by Leo Hunt
“Come on!” he says cheerfully to me and the others. “No time to waste.”
I’ve always liked these guys. They’re the ghosts I’ve gotten along best with. I don’t have any easy way to communicate this to Holiday and the guys; I didn’t mention Jack and the others when I told them my story, since they’ve been a fairly minor part of it. They clearly have no idea what’s going on. I don’t know what to do here, whether the town ghosts can hurt us or what. Ryan’s grip on me is surprisingly strong. He’s steering me past the others, toward the bonfire.
“What’s happening?” Holiday asks me. “Who are these people?”
“Don’t follow us,” I say. “Stay here.”
“Join the party,” Ryan says cheerfully to her, but he keeps pulling me onward and doesn’t pay much attention to what they’re doing. The others hide behind the car again. Me and Elza are being shepherded into the dance. We’re among the dancers now, firelight warming my face, Ryan’s cold hand still clamped around my forearm.
“SEVEN TREES OF —”
“. . . just amazing,” he’s saying, “like, everyone coming together, you know? And we can talk to our other mates again, not just you, not that I don’t like you —”
“— LIVING STONE!”
The dancers howl like wolves. I shudder. I’ve lost sight of Elza and the others. Ryan pulls me onward, his eyes gleaming with emerald light.
“THE EIGHTH —”
“. . . but everyone, man, we’re all together, alive and dead, doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Please!” I hear Jack screaming. “Apostles!”
“— IS CAST —”
“What’s happening tonight?” I ask him, hoping we’ll at least start to get some answers. The people around us jostle us, sweaty bodies, faces twisted into horrible masks. Some I recognize, most I don’t. I can see now that at least some of the dancers must be the town ghosts: there’s a mixture of modern clothing and outfits that definitely aren’t from this century.
“— OF ICE AND BONE!”
“I need to speak to the Apostles!” Jack screams again, somewhere in the din.
“It’s the Tree,” Ryan says. “The Tree brought us together. How do you not know that, man? Have you not been listening to a word they’ve been telling us?”
“The tree?”
“The Barrenwhite Tree, man.”
The Barrenwhite Tree. I don’t remember ever hearing about that before. I’ve seen something in Deadside that the Shepherd said was a tree: a strange being made from shadowy ravens, the awful shrine in the middle of a great field of heads on spikes. If this tree is anything like that one, we’re in a lot of trouble.
I can’t see any trees here, though, despite everyone screaming about them. Nor can I see anything that might be thought of as a shrine. All I can see are dancers, flames, the mist above us flickering a vivid blue for a moment, and the ghosts’ eyes flickering blue with it. I see Elza’s distinctive cloud of hair backlit by the bonfire for a moment, just ahead of us. Where are Jack and Ryan taking us? We’re heading for the flames in the middle of the square. For a moment I think we’re going to keep walking, straight into the fire, and who knows what would happen then, but then I hear an answering cry to Jack’s call for the Apostles, and the dancers stop moving and part before us, leaving a corridor all the way to the bonfire in the middle of the square. I see a pair of figures standing before the flames, and I can’t take my eyes away.
At first I think they have bird heads, are some new kind of spirit, but as we get closer, I see that the figures are people wearing masks, strange metallic bird headdresses that shimmer in the light. The shorter figure’s head is white and gold, elaborately carved with sigils and magic marks. The taller figure wears a black-and-golden mask, with large eyes and a flatter, wider head. An owl. Both of them wear floor-length robes, like a monk’s, woven from heavy dark cloth. These are the riders we saw earlier in the night, crossing the playground on Dumachus’s and Titus’s backs.
These must be the Apostles.
The shorter figure’s bird mask is swanlike but somehow predatory as well, with a sharp golden beak. Firelight glistens over it. I’ve gone from being too cold to being roasted. Elza’s hands are balled into fists, but she doesn’t move. Neither of us seems able to. The flames surge and roar, but the masked Apostles never move a muscle. The dancers stand where they paused, mumbling to themselves.
After a long moment a voice comes from behind the swan mask, something cold and utterly inhuman.
“Yes?” the thing beneath the mask says.
