The Scar-Crow Men soa-2

by Mark Chadbourn

  She had been able to maintain her life of red blades, and joyless coupling, and heart-rending deception, with the conviction that only one solitary path was open to her, and that no one else could ever understand her oceanic depths. But now she realized everything had changed.

  Hammering one small but strong fist upon the stone wall, Meg let out her unfocused rage for one moment and then tore her gaze away from the bridge. Swyfte was lost to the night.

  The wind blasted along the river, stinging her pale skin with stone-hard rain. Her skirts and bodice were soaked through and she was filled with a bone-deep chill that belied the summer warmth. The storm was getting stronger. Lightning flickered around the hills as if the gods were circling the city.

  Further along the road that bounded the river, she glimpsed movement, pale figures flitting here and there. At a distance the Unseelie Court had all the substance of moon shadows. It was only up close that they took on the lethal presence of hunting beasts.

  Eyeing their comings and goings, she decided there was not enough cover there at the edge of the river and she turned and ran back to the shelter of the tall merchants’ houses on the other side of the street. Though candles still gleamed in the windows, she saw no comfort anywhere. The Enemy were all over Paris, wherever she looked: carriages rolling silently along the street on the far side of the Seine, the spectral fleet bobbing on the choppy waves, riders emerging from the winding, narrow streets on to the large riverside thoroughfare and groups locked in conversation here and there, oblivious to the downpour. Secure in their control of the city, the Unseelie Court were not looking out for enemies. Perhaps there was hope the two spies could escape France with their lives.

  But as Meg eased into the shadowy depths of a rat-infested alley, lightning flashed and she saw the silhouette of a figure on the roof of the first house on the Pont Notre-Dame. It was Xanthus, hunched on the edge of the house like a gargoyle, peering down into the street.

  He had seen her.

  Her heart thumping, Meg gripped her dagger tightly though she knew it would be useless.

  Seemingly untouched by the tearing winds, the ghostly stalker raised himself up, balancing on the balls of his feet. As the Irish woman prepared herself for his descent, he turned and bounded like a wolf up the orange tiles and away across the connecting roofs of the houses on the bridge.

  The Hunter wanted only Will Swyfte.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Lashed by the storm, Will clung on to the cornice with aching fingers, edging forward one fumbling step at a time. Beneath him, the grey waters of the Seine churned around the base of the Pont Notre-Dame’s stone footings. One slip and he would be lost to the currents, never to surface again.

  ‘It would be easier to let go.’

  Snapping his head round at the voice, the spy looked into glistening black eyes. Jenny clung to the ledge behind him, her mottled skin now tinged with broken veins as if she were decomposing a little more each time he saw her. Her rain-soaked hair hung lank, her skirts clinging to her too-thin frame.

  ‘Get thee away from me, devil,’ the spy growled. ‘I am not in the mood for your trickery.’

  Jenny pressed her blue lips close to his ear and whispered, ‘You have betrayed me. Where is that deep love that you professed so strongly? A love that would never die, that would survive the vast gulfs of time and space between us, my sweet? It tripped off your tongue so easily. Were you lying to me? Were you lying to yourself?’

  ‘I love you still, as deeply as ever.’ Keeping his head turned away from that haunting face, Will focused all his attention on the gloom shrouding the end of the bridge. ‘Love is more complex than you would imagine in your narrow world of misery. And we are all pulled by currents we cannot fathom.’

  Refusing to acknowledge any more of the whispered lies and threats and low, mocking laughter, he edged forward. When he passed the bridge’s midway point, he realized he could no longer sense the presence at his back, but the weight he felt upon his shoulders did not lift.

  With cold, painful fingers, the spy pulled himself up the cornice at the far end and eased his head above the parapet. The towering bulk of the cathedral loomed over the rain-lashed island. He thought how the tall windows on the twin towers resembled the eyes of a judgemental god looking down upon him.

  A warren of dark, deserted buildings sprawled away from the wall. Pulling himself over the parapet, Will hurried through the narrow alleys until he overlooked a small cobbled square in front of the cathedral. The stained glass was afire, candlelight flooding out of the open doors.

