It’s now. It’s now.
Billy felt the full force of all the world push down on her. She closed her eyes and opened herself to the Light, let everything go and dropped away into the Frost. With a gushing roar the Light grew tenfold, pouring from her in a torrent. The jet of darkness trembled and fell back.
That voice again, high and outraged: “Stand aside.”
“No.”
“I have worked too long. I will not be stopped. Give me what I am owed. Give me this world!”
“NO!” Billy screamed, an unending cry that wound down into infinity, pushing the darkness back in a rush of light to strike the marble-faced thing.
With a snarling wail, the figure snapped back into the inky void, uttering the guttural rumble of a beast robbed of prey. For the briefest sliver of time, Billy hung suspended in space, as though floating upon her back in a brook, spent and defeated. Before her lay All Where: the magnificent scale of what lay beyond Enger Land and all the world. Standing above it all, eight titanic furry legs led to a black abdomen the size of the Earth, and a head inset with beady eyes in which whole galaxies swirled. From a pair of working pincers, a stentorian, benevolent voice: “Well done, Peyton child.”
Despite the horrific sight, she saw true: it was this thing that had worked through her, guided her.
You fought for us, she thought.
A tug pulled her back through the endless tunnel from whence she had come, just as urgent and reckless, but this time a peaceable whisper followed from the eight-eyed behemoth. “I did nothing. Now go. Slay one last demon.”
*
Norman ran for Jason. In the corner of his eye, Allie’s prone form twitched and groaned; and beyond, Billy held her hair bunched in her hands and wailed—her whole body aglow. From a seemingly infinite distance, he heard her voice: It’s now. It’s now.
I have to hold him until she’s done. This better work, Billy.
He could do nothing to stall his forwards momentum. Jason had bent down in a defensive stance, knife held at the ready.
There was no time to think or plan. Norman swung, trusting to instinct, but knew chance alone couldn’t deflect all Jason’s blows. Then they came together, and all was in motion. His arm thrummed as the sabre met the knife, then followed Jason’s every move, as though drawn by magnetic attraction. With every dexterous spin and pivot Jason made, Norman’s arm followed, blocking a barrage that came with such speed that Norman saw nothing but silver. He could only watch, shocked and spellbound, as his body moved of its own accord.
Ice-cold snakes slithered from his chest, into his arms, and down into his legs, guiding him. He didn’t dare fight it. There was only one thing to do: use it.
Jason’s face creased into a snarl of surprise. Norman drove forwards, baiting Jason with a wide attack that sent him diving to the side, bringing the sabre around in a sweeping undercut, following Jason’s retreat. Jason yelled as lightning flashed, bringing the knife between them just in time. The blades clanged with a resonance that threatened to break Norman’s arm.
Jason’s putrid stench filled his nose, the pungent carrion odour of a carnivore.
One more and I’ll have him. One more!
Something exploded on top of his head and he fell backwards into the running water, stunned. Pain radiated down through his skull, threatening to blow his teeth from out of their sockets. He scarcely felt the impact with the ground—what he did feel was his fingers releasing the sabre, which went spinning away out of sight. Blurred by the rain splashing into his eyes, Jason descended on him.
Straddling him with a satisfied sigh, Jason took his time, as though the darkness wasn’t now threading into the tower itself. He flipped the knife over in his hand, grinning with unveiled glee. “I want you to know something, Norman: I’ll skin the little one last.”
Norman struggled in vain, trapped like a bug upon a pin. He gargled as Jason wrapped a hand around his throat and lifted the knife with the other. In the corner of his eye, Allie struggled to her haunches, her shoulders shaking, groaning. So close, yet infinitely far away.
This is it, he thought as the knife came down. All I needed was one more chance.
Jason roared in outrage, and the pressure around Norman’s neck was gone. A tiny pair of hands reached around from the back of Jason’s head, digging into his eye sockets. He wheeled back, waving his arms over his back, howling.
