Jack of Ravens

by Mark Chadbourn

  ‘You’re going to be okay?’

  Will smiled. ‘I have my memories of the fair Lucia. They will keep me warm. And I like to think that what you told me in Myddle is correct: that she has found a better place, and, perhaps, that she watches over us still.’

  In the few short months they had been together, Church had developed a deep friendship with the spy. It gave him hope that Will would still be around holding the line against the Army of the Ten Billion Spiders on Earth once Church had departed.

  Will looked out across the blue sea, the sun illuminating his face like a spotlight. ‘Shadows are approaching. This world changes faster by the moment, and the struggles that wait just beyond yon horizon shall be great. Yet I know this: in every man’s heart there burns a light, a light that will guide us e’en in the darkest of the night.’

  Chapter Six

  THE FOOL’S JOURNEY

  1

  The Court of the Soaring Spirit was strangely changed. Though the dwellings, inns, stores and public buildings still pressed hard against each other in a bewildering jumble, there was something less oppressive about the place than the last time Church had walked its streets. More sunlight made its way past the overhanging eaves to illuminate the winding alleys and the people were brighter and friendlier.

  But even the life and colour of the public square did little to raise his spirits. The Tuatha Dé Danann and the many strange races of the Far Lands loved their entertainment and nowhere was it more evident than in the Great Square. Across the cobbles and amongst the soaring fountains of water and fire, scores of different songs from a thousand different instruments fought to be heard. There were tumblers and jugglers, performers whose masks hid even greater grotesquery, beautiful olive-skinned dancers, actors and poets. In the centre, Church spied the eerie puppeteer from the Venice carnival with his stringless yet animated puppets. He was disturbed to see the puppeteer was now enacting Church and Will’s confrontation with Don Alanzo in the Palazzo Ducale. The troublingly realistic Church puppet even turned and winked as the real Church passed.

  ‘How can they enjoy themselves as if nothing has changed?’ Church said. ‘There’s a fortress being built on their border, an army amassing – an enemy that now has the power to summon and control them …’

  Tom sucked on a briar pipe filled with a strange kind of tobacco he had found in one of the back-alley shops. ‘They are content in their mastery of all they see.’

  ‘By the time they get their rude awakening it may be too late.’

  ‘Who knows, perhaps the Lady Niamh will engender some change in their addled golden heads. You seem to have wrought a remarkable transformation in her.’I’ve done nothing.’

  Tom let Church’s response hang in the air for a moment. ‘Even now she is in deep discussion with her brother Lugh. He is a warrior and master of his own great court. Should Niamh persuade him of the seriousness of the growing threats, and should his own experiences carry weight, you may find yourself with allies.’

  ‘Can you see what the Enemy is planning?’

  Tom shook his head.

  ‘You saw the Anubis Box clearly enough.’

  ‘I thought I had explained to you that my ability is not as simple as looking out of a window,’ Tom said wearily. ‘I see images without context. Some make sense, some do not.’

  ‘Can you see where the Anubis Box and the crystal skull are now? We can’t allow them to remain in the Enemy’s hands.’

  ‘Of course not, but sadly you will have to use some of your own inspiration to find them,’ Tom snapped.

  ‘We don’t even know who we’re supposed to be fighting. The Army of the Ten Billion Spiders? Janus? Who’s the real enemy?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ Tom puffed out a cloud of fragrant blue smoke.

  ‘I’m sick of your riddles and word-games. You know more than you’re saying. You’re supposed to be True Thomas – why don’t you tell me the truth?’

  Tom laughed. ‘You know you’re going to say nearly those very same words to me again?’

  Church could barely contain his frustration while Tom inspected a stand selling hot cakes, pretending to be half-listening, but with a hint of concern that Church didn’t see. ‘Just pull yourself together. You’re whinging like a little girl,’ Tom muttered.

  Before Church could continue the conversation, Evgen marched up with a cohort of Niamh’s guards. ‘My mistress requests your presence in her quarters,’ he said.

  Behind Church the puppetmaster waved his arm and the puppet Church fell to the ground.

  2

  Niamh sat on a balcony encircling the highest tower in her palace. She looked even more beautiful in the morning sun, her smile enigmatic and alluring. Lugh stood next to her, by comparison drawn and weary; the scars of his ordeal lay as heavily on his face as they did on his mind. Nearby the Mocker sang a lilting song softly to himself.