  Three pale figures moved on to the bridge and were lost among the towering merchants’ houses, while others drifted out of the cathedral, pausing to exchange brief words with their fellows. Watching the ebb and flow for long moments, Will decided there were only two guards who patrolled the fringes of the square.

  The spy huddled in the shadows close to the wall, wrapping his black cloak around him, and waited for his moment.

  Thunder pealed overhead, and lightning lit up the front of the church. When the glare faded, only the guards remained. One walked near to where Will hid, the other stood by the cathedral door, attention fixed on the bright interior.

  Drawing Dee’s blowpipe from the hidden pocket in his cloak, the spy dipped a dart in the lethal blue paste and inserted it in the end of the tube. A pool of black ink in the deeper shadow, he waited with the pipe to his lips until the pale figure was only feet away. Will blew into the tube. The Enemy clutched at his face. The spy was moving before the guard crumpled to the wet cobbles.

  His footsteps masked by the torrent of rainwater gushing off the cathedral roof, he slipped into the shadows next to the wall, unseen. Whisking out his dagger, he crept forward, sliding the blade across the sentry’s neck in a flash. He dumped the body out of sight just around the corner of the building.

  The relentless pounding of the rain matched the beating of the spy’s heart. Peering in through the open door, he was relieved to see no further Enemies waited just inside the church. Notre Dame was flooded with golden light from the ranks of candles running along the nave. The Unseelie Court swarmed like ants in the far depths of the cathedral, studying charts, locked in discussions, or at work on tasks beyond Will’s ability to comprehend. Some appeared to be maintaining weapons of unknown use, while others chanted in low voices as they inscribed symbols on the stone flags.

  Keeping low, Will slipped along the rear wall of the cathedral to what appeared to be a small storeroom. He slid inside, unseen. Crouching in the shadows, he continued to observe the activity in the cathedral through a narrow slit in the door.

  A tall mirror in a gilt frame stood incongruously in the centre of the nave, surrounded by a circle of squat candles. As Will watched, the glass became opaque, attracting the attention of the Fay near to it. One of them hurried away, returning a moment later with a grotesquely obese figure, naked to the waist, his sweating, shaven head gleaming in the candlelight.

  Wheezing from the exertion, he shuffled into the circle and peered into the looking glass with his porcine eyes. The milky haze cleared to reveal Fabian’s doleful reflection. He was standing in a dark place, perhaps still in the catacombs beneath the Reims seminary. For long moments, the two figures engaged in conversation. Although he couldn’t overhear what was said, Will suspected he was the subject of their debate. He began to formulate a plan.

  Scrabbling through the contents of the storeroom, the spy uncovered a dirty sheet. He returned to the door, from where he watched the corpulent figure begin to lose his temper in a language the spy didn’t understand. The other pale figures crowded around the mirror to listen to the argument.

  When one of the Fay passed near the door, the spy fired another poisonous dart. Leaping from the storeroom, Will flung the sheet over the convulsing being and tossed one of Dee’s powder-packages after it. The chemicals ignited in a flash of searing light. Ablaze, the being careered down the side aisle of the cathedral, his screams r
inging off the walls.

  Will threw himself behind the back row of heavy wooden pews and crawled to the other side of the church. While the Unseelie Court flocked to stifle the flames on the body of their dying fellow, the spy kept his attention on the bald-headed mound of shivering flesh. Just as he had hoped, the grotesque figure called out in his wavering, sibilant voice and directed four of the Fay towards the altar.

  From his hiding place, the spy noticed a knee-high sculpture of human bones topped with a skull. Standing in another circle of squat candles, it glowed with a faint emerald light.

  The Corpus-Scythe, Will guessed.

  With alacrity, the four pale figures lifted it into a wooden chest with rope handles on either end, and carried it along the central aisle. Trying to protect it at all costs. Keeping below the Enemy’s line of sight, the spy slipped out into the storm-blasted night.