Billy dangled from his back. There was nothing distant about her now. Methodically, avoiding Jason’s clawing hands, she withdrew her fingertips from his eyes and dug her nails deep into his face, drawing back across his skull, catching the suppurating wound as she went.
Her fingers sank deep. Pus spurted, infected tissue split like wet toilet paper, and a childish scream erupted from Jason’s throat. The knife clattered to the floor as Jason span in an aimless circle, his arms flapping.
Norman forced himself up to his knees. A haggard shadow stirred not far away, and Norman looked over to see Allie struggling to her feet. As he dragged himself up, he took Jason’s knife with him.
Jason was roaring over and over, and Billy hung on with the tenacity of a limpet, her hands embedded his face, having carved ten long gouges leading back across his entire head.
Norman braced himself to strike.
It’s me. It was always going to be me. That’s why I had the power—
He blinked as the knife was ripped from his grasp. Allie moved forwards and thrust the blade into Jason’s belly.
Jason grunted. His arms stopped milling. Bending slightly, his eyes grew wide and his mouth fell ajar.
Allie pulled Billy from his back, hurrying aside as though he were a rabid dog. Instead of running, she put Billy down, then bent so that she and Jason were at eye level. “That’s for all of them,” she said.
Jason wrapped his hands around the blade handle sticking from his abdomen and pulled it out. Gurgling, he dropped it to the floor and straightened with a low growl. He remained still for a beat, then swayed. He bared his teeth, ignoring the flowers of blood spreading over his clothes and dripping globs of red in the water at his feet.
“Bitch,” he muttered. His gaze wandered to Norman, then finally to Billy. “Bitch.”
He reached out to strangle her. Norman was already sweeping her into his arms when something changed: Jason counterbalanced backwards, then he fell slack at the shoulders and staggered back.
Norman dropped Billy, moving before he realised what he was doing, following Jason towards the precipice.
“Norman, no!” Allie screeched.
Norman reached out as Jason’s torso moved into empty space. Then his hand closed around Jason’s jacket, and they both came to a skidding stop upon the very edge. Jason dangled hundreds of feet above Canary Wharf, his heels barely touching the ledge. They wobbled together, Norman’s grip teetering.
Allie and Billy splashed over to stand at his side. Together, they stood before the choking monster.
“Let him fall,” Allie breathed.
Norman stared hard into Jason’s face; the last thing so many people had seen in this world. It should have been so easy, he shouldn’t even have had to think about it.
I wanted to see his eyes, Norman thought. I wanted him to know we beat him.
Billy’s high voice was utterly flat, without mercy. “They won’t stop fighting until the monster goes away.”
Jason gripped Norman’s hand. Through a feral snarl, he pulled a bloody grin. “You can’t kill me, Norman. You’re nothing. Nobody. You’re the good guy.”
Norman stared into those mad twinkling eyes. Then he opened his palm, and Jason fell into space. He went silently, spinning back and down. Another crack of lightning illuminated his toppling form as it plummeted to the courtyard below.
The three of them watched his tiny figure hit ground, scattering people fighting below. Allie gripped Norman’s hand, and he drew Billy close.
In the courtyard, those beside Jason’s body paused mid-action. Their struggle forgott
en, they looked from the fallen creature to the trio standing upon the ledge.
“You beat the monster,” Billy said.
Norman shook his head and looked at Allie. “I thought I was meant to. But I didn’t.”
Allie didn’t look away from the body down in the courtyard. “Nobody is meant to do anything,” she said.
A distant echo of something he once told her rose to his lips. “There’s no such thing as destiny.”
More heads turned up towards them, a wave of stillness spreading from Jason’s spread-eagled remains. First a few dozen, then hundreds. The wave passed through the remains of the wall and out into the city, until eventually every person in sight stared at the tower.
A gale kicked up from nowhere, and at once the darkness began fading, just as morning mist evaporates under the rising sun. The vortex that had consumed the tower widened, losing form and spinning off in myriad spiracles, away into the city, and was gone.