  ‘Jack. Thank you for coming,’ Niamh said sweetly. ‘I would like to extend my thanks for the part you played in returning my brother to me.’

  Lugh bowed slightly; the move was awkward and clearly out of character. ‘I too would like to express my gratitude. I have never been close to Fragile Creatures, but my sister has recently spoken to me of the value of your kind, and in you her words are made flesh.’

  Church nodded. ‘You had a close call.’

  ‘We are already taking steps to ensure no other Golden One should fall under the spell of the Enemy in such a manner,’ Niamh said.

  ‘But there are other gods beside the Golden Ones,’ Church pointed out. ‘That one at Roanoke Island was Apollo.’ He looked at Lugh. ‘Another sun god. I think they chose you two first to strike a blow against the light … against hope.’

  ‘We are aware of others like us, who reside close to the Far Lands, but we have never sought dealings with them,’ Lugh said.

  ‘Because it would mean facing up to the reality of your “unique” status. You’re not so special, just another species vying for survival,’ Church said.

  ‘The Golden Ones are singular in their blindness, like children who think themselves the centre of Existence,’ the Mocker said with a grin. Niamh glared at him. ‘You wished a jester to speak the truths that no one else would dare,’ he added.

  ‘I think I have given you too much freedom,’ Niamh said.

  ‘There is much to consider,’ Lugh interjected. ‘My capture was not meant to be. I saw ahead, as does your friend True Thomas, and nothing suggested the events of recent times. The Enemy is changing the course of things. What lies ahead is now fluid. We can no longer rely on the comfort of what could or should have happened.’

  ‘Can you rally your people to your side?’ Church asked. ‘The Enemy must be confronted before they gain too much of an upper hand.’

  ‘We have already opened negotiations with the other great courts, but it will not be an easy task,’ Niamh said. ‘Some remain blind to the perils before us.’

  ‘As of now, my court and my sister’s will stand with you and the Quincunx,’ Lugh said.

  Though it was delivered in an understated way, Church sensed the importance of this statement for Lugh. Church thanked him graciously.

  ‘One other thing,’ Niamh said with a note of sadness. ‘I promised I would free you from your obligation if you helped bring my brother back to me. I am true to my word. No more will you be at my behest.’

  Church’s relief was tempered when he glanced at Jerzy squatting further along the balcony, humming to himself. The air of misery that always surrounded the Mocker was palpable.

  ‘I have a request,’ he said. ‘Free Jerzy instead of me. He has a more pressing need. There are people here he may want to return to.’

  Niamh gave Church a puzzled but warm look and turned to the Mocker. ‘So be it. You have been a trustworthy if increasingly irritating servant under the guidance of Jack Churchill, Mocker. I hereby free you of your obligation.’

  Jerzy’s eyes darted between Church and Niam
h, at first unable to comprehend what he was hearing. The fixed grin lent a surreal aspect to the intensity of emotions playing out in his eyes.

  ‘Good friend, is this true?’ he asked with a quavering voice. ‘You would sacrifice your own wellbeing for me?’

  ‘You deserve it, Jerzy. There’ll be other chances for me.’

  Tears welled up in Jerzy’s eyes, and for a moment Church thought the Mocker was going to be sick. Then he bounded past Church into the palace, a thin, desperate wailing trailing behind him.

  3

  Church searched their quarters, the music room and the extensive, steaming kitchens where Jerzy used to pass his time amongst the thronging cooks and their assistants. Afterwards, Church tried the Hunter’s Moon inn and the maze of alleys that had become a regular hideaway for both of them. Jerzy was nowhere to be found.

  As Church made his way back to the palace, Tom ran up. ‘You’d better come quickly,’ he said breathlessly. ‘The bloody idiot has finally lost what little sense he had.’

  At the palace, a crowd of bemused Tuatha Dé Danann stood in the central courtyard, looking up the vertiginous walls of the keep. Church could just make out Jerzy standing precariously on one of the gargoyles that vented water from the guttering.

  Church sped up flights of stairs until he came to the window through which the Mocker had accessed the tiny ledge that led to the gargoyle. Church could see him balanced on its head, arms outstretched, eyes closed.

  As Church threw one leg out of the window, Tom grabbed him. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I have to get him back in—’

  ‘You’re as much of a bloody idiot as he is.’ Tom averted his gaze from the dizzying drop.