  In front of the cathedral, the small cobbled area already lay under an inch of water. Will could barely see more than a few feet through the torrential rain, but that would help him. Crouching in the shadows along the wall, he took out the blowpipe and darts and waited.

  The four Fay emerged with the wooden chest a moment later. Cloaked by the night and the gale, Will was invisible to them. His first dart struck the nearest Fay on the hand. As the pale figure began to convulse, the spy loaded a second poison-tipped dart and propelled it into the neck of one of the Enemy at the rear.

  The chest splashed into the deepening pool of rainwater.

  As the remaining two pale figures drew their rapiers, Will ghosted along the wall behind them and thrust his dagger under the ribcage of his third foe. When the final Fay began to turn, the spy plunged his blade into his opponent’s throat.

  Sheathing his weapon, Will grasped the chest by both handles. It was lighter than he anticipated. But he had only splashed four steps across the cobbles when a warning cry rang out. A bedraggled Meg stood in the nearest alley. Her eyes were wide with terror and with a trembling hand she was pointing above him.

  Will spun round. Above the main doorway ran a long gallery of statues of the kings of Israel. One of them was moving.

  Lightning illuminated the graven relief. Crawling across the carvings like a giant spider was Xanthus, his shaven, symbol-etched head turned towards the spy.

  Mouth torn wide in a bestial roar, the Hunter leapt.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Throwing himself out of the path of the white-faced Hunter, Will heard the chest shatter. The spy rolled back to his feet only to see the Corpus-Scythe lying exposed in the deepening pool of rainwater and Xanthus crouching over it. Will felt a pang of bitter regret. He’d come so close to escaping with his prize, but a face-to-face fight at that moment was a battle he was unlikely to win.

  Meg had already fled. He sprinted away from the square towards a narrow street on the northern side of the cathedral. The way ahead was long and straight with no alleys in which he could lose himself.

  At his back, the spy heard splashing as the Hunter bounded across the cobbles.

  A door to the cathedral hung ajar to his right. Will dived into the dark space and drew the heavy iron bolts, although he knew it would buy him only a few moments. He raced up a flight of broad stone steps two at a time, a plan already forming in his mind. Ignoring the door to what he guessed was the grand gallery connecting the two towers, he continued climbing until his breath burned in his chest.

  From far below, the clang of the bolt being drawn back echoed up the well of shadows.

  The steps ended atop one of the cathedral’s two towers. From the window space, he had a view across storm-buffeted Paris. Thousands of stars of candlelight flickered in inky space. On the grey Seine, the Unseelie Court fleet glowed with a ghostly luminescence.

  Xanthus would think him trapped, the spy thought. That gave him an advantage.

  Pulling the grapnel from his cloak’s pocket, Will hooked it on the coping and threw the attached rope out of the window. He had no time to test if it would hold. Hanging out into the tearing wind, the spy grasped the rope and slid down.

  He was hurled around wildly by the gale and blinded by the downpour. Smashed against the stone of the tower, he held on with shaking hands, then kicked away from the wall to continue his descent. As he swung, he glimpsed a face in one of the open arched windows along the gallery between the towers. He was sure it had been Meg. Was it she who had left the tower door ajar?

  Will felt a wrench and the grapnel gave way. Arms whirling, he fell, the rope tumbling around him.

  Slamming into the rain-slick cathedral roof, the spy felt his breath driven from his lungs. He had no time to recover. Numb from the impact, he careered down the steep pitch on his back.

  When he glanced down, he saw the edge of the roof racing towards him.

  Will curled his hand around the tangled rope and yanked hard. The grapnel flew through the air and crashed ahead of him; jerking his arm up, caught the cold iron of the hook with his free hand as he sped by. With his stomach flipping, he shot over the edge.

  Overcome by the dizzying sensation of falling, the spy felt every bone in his body jar when the grapnel caught on the coping at the edge of the roof. He slammed against the stone wall once more. His fingers slipped, then held tight.

  He didn’t look down, but he could feel the drop pulling beneath his feet. On straining arms, he hauled himself up, grabbed the edge of the coping with his right hand and pulled himself back on to the roof.