“We just all wanted to talk to you again,” Ryan says cheerfully. “Our mates here hadn’t spoken to you. We just wanted —”
“We have treated before,” the Apostle says. “The twice-born and the Speaker’s pawn.”
“Who are you?” I ask the figure.
“Your throats were cut, or so I was told.”
“They told you wrong,” I say.
“SEVEN TREES OF LIVING STONE!” screams the crowd, stamping the cold ground.
“So it seems. What do you say of this?” the swan-masked figure asks the second Apostle. I see that this larger being, who hasn’t spoken yet, has deformed hands, awful, long fingers with wattled, scaly flesh, ending in hooked claws.
“My master —” the owl-masked figure begins, speaking with a low, hoarse voice.
“Did not we see their bodies upon the ground? What is the meaning of this?”
What on earth is this thing talking about? Our throats were cut? It saw our bodies on the ground? Does it mean me and Elza? When is this supposed to have happened?
“I still have pity!” the owl-masked figure screams, making me jump. “Forgive me! Please!”
“THE EIGHTH IS CAST OF ICE AND BONE!”
“I have been good to you,” the swan-masked Apostle says, without any warmth. “Still, I see you are unfit for this task.” She turns to Ryan and Jack. “Throw these intruders upon the fire.”
“She’s so great,” Ryan says admiringly. “Don’t you think she’s amazing?”
“Ryan,” I say, “don’t —”
“Don’t worry, mate,” he says. “This is all happening for a reason.”
The ghost takes a firmer grip on me and starts muscling me toward the Apostles, toward the bonfire. Elza shrieks and claws at Jack beside me. The heat on my face is insane, heat that feels like it’s already stripping the top layer of my skin off. The swan-masked Apostle meanwhile takes hold of the owl-masked figure by the throat, lifting him into the air. Despite his larger size and monstrous claws, the owl-headed Apostle makes no move to resist. She crushes the life out of him with one hand and tosses him into the flames like a length of wood.
“SEVEN TREES —”
I take this as my cue to attack Ryan, trying to knock him off balance.
“— OF LIVING STONE —”
Elza’s boots scrape along the cement. She bites Jack’s hand, to no effect.
“— THE EIGHTH —”
I can see the skeleton of a sofa in the bonfire, springs coiling in crazy fractal whirls in the flames.
“— IS —”
“Luke!” Elza shrieks.
“— CAST —”
“It’s all right,” Ryan says, trying to regain his footing.
“— OF ICE —”
I slam the back of my skull into his face, my teeth clicking together from the impact. I can see flurries of bright sickly stars.
“— AND BONE!”
Ryan falls flat out on the ground, holding his nose. I think I can deal with Jack, but if the dancers around us take an interest in what’s happening, I don’t know how we’ll get out of this. Elza shrieks again, being pushed closer to the fire. The swan-masked Apostle turns to face me. Do I try and get around the Apostle and hit Jack? I don’t know what this thing is capable of.
As I pause, someone surges out of the crowd around us and bowls the masked figure over. Without a word, the Apostle tumbles into the bonfire. Mark steps back,
wiping his face.
“Dude —”
“SEVEN TREES —”
I don’t hesitate, grabbing Jack around the neck from behind, pulling him and Elza back from the fire. Elza rams her elbow into his side.
“— OF —”
“Listen, Luke, there’s no need for this,” the ghost says. He still sounds cheerful.
Elza rips herself free. The dancers are all around us, screaming their lunatic chant. I have my forearm locked around Jack’s cold neck, forcing him onto his knees. Having a body again has its downside, too, and I guess they’ve forgotten how to fight.
“Let’s go!” Elza screams.
“— LIVING —”
I shove Jack forward and he falls.
“We —”
“— STONE!”
I’m shoving backward, grabbing at Elza’s hand, dancers slamming into my back.
The swan-masked Apostle gets back up.
She’s standing in the flames, completely unharmed. The fire swirls around the dark robe and golden mask, but never catches, and the Apostle stands in the bonfire as though it were a shower of warm rain.
“THE EIGHTH IS CAST OF ICE AND BONE!”
