‘Why?’ he asked, ever so softly.
‘Because I am afraid,’ whispered his father, lowering the crown on Sam’s head.
Alone, in the now empty hall, silver crown on his black hair, the clocks ticking in perfect unison again, Sam screamed. The silver crown turned white; that whiteness burnt through him and surrounded him with an aura of white fire. His eyes turned white, his fingers curled into claws as desperately he scratched at the crown, trying to get it off his head.
His head was thrust back with a crack like a gunshot as the fire poured out of the crown, into him, and out of him into the world. It filled the room, the palace, it blinded everyone who looked on it, filled Heaven itself, slunk into the Portals and filled the Way of Earth with fire, burning away the mists. It spread out through the Portals into Earth, tore across the primeval landscape, found out more Portals, filled every nook and every crevice of every world until it was as thin as shadow, then thinner, then fading, then gone.
In the Room of Clocks, alone, his eyes white beneath their shut lids, the Bearer of Light crumpled like a doll.
THIRTEEN
Back-up
T
he sun had set by the time the train pulled into Kaluga station. Sam was ten minutes early. Under the cover of illusion he bought himself a foul instant coffee and perched, plastic cup in hand, on a bicycle rail outside the station’s main entrance. He was too tired to notice the passage of people through the car park, the burning of neon lights or the crackling announcements from the station. It was a wonder his illusion didn’t fail him then and there, his mind lost on paths too complicated for the body to follow. He’d finished the coffee, but unconsciously he raised the cup to his mouth again. Somewhere a clock struck seven. He waited.
Clouds were gathering overhead, and he felt a cold wetness as snow began to fall – mushy snow that melted on contact with the pavement. Holding out his hands he watched the little crystals settle on them, wither and turn to water, as promptly as if nature were on fast forward.
Quarter past. A kindly station porter, recognising a foreigner, asked if he was all right. He replied that he was; but the question had jarred something in him to a state of alertness.
Where is Whisperer?
By now he felt every second crawl by. In his imagination every car that sped past the station held three figures, but none of them turned towards him. Simultaneously he blamed himself for this latest disaster – and strove to figure a way out of it.
The wet snow was falling faster. His clothes were growing sodden. The neon lights were starting to look blurred not only by damp, but by his own fatigue. Sam shook his head, trying to clear it, and realised that his illusionary beard had been thinning without him noticing. He willed it back, willed his skin to stay dark and his eyes light, in the front of his mind forcing the image of what he should look like over his true appearance.
A fog was descending. A strange fog, for Kaluga was not accustomed to such a thing, not at this time of year, not with this weather. It rose from all around within a few seconds, became thick, and suffocated even the snow. It pushed away the smell of car fumes leaving a faint tracery of – dead leaves? Soon it was dense enough so that the street lamps were merely glowing patches of orange suspended in the sky. Sam lowered his illusion, relying on the fog to give him cover. Where are you, Whisperer? Why have you called on your power?
A drunk was complaining loudly about the weather, staggering up the steps to the station, bottle in hand, in quest of a little warmth and shelter. A passing couple told each other how sudden this change had been. A hobbling old woman assured her aged companion that ‘this is not natural weather’.
A car stopped hastily – but instead of Peter yelling his name a young couple rushed out, late for their train. Behind it, a truck blew its horn; with an ill grace the car’s driver moved on.
The squeal of brakes marked out a small white Ford, looking ready to fall apart and turning into the car park too fast. Hardly the anxious driving of Whisperer. It stopped nonetheless in front of Sam, and a window was wound down. A pale face, one Sam didn’t recognise, shouted at him, ‘Get in!’
‘Who are you?’
‘Peter sent me! They’re in trouble!’
Surprise me. Keeping his hands ready for a fight or trick, Sam edged towards the car. None of his warning wards went off, so he climbed into the passenger seat and sat back as the car accelerated away. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded again.
‘I’m called Maria.’
He recognised a jinniyah, smelt the sea and observed her dyed blonde hair. Underneath the dye, the colour was probably blue. She had a small worried face, intent on driving.
‘Where are Peter and Whisperer?’
‘Somewhere that’s safe. For the moment.’
‘And the mortal?’
‘Is nearer to Hell than you are.’
Sam’s tired face worked, before his mind translated the words. ‘Dying? Is he hurt?’
‘The Firedancer’s poison is stealing his life. He’s in a coma, may not wake. He and the others are together.’
‘Where, though?’
‘Near,’ she promised. ‘But so are the enemy.’
They’d turned off a main road and were weaving through empty side streets. A housing estate loomed in the fog, grey, concrete and forbidding. There was smashed glass, and cars that hadn’t moved for years. But in one or two windows Sam saw that at least someone had felt enough pride in where they lived to fill an ugly plastic vase with flowers. When it was all you knew, home could seem a marvellous place.