Somewhere, Norman heard a malevolent force scream with rage as the chill in his chest peaked, thrumming, then winked out, leaving him swaying on his feet. For a sickening moment he thought he would fall, but Allie’s arms were around him. Then it was only her face, her rosy rounded cheeks. He pressed her forehead to his.
Streaks of gold erupted through the clouds as sunbeams thrust brilliant fingers into the city. Suddenly everything seemed more real, more there as though balls of wool had been pulled from his mind. The last of the rain dribbled around them, and the clouds passed on, leaving behind wisps of baby blue.
XI
Norman passed through silent crowds, stepping around body after body. Alliance survivors stood beside the ranks of James’s army, every weapon on the floor. Allie walked beside him, Billy in her arms. Everybody they passed watched them go by. They left the crumbled wall and headed to the foot of a nearby skyscraper. Muttering floated through the crowd; Norman picked out the odd word: Alexander, Chadwick, Creek.
He hurried inside and upstairs, Allie close behind. He was so exhausted, utterly spent. But he couldn’t stop, moving as though in a dream. He knew what he would find, but that did nothing to deaden the blow. He entered a blasted office and found Lucian crouched over two forms upon the floor.
Alexander Cain and James Chadwick lay side by side amidst a carpet of shattered glass, gazes trained upon one another.
Allie released Norman’s hand. He crunched over glass. The edge of room was lined with people—army and Alliance—all staring, all muttering.
Lucian crouched between his fallen brothers. Norman knelt beside him.
“All this, because of these idiots,” Lucian mumbled, his brow furrowed to hide his watery eyes.
“It’s done,” Norman said.
Alexander’s robe was spotted a neat streak of red. Bar that, he was uninjured, a pasty-faced mannequin of the man who had wielded a nation. Beside him, James’s scarred face was peppered with glass; yet in his eyes was the ghost of peaceful twinkle.
Charlie stood close by. He and the other invaders held their heads low, their palms visible; waiting for judgment.
Lucian gave a simian grunt, the smallest nod. It was all they needed. Charlie swallowed heavily, and his chin fell to his chest.
“Last kings of men,” Lucian said, staring at the dried blood on his hands. “What do we do now?”
“Finish what they started,” Norman said.
“Norman. After all this, we’ve proven—”
“That we can only ever save anything together.”
There was no fear now, no doubt. Norman knew what he had to do.
“Norman,” Allie said. “Outside.”
The floor-length window had been blown out. A few storeys below, people once more stared up at him. Norman could feel the pressure of their combined gazes, joined by those around the edge of the room. He drew himself up, looking down into the courtyard. Thousands of faces watched and waited; from adolescent to octogenarian, every shade and shape; all covered in dust and mud, and the blood of those they loved. Nothing moved except spots of light cast down by the breaking storm clouds.
They all gathered at the foot of the building. Norman expected his throat to seal in the face of their expectation, but he felt only the sure knowledge of what came next: they would go on. He beckoned Allie and Billy to his side. They shared a look, their hair caught in the wind, framed by a halo of sunlight before the people of North and South.
There’s no such thing as destiny, but maybe some things are meant to be, he thought.
XII
Norman traced circles in the grass. “It’s today,” he said. “The negotiations are over.”
Before him the graves of Alexander Cain and James Chadwick lay side by side, slabs of granite from the tower’s lobby. Around them lay hundreds more, lined along the edge of Greenwich Park. Nearby lay the remains of Twingo, the mercantile township that had fallen to the army.
We’ll rebuild it just like we’ll rebuild the Wharf. We need all types in this world, he thought.
Amongst the tombstones others walked, their footfalls deadened by birdsong and the whispering wind. Norman took a moment to take in the sight, bracing for the day to come. It would be a long one.
He laid a hand on each of the stones and made his way back to the tower, charred and pockmarked, but still as majestic as ever in the early morning sun—perhaps more so.