We turn and push back into the ranks of worshippers, faces familiar and alien to me leering and howling around us, sweaty bodies pushing against us, like running against an incoming tide. My heart is pounding, and I keep expecting someone to grab hold of us, but none do. The sky flares emerald. I glance back and see the bird-masked figure still standing by the bonfire. The Apostle raises one arm and howls, a sound totally inhuman, and the men and women around us return the scream. I want to cover my ears, but I feel like even if I did, I’d still hear that sound in my bones.
We’re out of the crowd now, heading for the street corner where this whole thing started.
As one, the dancers turn and sprint toward us.
“Go!” I scream. “Go! Go!”
The living and dead of Dunbarrow surge across the snowy square toward us. Mark is racing across the road, Holiday and Kirk, too, fleeing back down the road we came up. Snow swirls around us, fog billowing in nightmare curtains.
“— OF LIVING STONE —” the people scream behind us. I look back to see them sprinting after us down the road, hands clutching at nothing.
“Left!” Elza screams.
Mark and Kirk follow her down a side street. Holiday is flagging, and I’m at the rear, glancing behind us to see the shapes in the fog running at full tilt, a wall of people.
I’ve lost sight of the others ahead.
“Elza!” I shout. “Elza!”
“THE EIGHTH IS CAST OF ICE AND BONE!”
We’re running toward the road that Elza and the others went down. I hear hoofbeats thundering; to my horror, Dumachus and Titus emerge from the fog right in front of us, traveling at full gallop. Holiday shrieks. The Knights of the Tree dive right at her. I knock her down into the snow. Dumachus’s jaws snap shut in the space where she was just standing. Titus overshoots, galloping past us, seemingly unable to stop, crashing into the front rank of worshippers and bowling them over. Their awful song continues regardless. I drag Holiday up onto her feet. Dumachus snarls and lunges again, breaking the glass of a car’s back window with the weight of his armored body. I pull Holiday to the right, into a narrow passageway. I’m desperately hoping it will be too small for the Knights at least, but a bulky form pushes into the opening, armor plates scraping against the brickwork.
“I have them trapped!” Dumachus calls. “Lead the thralls in pursuit of the others!”
Holiday is hyperventilating. I have to remind myself this is the first she’s seen of a being like this, and admittedly it’s not something you see every day — an armored warhorse with the head of a vile, famished old man. The Knight moves unhurriedly toward us, his broad shoulders just barely fitting through the gap between the two buildings. There’s snow underfoot, wadded trash, scraps of plastic bags and old newspapers.
I hear the worshippers shouting, but more distant, as if they’re moving away from us.
“You cannot flee me forever, sorcerer,” Dumachus says softly.
He’s right. This is a dead end. We’re in a little alley between the shops, an area for trash cans and fire escapes and not much else.
Wait a second. Fire escape.
“Holiday,” I say, hoping the thing doesn’t understand English, “there are stairs behind us. Fire escape. Go up them.”
As Holiday moves, I grab a plastic bag of trash from on top of one of the cans and throw it at the monster’s face. Reflexively, Dumachus bites at the projectile, his long sharp teeth tearing right into the plastic, releasing a shower of rotten food into his mouth and over his face.
“Aaaairghg!” he screams, trying to get the plastic bag loose from his teeth.
He lunges at me regardless but not fast enough, and the bag blocks his vision. I’m following Holiday, rushing up the fire escape, the black metal handrails biting into my hands even through the gloves. Dumachus’s iron-clad body hits the bottom of the staircase with a terrible crunch, and the entire contraption shakes, throwing me against the brick wall. My teeth click together, and another surge of hot pain starts up in my back gums, where the strange stony tooth is lodged. It doesn’t matter. I scramble to my feet, tasting hot blood in my mouth. Holiday is just above me.
“The door’s locked!” she shouts.