Maria pulled up outside one of the tallest blocks. ‘They’re in there. Third floor. Don’t bother with the lift – it’s broken.’
‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘I’m not involved with this. I’m not crazy.’
Some sixth sense twanged at this. Oh, but you are. Deeply involved.
She too was bristling with suspicion as Sam moved to get out. Her eyes followed every movement, or tried to. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting my things.’
Did she sense the lie behind his words? If so, he trusted there was nothing she could do in response…
At the entrance to the flats he found the door was inexplicably open, where someone had used an old telephone directory wedged between it and the frame. Behind him the car screeched as it pulled away, even faster than before.
He crept into the hall, hearing the drip of leaky pipes and the crank of a lift stuck between floors. He smelt urine and saw graffiti, and wondered again at Whisperer’s choice of hideout. Under the single electric light in the hall he unsheathed his sword, then pulled the dagger free from his sleeve and used the string from his sword to tie it with loose, easy knots round his ankle. His nerves were screaming danger, but from what or where he couldn’t say.
Sword ready in his hands, Sam padded up the concrete stairs, counting the steps for no reason, extending his senses simultaneously ahead and behind, and keeping his shoulder pressed into the wall. It was cold enough inside the building for his breath to condense.
He turned the corner from the stairs on to the third floor, and what happened next was as unsurprising to him as it was sudden.
They’d been hiding just round the corner. His senses had overlooked them, for they were human and he’d not been expecting a mundane threat. They leapt at him all at once, and he quickly discovered how hard it was to use a sword when three large men were pressing down on you. Hands grabbed his sword arm, and wrenched. An arm went across his throat, almost snapping his neck. Something hard jabbed the small of his back. He closed his eyes to gather magic and throw them off, and heard the click of a gun. And someone yelling, ‘It’s silver, Lucifer! Don’t make me use it!’
Sam opened his eyes again, and felt the oily muzzle brush against his neck, knew that the bullet was silver, knew he would die. He gave up all resistance – which seemed to confound his attackers even more, so that it was several blows later before his dazed ears heard the wor
ds, ‘For Time’s sake, bring him in!’
It was the defeat Sam had been unconsciously preparing for all day. The final reckoning he’d known might happen. You can only trust yourself, he thought, but if you do that, then there’s no one else to tell you what you’re doing wrong.
He was aware that someone had taken his sword, and that others were dragging him into a small flat, sparsely furnished, where yellow lights shone beneath large lampshades and an old lady served tea. A witch, he noticed with only mild interest. There were more about than most people suspected. Old witches, especially, had the best form of magic. They understood that most of it was just sending your mind out while sitting around all afternoon with your friends.
Someone was searching him, but they weren’t being very thorough. They’d clearly been told where to look, for they focused mainly on his arms and wrists.
Another hand felt round his throat. ‘It’s not there.’
Unprofessional indeed, thought Sam.
He was deposited, with little grace, on the centre of the carpet. Masking tape was the best they could find for his hands and feet; meanwhile he heard the old lady ask in a concerned voice, ‘What about his eyes? Won’t he do magic?’
Again, the touch of a muzzle against his neck. ‘Not with that there he won’t. You’re too sensible, aren’t you, Lucifer?’
Some part of his mind that had run for cover when the fighting started now crept forward and apprised him of several interesting facts. Firstly, Whisperer and Peter, also bound hand and foot, and blindfolded and silent, were slumped against a far wall, beneath a window. Next to them stood another spirit, who to Sam’s magical eyes glowed with the same light as Whisperer possessed. Another fog-summoner, then. Secondly, sprawled in an undignified heap across a sofa was Andrew, unconscious, pale and soaked in sweat, his breathing shallow. Thirdly, and to Sam the most important factor, a pair of black, well-kept boots were a few inches from his nose and the voice which had spoken sounded… familiar.
‘Michael? What are you doing here?’ he asked weakly, face still pressed into the carpet.
‘Seeing you don’t get hurt, old thing.’
‘Very kind of you, I’m sure. I assume Jehovah sent you? What’s he doing messed up in all this?’
The boots disappeared, a pair of knees came into view, then a hand. Squatting down, Michael rolled Sam over far enough so that they could look into each other’s eyes.
He was just as Sam remembered. The efficient one with all the answers.
‘I would like to put a theory to you, Lucifer.’
‘Fire ahead.’ He grimaced at his own words, aware again of the gun. ‘Maybe that was a misjudged phrase. But please, do tell.’
‘I suggest you’re caught up in matters which don’t concern you.’
‘Ah. Since nothing is meant to concern me save my own banishment, I find it hard to narrow down the range of what these “matters” might be.’
‘Lucifer, I’ve been sent.’
‘Really? How nice for you.’
