Taking the glimmering, golden circlet from around the child's arm, Miss Veronica flourished it for all to see and hurried towards the narrow trackway which led to the Tor.
‘There cannot be much time left,’ she told the girl. ‘We must reach the Captain quickly.’
Edie followed her up the sloping path, stumbling often, for her eyes were trained upon the skirling raven women above.
Miss Veronica, however, attempted to put the distressing creatures from her mind, for she was anticipating the moment when her Woden would be made well by the magical device she had taken from Joseph's grave. Hastening between the bordering trees and hedges, she arrived at the gate which opened out on to the Tor and lifted her walking cane as she had done before.
‘Awaken,’ she called. ‘Verdandi summons you—oh, rod of life and...’
The old woman broke off abruptly as, through the overhanging branches, Thought came darting.
‘Fairest princess!’ the raven cried, coveting the bracelet in her hands as he alighted upon the gravestone-like stile. ‘A thousand thanks and more! No reward is too great for thine intrepid deeds. Thou hast returned not an instant too soon. The grains of His life are near run out—come, thou must heal Him.’
‘Wait,’ Miss Veronica begged. ‘He must not see me like this. I must be young and beautiful again. It is Verdandi he wants, not this dried up old hag.’
Thought pranced up and down in agitation. ‘No time, no time!’ he cawed desperately. ‘What use thy former beauty if it shineth only upon death?’
‘Is he really that close?’ she breathed. ‘Then hurry, fly—take this thing to him! Don't wait for me.’
The old woman held out the circlet for the raven, but the action took Thought by complete surprise and he seemed almost afraid to touch it. Squawking in alarm, the flustered bird nearly toppled from the perch as he dodged to avoid coming into contact with that precious, glowing metal.
‘Nay, nay!’ he cried, leaping into the air where it was safer. ‘My Master shalt be carried hither.’
‘Is that why the Valkyrja are here?’ Miss Veronica demanded.
Thought bowed, feigning respect. ‘Thou hast no need to fear the Twelve,’ he told her. ‘They art my Master's bearers. If ‘twould appease thy dread—only the one who conveyeth His ailing form shalt descend.’
‘No, no, I'm sure there's no need for that. They are his servants after all.’
‘As thou sayest. Now I shalt lead them hither so thou may surrender thy most marvellous prize unto His own hands.’
Edie watched the bird as he soared upward to call down the Valkyries and the girl pouted. She didn't trust that creature and suspected that everything his treacly, toadying voice said was one fat, continuous lie.
But Miss Veronica was too anxious to save her Captain to notice any of this, and she passed through the stile to stand upon the open ground beyond as the raven cried out to the Valkyries.
*
High over the Tor, Hlökk croaked jealously as the eleven other nightmares started to descend and, with malicious spite, it squeezed Neil's shoulders even tighter until the boy yelped.
With Biter at their head, the apparitions rushed down to the lower slopes of the great green mountain. In the leader's talons, whilst they were still far above the ground, the Reverend Peter Galloway quivered as he felt the shadowy webs of illusion form about him once again. Shimmering strands of deceit appeared from the ether to wind tightly around the vicar's body, weaving the same image of the young Askarian Captain which he had worn that afternoon.
From his shoulders the sable cloak streamed in the wind and a silver helm materialised about his brow, as the mail armour glittered like stars in the darkness.
The fantasy was completed long before Miss Veronica or Edie Dorkins could possibly see the transformation take place. Thought flew up to remind the man what he must do.
‘The prize is thine for the taking,’ the raven told him. ‘Yet remember thy part, act it well and the boy shalt be spared.’
‘I understand,’ the blonde phantasm of Woden assented. ‘Whatever you ask.’
Down on the Tor, Miss Veronica Webster could hardly contain her mounting excitement as the great, dark shapes grew nearer. With a momentous buffeting gale as huge wings churned the air, the Valkyries landed and the false vision of Woden was deposited with the utmost reverence upon the ground.
As Biter fell back, the other raven women bowed low to the deluding image, humbly laying their horrific heads upon the grass in mute obeisance.
Edie stared at their grotesque, unnatural shapes with amazement then looked long at their sharp, hooked claws. It was not difficult to imagine the carnage they were capable of, and she wrinkled her nose at the rancid reek which drifted from their repulsive quilled bodies.
At her side, Miss Veronica focused her attention upon her beloved Captain and hobbled over to him with the bracelet in her hands.
‘Woden!’ she cried. ‘Oh, I'm so glad there is still time.’
The tall warrior spluttered as Peter remembered he was supposed to be dying and gave the old woman a weak smile.
‘I knew you would not fail me,’ he murmured with a convincing, weary gasp. ‘You have saved me, Verdandi. Give the thing to me and we will be together forever.’
Miss Veronica blushed coyly. ‘I'm not as you remember,’ she apologised. 'Time has not been kind to me, Woden. I am old and ugly. What future can there be for us?’
Looking through the illusion's eyes, the vicar viewed the ancient shrivelled face. Her garish make-up had been wash
ed away in the flood and she looked like any other old lady. Her back was bowed and crippled, the flesh exposed by the flimsy gown was mottled and sagged, and the hands swollen and arthritic. And yet, perhaps by the aid of some unexpected power the deceiving image afforded him, he could also see beyond the wizened exterior and glimpsed a fraction of Miss Veronica's indomitable spirit.
Undying and eternal was the flame which burned in her heart and her nobility was pure and supreme. Trapped in her frail shell, this remarkable woman had risked everything to save the life of the man she had adored in the days of her youth and whose memory she had never stopped loving.
‘To my eyes you will always be beautiful,’ Peter found himself saying, and the sincerity in his voice was unmistakable.
Miss Veronica smiled and offered the bejewelled circlet up to him.
The bangle's pale, buttery gleam flowed out over the slopes and the Valkyries hissed in dismay when they saw it. Everyone present could sense the power which beat from that curious device and the raven women shuffled backwards, taking flight into the trees to escape its cold, biting glow.
Looking down upon the treasure, a blank look of confusion stole over the false Captain's face. But before he could speak, Thought urged him to take it.
‘Thy life is saved,’ the raven crowed, continuing the pretence for a moment more, his beady eyes shining with greed and exultation as Peter raised his hands to accept the glittering device.
‘Halt!’ shrieked a sudden interrupting voice as Quoth came tumbling into their midst. ‘Desist! Belay! Old crone—thou art misled!’
Miss Veronica blinked in astonishment as Neil's raven landed with an unceremonious bump upon the ground and scurried over to her, flapping his wings in alarm.
‘Memory!’ the old woman exclaimed. ‘What are you saying? I must restore your Master to health.’
‘No, Veronica!’ Edie joined in sharply. ‘Listen to him.’
‘This slubberdegullion is not the Gallows God!’ Quoth decried. ‘ ‘Tis but a trick to lure and deceive! Even Woden feareth the might of the bauble thou doth hold in thy hand. He is far from this place.’