Something hanging among these fetishes catches his eye. He brings the sword closer. There among the black feathers is a single white one; ice bright and flashing. He holds the sword out in front of his face, turning it first one way then another. He tests the blade with a couple of experimental swings and the terrible whoosh as it cuts the air is like the rush of wind over a huge black wing. The blade flies at his will, stops and turns with his thoughts. Never has he seen such a powerful object.
Emboldened, he strides towards the centre of the woods.
The clearing, when he finds it, is the only part of the forest left alive. Each tree that rings it is lush with full growth. Vines, ivy and moss cling to the trunks and branches, the pale green hair of hanging lichens caresses him as he passes. The trees are full of scurrying insects and animals, all of them awaiting his arrival. They are still and attentive as he passes through this ring of life and into the clearing.
The centre of the circle of trees is marked by a standing stone. He advances toward it, a column about his height, and circles it, inspecting the markings chiselled into its surface. The stone has two convex faces and resembles a blunt arrowhead. On one face the symbols match those on his sword, though in the stone they are rendered with less clarity. On the other face there is a crude representation of a man.
As Gordon tries to make sense of the standing stone, a bird flies from the ring of trees that pulse with expectant vitality all around him. He recognises the movements of the bird, the signature and shape of its wings, the attitude of his body, the angle and curve of its head. It lands atop the monolith.
A crow. A crow unlike any other.
Save for its eyes, beak and claws, the crow is as white as polar snow.
Not wishing to threaten the creature, Gordon lets his sword rest at his side. The crow watches him with intelligent eyes, as ancient and wise as the Black Light itself. A great benevolence emanates from it, wrapping Gordon in a sense of comfort and well-being so profound he could weep. It feels as though he has come home somehow, discovering life here at the centre of the dead wood; finally finding his place in a world driven to self-destruction and insanity.
“You’ve come a long way,” says the crow in that silent voice of the land Gordon has come to know and trust. “But the journey isn’t over yet. Your greatest challenge lies ahead of you still.”
“I know. I haven’t found him. I’ve tried. I really have.”
“No matter what you’d done, you could not be any further along the path than you already are.”
Gordon trusts this creature. He knows he is dreaming and that it is safe to say what he has never yet told anyone.
“The war isn’t going to start tomorrow. Not the way everyone thinks it is. No one seems to understand that this war has been going on inside us all along. Maybe since the first human.”
“How right you are.”
“When this battle comes it won’t be the beginning of anything. It’ll be the end of something. I’m frightened it will be the end of everything. Not just us. And not just the Ward if, by some miracle, the Green Men can win. I think tomorrow will be the end of the world.”
The white crow hops to the left and to the right. It airs its wings and caws, raucous and irritated, showing the barbed blade of its tongue.
“You can’t say what tomorrow will bring but you’ve every reason to be frightened, Gordon Black. Something will end tomorrow and you must be as strong as you can be to weather it.”
“What about the Crowman? I must reveal him – give him to the people.”
“Yes. You must.”
“But how? Time’s running short.”
“That’s not for me to tell. All I can say is that the land has nothing but faith in you.” The white crow hops down and lands on his left arm. Gordon holds it up in front of his face. “The land has dreamed of you for a long time.” The crow’s bottomless eyes reflect the emptiness and doubt Gordon holds at the very heart of himself. The crow flaps and takes off, circling the clearing. “Be strong, Gordon Black! The enemy approaches!”
Its pure white wings cut through the darkness above the forest, and, as though having torn a veil, the crow is gone, the gash in the oil black night sealing behind it. The once-silent creatures of the wood, all aloft in the limbs of the final circle of trees begin to chitter and fidget. The ground quakes to the tempo of heavy footsteps.
Lumbering and creaking, Gordon’s foe enters the ring at the centre of the forest. The animals and insects disappear behind leaves and branches, into cracks and holes in the bark. Eyes blink and antennae wave in the direction of the intruder.
A grey beast, man and machine melded, smashes through the inner circle of trees, scattering leaves and vine remnants, splinters of newly grown wood and the limp bodies of a dozen tiny animals. Debris, some of it still twitching, rains down and the beast takes up its position facing Gordon. The thing, Gordon now sees, is a humanoid exoskeleton with two humans operating it. One sits inside its head, the other in its chest cavity. The two control centres are heavily protected but open at the front to enable the controllers to see out. Both the men wear the uniform of the Ward, as does the machine that is their slave and their prison cell – they are chained inside the thing and each control centre has been welded closed.
The beast has four arms, two ending in hammers and two in crossbows. Its steel legs are thicker then tree trunks. The hiss of hydraulics and the moan of gears accompany its every movement. Gordon raises the dark-bladed sword in front of himself and advances, looking for a way to slip his blade deep enough to kill the controllers.
The beast stomps towards him, lifting a hammer fist and swiping it laterally. Gordon leaps back, feeling the force of the wind but not the force of the hammer. It is a near miss, though, and before he has time to think about his own attack, a crossbow bolt lances past his head and lodges shaft-deep in the obelisk at the centre of the clearing. A second arrow is flying as Gordon dives to the ground, tucking his sword in and rolling away. A metre behind the spot where he stood, the tips of two flights are all that remain of the bolt. He leaps from his roll, trying to place himself behind the beast. It is far too quick, turning easily with him. The next two bolts from the crossbow also slip wide of him but only because he is sprinting. It’s a near miss. He hears metal sink deep into the wood of a tree somewhere behind him.