Negotiations had lasted for days after the Battle of Canary Wharf. Standing before delegates from as far as their scouts could reach over land and sea, he had argued as he would never have dreamed. No more running, no more hiding. They would rebuild what they had lost, through their own labour. It would be a long road; it would mean sacrifice, it would mean work for all of them, but that was the way. The Old World had wonders and horrors to offer. It was up to them to take the best parts from those who had come this way before and would never come again.
But not all of them. Many left London after the battle. Bandaged up with water on their backs, they had returned to whatever homes awaited them; not to retreat or flee, but merely to rest. There had been enough bloodshed for a lifetime. There would never be any great society for them: the quiet isolation of the lone survivor would be their solace.
Presently, Norman made his way to a fledgling encampment beside the old wall, entering one of the infirmary tents. Volunteers from as far away as Leeds and even Radden tended to the wounded, cleaning bodies and changing bandages.
Charlie passed by, carrying a pot of soup, and their eyes met. Neither said a word, just nodded to one another. Charlie sat upon a wooden palette before a young woman, solemn as a monk, and set about ladling into a bowl.
Norman moved on and felt a pang in his gut as he realised was looking for Heather. He stopped before a bed at the far end of the tent. Richard lay breathing steadily under the sheet, his face swollen and purple-green with bruises. His right side was bound in plaster.
Norman watched him sleep as the camp went about its business, and the past few days revolved in his mind. So many burials, endless talks, speculations on what freakery had almost ended the world a second time. They had gained more ground than in the previous forty years combined. Through it all, Norman had wanted Richard by his side.
It was for this that the professor had schooled his disciple. It was with Richard’s kind that their future lay.
They had a long way to go. New Canterbury was cinders, thousands of innocents lay dead in the wilds, having taken countless memories and skills and titbits of knowledge with them. Leaders of a calibre that came about but once in a generation had been exterminated. All their faces swirled in his mind as he watched Richard’s eyes flicker under their bloated lids.
Alexander, James, Agatha, Evelyn, DeGray, Heather, Marek—even Robert, whom nobody had seen since the battle’s end. Norman didn’t expect to see him again, even if he had survived. If he had learned anything, it was that some things, once broken, could never be whole again.
Norman reached into his pocket, found the charred king piece
that had belonged to Professor DeGray, and set it upon the bedside stand. “You earned it,” he said.
He remained until Allie appeared by his side. They watched Richard sleep until she said, “It’s time for the ceremony.”
Norman nodded. “I wonder if they felt like we do now, before the lies started: are we as blind as they were?” He turned to her. “How do we know we’re doing the right thing, Allie?”
She drew close and laid her hands on his chest. “We never will. All we can do is what we can.”
He nodded. “And if I fail?”
She smiled, tracing his cheek with a fingertip before slapping it gently. “I’ll be there to put you on your arse.”
They left the tent and headed for the foot of the tower. A crowd had gathered at its base, filling the courtyard. The ground had been cleared of bodies, but otherwise remained untouched.
They would not hide what had happened, lest they forget, not until they saw who they stood to become.
Norman made his way to the front of the gathering, numbering some two thousand in total, and took note of a few faces. The surviving councillors of the Old Alliance: Robert Oppenheimer, David Rush, Emma Thompson; those who had once sat upon high as gods to their flocks were now lost among their peers as the everyman.
Southerners stood beside Northerners, survivors of the fiefdoms of the feudal lords and free peoples of the Old Alliance alike. A handful were Scots, emissaries from the reaches of the highlands.
All had been drawn by the voice of Latif Hadad. The radio Blanket had fractured in full, leaving a spectrum utterly clear. The white noise had lasted but a few days before voices had emerged from the static. Not all spoke as they did. Some spoke languages only a handful of survivors had heard. There was a world out there, and it remembered. Perhaps, across the world, millions awaited.
Latif and Lincoln were nowhere to be seen, and Norman smiled, knowing they were both locked away in the workshop, toiling over their next broadcast. There was much work to be done.
Fray (The Ruin Saga Book 3) Page 37