  Will kneeled on the brink of the abyss and caught his breath. He felt the furious gale tear at him, threatening to pitch him over the side, and he knew he had to move on. But when he looked up, he saw he was not alone. Near the north tower, Xanthus now balanced on the edge of the roof, seemingly oblivious to the wind and the rain. Illuminated by the white light of a lightning flash, the predator stretched out his arms and closed his eyes in beatific supplication to the heavens.

  ‘Across your world I have pursued you, for the vengeance demanded by my brother and my people,’ the Hunter roared above the howling gale. ‘But this ends now. Your time has come, spy.’

  Your time has come, Will’s devil whispered in his ear.

  Returning the grapnel to the pocket in his cloak, the spy saw there was still a chance that he could follow his original plan. In the shadow of the soaring spire where the transepts crossed, a white stone arm reached towards the Seine. Will identified numerous places where he could descend — if he could but reach the roof of the southern transept before Xanthus caught him.

  But the spy was gripped by a puzzling sight. Stooping on the edge of the roof, the Hunter was removing an object from the sack he had strapped to his back. Silver gleamed.

  The Wish-Crux.

  The box the Enemy had attempted to use that rainswept night at Lud’s Church.

  Transfixed, Will watched the hunched figure set the gleaming chest on the coping and open the lid with a careful, almost awed motion. Will thought the dark within the box seemed to suck as powerfully as the void beside him.

  After a moment, he saw movement in the black depths. Small shapes emerged into the driving rain and began to skitter along the edge of the roof towards him. Overcome by a grim foreboding, Will turned and lurched into the buffeting wind along the edge of the abyss. His shoes slipped on the wet stone. Arms outstretched to steady himself, he fought to maintain his balance.

  Above the south transept, the spy glanced back. In the hunch of the Hunter’s slowly loping form, Will saw weakness, perhaps exhaustion. Could it be that the predator’s strength had been drained by his control of the elements during their long pursuit?

  The spy’s gaze was drawn back to that black trail of scurrying forms, each one almost as big as the palm of his hand.

  Spiders?

  Certainly like no spiders he had ever seen before.

  On the south transept roof, Will was held fast by the crashing waves of wind. Bowing his head, he pressed on, one agonizing step at a time. Blinded by the driving rain, th
e thunder rolling out above and lightning crashing down in jagged forks, Will felt his world was in turmoil.

  Turning, the spy saw the spiders had caught up with him. Although they looked insignificant, he was sure some dark power lurked within them.

  Death is close, his devil whispered with a throaty laugh.

  ‘Damn you! Leave me be!’ the spy raged.

  Hammering one shoe down upon the nearest spider, he sensed the black shape burst under his leather sole. It felt like crushing a hen’s egg. Black ichor oozed out from beneath his foot and was washed away by the rain.

  Just as he began to think that the skittering things were too easily destroyed, one arachnid propelled itself on to his hose and scurried up his body. He felt each leg like a hot needle stabbing into his flesh. Too fast to be brushed off, it swept down his arm to the back of his hand. With a shiver, the creature sank its fangs into Will and tore away a chunk of flesh.

  The spy yelled in pain, blood spraying from his hand. Tearing the spider free, he crushed it in his palm. The black ichor steamed as it gushed between his fingers, and he hurled the squashed remains away. By then the other spiders were swarming across his body, tearing and biting.

  Fearful that his thrashing would pitch him over the edge, the spy battled towards a small spire at the end of the transept where there was a patch of shelter. Whenever the snapping jaws bit through his clothes, he felt like he was being burned by hot pokers. Blood ran freely down his arms and legs, and however much he tore the spiders away, others replaced them. Unopposed, they could strip a body in a matter of moments, he realized.

  The sands of time run out finally, and hell awaits, the devil growled in his ear.

  His hands slick with blood, Will gripped on to the spire for support. Through the sheet of rain, he could see the pale, hunched shape of Xanthus creeping towards him. The Hunter had drawn his rapier ready for the killing blow.