There has to be some weakness in the beast, but what he can do with a simple sword against projectiles and giant hammers, he has no idea. Nor does he know what effect, if any, his blade will have on the beast’s steel carapace. If the controller of the crossbow arms is as good as he ought to be, the next two bolts are going to anticipate his speed and direction. One of them will nail him for sure. In the slim moment of the reload, Gordon runs straight towards the beast, dodging two late hammer blows and diving between its legs. As he does so, he takes as good a look as he can at the workings of the thing. It has only one weakness that he can see.
The column-like legs turn with surprising speed, threatening to crush him. Even as he thinks this, sensing his presence directly beneath them, the controllers make the beast leap up. It comes down feet together in the place where Gordon took a moment to peek up into its workings. He manages to dodge away but the thunder of the landing and the shaking of the earth under its weight throw him off balance.
This time a hammer hits him in the left shoulder. He leaves the ground and as he sails through the air, he feels two more bolts fly past him. One of them slices opens the sleeve of his coat of black feathers, scoring a deep, hot track along his right forearm. When he lands, on his back between the trunks of two trees, he has dropped his sword. It lies a few feet away, between him and the beast. His left shoulder hangs lower than it should. Shattered bone angles up through the black feathers of his coat. His left arm won’t move at all. His right arm is wet with blood but he thanks the Great Spirit the bolt did not lodge in his flesh. Flexing his fingers, he finds the arm is still serviceable. A crossbow bolt slams through his left bi
cep. The velocity is so great, it passes right through and into the ground, pinning him.
He hears the beast advancing, its footsteps like the pound of falling boulders. The controllers want to be sure of their final shot. Already a crossbow hand is rising as the beast strides towards him in three-metre paces. Gordon tears himself up from the ground, calling on the Crowman and all the forces of the land and sky to muster within him. He hears the tearing of his own flesh wrenching free of the shaft that pins him and the sound of two bolts loosed from the crossbows almost simultaneously.
He rolls to his right, anticipating the agony of tumbling over his broken shoulder and skewered arm. The pain clears his mind like lightning illuminating a dim room. He rises from the roll and one of the bolts opens his calf to the bone as it passes across his shin.
He can still run, and run he does, stopping to regain his sword as he races towards the beast. The distance between them closes fast. A hammer arcs downwards and he sidesteps it, aiming and trailing his sword as it passes by. The blade opens a curve of hosing and grey oil spurts free. The reeking fluid is hot where it spatters his coat but he has inflicted a genuine wound. The hammer arm can flex but it can no longer straighten. Both he and the beast have stopped. He is almost directly beneath it. Now the crossbow hands fire again and this is their last volley; no more ammunition is stored in the arms. The bolts disappear into the earth, one slipping directly between the beast’s steel toes. To reach him here the remaining hammer hand will have to smash into the beast’s own legs. Once again it leaps up trying to crush him on landing. This time, Gordon is ready. As it comes to earth, he is standing clear with his sword ready. He slices through the cables, first behind the beast’s left knee and then behind its right. He has to dodge again as the beast collapses onto its own heels.
For a few moments the controllers are mystified by their hamstringing. Gordon uses this pause to climb onto the beast’s knees and deliver an upward thrust straight through the protective bars on the machine’s chest. He can just see that he has gut-stuck the thoracic controller. He slips the blade free and a wash of blood and watery entrails cascade down over him. He smells the shit of the controller leaking from a breached and dangling loop of intestine.
As he climbs the chest, passing the disembowelled controller, there is an impact so enormous it knocks over the entire machine. Gordon lies face down across its chest cavity, horizontal now. He cannot breathe. From the cranial controller he hears manic giggles. He tries to lift himself but is unable to. Neither of his arms will work. Nor will his legs. He turns his head, trying to look over his shoulder. All he can see is a huge mechanical arm, its hand seeming to disappear into his own back. No wonder he can’t breathe. The beast has smashed a fist into itself, putting a hammer hand right through his upper body and knocking itself into a position it will never rise from. Insane, the cranial controller still cackles to himself from the prison that is the beast’s head.
Gordon’s world goes dark.
49
Gordon woke into total blackness, sweat slicked, heart galloping. He tried to reach out for Denise but his arm didn’t respond. He was lying on his left side. Hard surfaces met him both beside and below. He noticed rhythmic movement. Wherever he was it couldn’t be the bedroom of the farmhouse. Trying to raise himself up he became aware of ropes at his wrists and ankles. The side of his head made contact with solid wood. His mouth dried out. The terror of dying at the hands of the mechanical beast was nothing. It was a dream.
This was real. Too real.
Calm down. Don’t lose control. Think.
What was the last thing he could remember?