‘I’m returning a favour. Jehovah understands that I’m bound to do that. You once let me live. Now I’m doing the same for you.’
‘Why don’t you try getting rid of the life-threatening device, then? I might be better inclined to believe you.’
Michael ignored him and went on pointing the gun.
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘To warn you. With this mortal as her accomplice, Freya was trying to find the keys to unlock the Pandora spirits. She knew that, if she was discovered, you could be relied on to complete her work. To find the keys and give them to her accomplice, who could conclude her plans. You’ve been a pawn in her game, Lucifer. A necessary part of the puzzle, nothing more.’
Sam was silent. Did Michael, loyal idiot, really believe his own story? Finally he shook his head. ‘No. No! I don’t know who told you to think all this’ – he stared at Michael, searching the other’s face, but met only a look of righteous obstinacy – ‘but Freya was the Daughter of Love. She would never release the spirits.’
‘Take it or leave it, Lucifer. This is a debt repaid. There won’t be any more warnings.’
On the floor Sam snorted his disdain. Michael rose again, gesturing at someone unseen. A couple of humans moved towards Andrew, took him by the arms and legs and hauled him up. Peter and Whisperer were also forced to their feet. ‘What will you do now?’ called Sam. ‘Leave me here?’
‘No.’
He raised his eyes, straining his neck to see what Michael was doing. While a human held the gun with the silver bullet, Michael’s weapon was loaded with an ordinary, human bullet. He aimed it calmly down at Sam’s back. ‘Sorry about this. But we can’t have you following us.’
To his credit, Sam thought about Peter and Whisperer more than the gun. Guns he could cope with. Guns were physical weapons, and he cared little what further injury was done to his body after thousands of years on the run. ‘What about Peter and Whisperer? What will you do with them?’
‘If you come after us, they will die.’
Sam squeezed his eyes shut an instant before the noise of the gun, and his head pitched forward on to the carpet.
FOURTEEN
A Debt Repaid
H
e’d remembered Michael as an honourable soul. They’d been good friends, but Michael had always put duty before all things. If he’d been ordered by Jehovah to kill his own mother, he would have done it.
But it was also true that in some sense he owed Sam his life, a debt that had been repaid in Kaluga after almost five hundred years of neglect.
In the year of Our Lord 1582 Sam Linnfer had been pressing his weary way through an endless, dense forest complete with wolves and bandits. Stopping in his tracks, he found himself staring at the avenging angel ahead.
Sam was wearing a black woollen cloak, and old boots that were in constant battle with his feet as to how fast blisters could be caused, and leading a horse that if anything looked worse than he did. He was fouled and covered with dirt, and his face and exposed hands were flushed bright red. And no matter how good his regenerative abilities, they hadn’t worked fast enough to banish the extensive bruising down one side of his haggard features. His clothes too were torn, as though slashed by the claws of a bear, and when he took his hands from the horse’s bridle, they trembled.
‘They tried to burn me,’ he called. It was neither an accusation, nor a plea for help. It was a statement, warning the other away from him. The implication behind it was clear. If they couldn’t burn me, don’t think you can.
‘I’ve been sent,’ Michael said. He was wearing his archangel’s white.
‘I can tell.’ He was still shaken, and Michael could see it. Even Sam struggled when fanatic mortals tried to burn him at the stake. ‘Are the others nearby? They’d have to be, if you intend to wear that daft white robe everywhere.’
Michael had begun walking closer, his sword already drawn, the edge gleaming with fire. ‘I was sent to find a witch. You’ll do.’
Sam watched him approach, his hands not once moving towards his sword. ‘They tried to burn me,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t you find that ironic? They say I live in boiling pits of fire, and yet they think they can burn me.’
Michael took up the guard position a few feet from Sam, sword ready.
Sam didn’t move. ‘Why do you have to fight me? I know Jehovah can’t bear my name, because I was right and he was wrong, and his grand Messiah plan failed. But why do you, you, have to fight me?’
‘I’ve been sent.’
Sam sighed, and gently slapped his horse on the rump. Obediently it trotted away. He turned his full attention to Michael. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘you put the sword down and stop being an idiot, and I won’t tell your master. How does that sound?’
Michael was lost in his own world – or one of Jehovah’s making? ‘You. A Son of Time, a Prince of Heaven, a Waywalker. I worshipped Waywalkers, thought they were almost… godly. And I trusted you,
called you my friend. Do you know how I argued with Jehovah when he demanded your death? How I begged him to reconsider – even though he is my master, and not you. He no longer trusts me, you know, because I argued for you. I was cast out of his favour, all because you were my friend. He’s the Son of Time, the Prince of Heaven. You’re just the exile that I thought I knew. I would have given anything to be a Waywalker. And yet you… you…’
Waywalkers: Number 1 in Series Page 17