Dumachus can’t climb up after us — the staircase is too small, another disadvantage of having a horse’s body, and I’m glad none of the human worshippers came down here after us — but if we aren’t able to get into the building the fire escape is attached to, it might not matter. The Knight slams into the metal staircase again and again, and the fire escape’s tough, but it was never built to withstand this. The metal is buckling under the weight of his body and armor, and soon it’ll collapse altogether. We have to move. I’m beside Holiday now, banging against the fire door on the top floor of this building — a shop, a bank, whatever it is — but the door won’t move, and I’m not strong enough to force it. We’re stuck up here.
“What do we do?” Holiday asks. “It’ll get us!”
“No,” I say, throwing myself against the door again, but it might’ve been painted onto the brick wall for all the good I’m doing.
“I swore to taste your blood, did I not?” Dumachus shrieks from below. “I swore it, and our lady has promised it to me alone.”
“Luke!” Holiday says. “What about the roof?”
“What about it?” I rasp. The roof of the building is flat, true, but it’s high above us, almost certainly out of reach.
“Give me a boost up,” Holiday says, “then I’ll lift you.”
“Can you lift me? I’m way heavier than you.”
“Rope!” Holiday snaps. “I’ll tie myself to something!”
“Like what?”
“Anything! We have to try, Luke!”
She’s not wrong. We’re not getting anywhere with this door. The fire escape shakes again as Dumachus renews his attack, smashing his weight against the supporting columns. There’s a lurch as the entire landing we’re standing on threatens to come away from the wall. I hunker down and knit my hands together into a boosting platform for Holiday. She stands on my palms with one cold and gritty boot and lunges upward, grabbing hold of the lip of the roof. I strain my muscles and lift her as best I can, feeling the pressure ease as she pulls herself up. With gasps and lots of scrabbling, she manages to fully haul herself up there. The Knight screams unintelligibly down below, and I hear a grinding metallic rasp that I don’t like one bit. This whole thing’s ready to collapse.
Holiday unwinds the length of blue synthetic rope we took from Elza’s garage.
“Is there something you can tie it to?”
“There’s a chimney over here!”
“Do it!”
Another impact shakes the staircase. I can’t see Holiday, have no idea what she’s doing up there. Dumachus bellows.
Wi
th an awful grinding noise, the staircase starts to come away from the wall.
“Holiday!” I yell. “Please!”
“I can’t get the knot!” she cries.
“I’m going to fall!”
I’m holding as tight as I can to the door’s handle, the best grip I have, but there’s no way I can keep ahold of it if the whole fire escape collapses.
Dumachus throws himself into the staircase again, howling in a frenzy.
“Holiday!”
She reappears at the lip of the roof, rope tied around her torso. She bends down, reaching toward me. I hope whatever she lashed herself to will hold. There’s no way she can lift me on her own.
There’s a jolt as the fire escape detaches from the building. It has to be now. I jump as high as I can, reaching for her. For a moment, I think I won’t make it, but Holiday grabs my right forearm with both hands. I nearly slip, but am able to hold my position. The fire escape collapses with a grinding crash, leaving me with ten feet of empty air beneath me. My boots scrabble for purchase on the rough brick wall of the building.
“Lift me!”
“I’m trying, Luke!” she yells. My weight is pulling her down, but she locks her feet as wide as she can, the rope taut behind her, and she doesn’t let go.
I flail with my other hand, grabbing the lip of the roof. It’s cold and slick with ice, but my grip holds. Holiday is leaning back, panting, the rope biting into her body, her feet braced against the edge of the roof, using her entire body weight to counterbalance mine. I pull and pull with my other arm, feet kicking wildly against the side of the building. There’s a moment when I think my weight can’t be held, that I’m going to fall into the void, tumble down, and feel the Knight’s fangs slicing into me, but Holiday won’t let go; her fingers feel like they’re going to tear right through my sleeve and into the flesh below the fabric, and I pull and pull and finally manage to wedge my foot into a gap where a brick ought to go. The rope is holding. We can do this. I tense my muscles and pull as hard as I can, forcing my body to move.
I heave myself up onto the roof and collapse. Holiday sits beside me, rope lashed around her, breathing hard. She slips the hood of her parka off her head, revealing her long golden hair. Dumachus bellows with rage below us. There’s no way for him to get up here. For now, at least, we’re safe.