He’d eaten with Denise and Jerome. He’d led her to the bedroom and they’d made love. But something had been wrong with him, hadn’t it? A deep coldness like he was getting sick. He’d had to give up. Something in the food? Now he remembered Jerome liberally sprinkling what he thought had been salt and pepper over the cans of food. But by the scant light from the candles, how could he have known what Jerome was adding to his meal? He remembered the bitterness of his beans and the rush Jerome had been in – not even wanting to heat their food on the range.
So, Jerome had drugged him. Was Denise in on it? Something niggled about the way she’d behaved with him. As though she’d known full and well that this was the last time they’d be together. But hadn’t she always been that way? There was no point in thinking about it. He needed to get out of this box. This coffin.
For a while he listened to the sounds from outside. He could hear a horse’s hooves on tarmac and he could a feel a rolling sensation beneath him. He was being pulled in a carriage or cart. He was fully clothed for which he was very glad but it seemed odd. Why would they have dressed him when he’d have been easier to deal with naked? Some sense of propriety on Jerome’s part? Denise feeling sorry for him? Or was there some occasion which demanded him to be clothed?
He didn’t even know who had taken him prisoner. It was conceivable that he had slept through an attack on the farmhouse in the night and that the Ward had chloroformed him and taken him prisoner then. Or perhaps some faction within the Green Men wanted him out of the way. There was no working it out.
Between his chest and the side of his box, Gordon could feel an obstruction. He bent his chin down and felt the tickle of feathers. They had packed him up with his hat.
But why?
After a contortion that brought on cramps in muscles he didn’t know he possessed, he managed to locate the brim of the topper with his chin and grab it in his teeth. Turning his head from side to side, he felt there was some weight in the hat that hadn’t been there before. Not daring to hope, he flicked his head forward, launching the hat away towards the middle of his body. It reached no further than his stomach but he thought it might be enough. Wriggling as quietly as he could, he managed to turn his back to the hat and then squirm up towards the top of the box. His hands, tied behind his back, came into contact with the feathers adorning the topper.
It didn’t take long to locate the source of the extra weight in the hat, hidden behind the plumes of black feathers. A familiar shape slipped into his palm.
50
The rhythm of the horse’s hooves slowed from a trot to a walk. Gordon began to hear the muffled voices of many men. He moved into what he thought would be the best position and waited. The horse came to a halt. He felt the cart wobble as the driver dismounted. Footsteps approached from two directions.
“Did you get him?”
“Yes, sir. He’s right in here.”
Gordon started as the driver thumped on the box near his head.
“Has he tried to get away?”
“Not a peep out of him. They gave him enough to keep him asleep for a week.”
A week?
Gordon remembered his nightmare and how he had called on the land and all its spirits for strength. Perhaps he was already tapping into that current of natural power. His fists tightened in anticipation of bloodshed.
“OK, let’s get him out and take him to Skelton.”
The name drew a red cloud into the darkness.
Every fibre of muscle in his body twitched to the sound of the nuts being unscrewed. The lid was lifted and his world scorched white.
Gordon Black sprang from his box, black feathers smoothed by the passage of air, his knife blade winking in the sunshine.
Sunshine.
He hadn’t been blessed with its unclouded light for months. Its heat charged him further, soaking into his dark clothing even as he rose into the air. Ranged around him in readiness for battle were thousands of the Ward’s troops, each man dressed in close-fitting grey uniforms with helmets and visors. Astonished faces turned his way from every direction, none more disbelieving than that of the driver and the Wardsman addressing him. Before Gordon landed, he’d made up his mind. These numbers were too great for him, no matter what power he might have held. Flight was the only option.
He landed on the cart, leapt over the driver’s make
shift seat and slashed the leather straps and harnesses connecting it to the cart. The poles on either side fell away from the horse and it started forward, terrified. Gordon dived from the seat towards the startled animal, managing to cling to its neck as it bucked and whinnied. All around him, Ward troops who’d been eating rations, preparing their swords or polishing their boots and buckles were standing up. Some of them had raised crossbows in his direction. A few had rifles. Gordon got his legs on either side of the horse and heeled it hard.
“Go!” he hissed.
The horse bolted forwards as an arrow sang behind his neck.
“Hold your fire!” shouted the Wardsman the driver had been talking to. “Alive! He must be alive!”
Troops rushed in from all sides. The horse bucked again but this time it was half-hearted. What it really wanted was to be away from its passenger. It accelerated accordingly but Gordon clung on.
He whispered now to the creature.
“I won’t hurt you. Just go. Go as fast as you can.”
He found the reins and squeezed his thighs together to avoid slipping off. The horse reached a gallop. Troops scattered at its approach and Gordon looked for a route into the countryside. There wasn’t one. The Ward camp had been pitched across the entire intersection of the A5 and the M1. The fields to the south were occupied by uncountable thousands of grey uniforms. The fields to the north were blocked by hedges. Gordon galloped through the camp towards the motorway junction only to meet more Ward troops pouring out of the underpass. Every instinct told him to avoid the motorway; once he was on it, he would be as good as trapped until he found another junction. The reality was he had no choice. Wardsmen were closing in on three sides. He hauled the reins to the left and the horse overreacted, almost coming to a halt.
The Book of the Crowman Page 28