  ‘I thought it was enclosed spaces that scared you.’

  ‘Enclosed spaces … heights … anywhere there’s the slightest chance I might lose my life ahead of schedule. You’re telling me it doesn’t bother you?’

  Church glanced at the golden specks moving around the courtyard far below and felt sick. ‘I can’t let him do anything stupid.’

  He climbed out. Instantly the wind threatened to drag him off the ledge, which was only as wide as his feet. He pressed his back against the stone and kept his eyes straight ahead. Each step was a battle. Vertigo made his perceptions shift so that he could easily have pitched forward, and he had to close his eyes continually to take a deep breath. Finally he was close enough to call.

  ‘Jerzy, what are you doing?’ He tried not to startle his friend, but Jerzy still wrong-footed himself in surprise. He went off the edge of the gargoyle and it was only his innate athleticism that allowed him to grab the carving with both arms and, feet kicking wildly, scramble back on top.

  ‘Go back,’ he sobbed. ‘Go back.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ The stone was hard against Church’s back, the wind increasing.

  ‘If you die here, I truly will be damned.’ Tears streamed down Jerzy’s face.

  ‘I’m not going back inside until you tell me what’s wrong.’

  Jerzy took a juddering breath. ‘What is wrong is that I have betrayed the greatest man to walk any of the Lands … the best friend a fool like me could ever ask for.’

  ‘You haven’t betrayed me.’

  ‘Oh, but I have, I have.’

  A sharp gust of wind dragged past Church and he clutched at the stone, his hands slick with sweat. ‘You’d better tell me quick, Jerzy, because I can’t hold on much longer.’

  Jerzy stifled a sob. ‘It was I who took the lamp that contained your essence. I delivered it to the Court of the Final Word.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had no choice! They control me in a way that even the mistress cannot control me.’

  Church steeled himself to stop his head spinning. ‘If they control you, you had no choice. I can’t blame you.’

  ‘You should, you should! I did it to buy my freedom!’ He prepared to jump.

  ‘Wait!’

  Jerzy balanced precariously on his tiptoes.

  ‘You’re a friend, Jerzy, and I don’t turn my back on my friends, whatever they’ve done. We’ll sort it out.’

  Jerzy hesitated. ‘Friends, still? Even after my grand betrayal?’

  ‘Friends, Jerzy.’

  Jerzy looked towards him, guilt conflicting with desperate hope. Tears streamed down his face.

  Back inside the keep, Jerzy flung himself at Church, burying his face in Church’s chest and sobbing uncontrollably. Church awkwardly gave him a brief but manly hug before prising him off.

  Tom rolled his eyes and muttered, ‘For God’s sake.’

  In the privacy of their quarters, with the doors securely locked, they huddled together as Jerzy retold how the Caraprix had been inserted into his head at the Court of the Final Word.

  ‘And it drove you to take the lamp containing my Pendragon Spirit just after we left Rome,’ Church said.

  ‘I was forced to deliver it to the old stones, where one of the Court of the Final Word crossed the barrier between worlds to collect it. You met me as I was returning from my terrible act.’ Jerzy unconsciously drove a knuckle into his mouth at the memory of what he had been compelled to do.

  ‘Why did they want the lamp?’ Church asked.

  ‘The Pendragon Spirit is the very essence of Existence,’ Tom said. ‘For one who can divine its secrets, anything is possible.’

  ‘We have to get it back,’ Church said.

  Tom and Jerzy recoiled as one. ‘No one ventures into the Court of the Final Word unbidden,’ Jerzy hissed.

  ‘Those who enter never come out unchanged,’ Tom added. ‘Many do not come out at all.’

  ‘There has to be a way. The Pendragon Spirit is a part of me. I’m not whole without it.’

  ‘I know.’ Tom’s gaze was unwavering.

  ‘We can’t leave the lamp in their hands. It might be the key to unlocking all sorts of doors.’

  ‘I know.’ Tom looked down at his boots.

  ‘You’re saying I’m on my own.’

  ‘You do not venture in there on a whim,’ Tom said. ‘Planning is essential. You must bide your time until a path presents itself.’

  ‘All right, we gather information. But we can’t wait long.’

  Tom nodded. I will begin discreet enquiries.’

  ‘The first thing we have to do is remove that thing from Jerzy’s head,’ Church said. ‘But we have to be careful it doesn’t get back to the Court of the Final Word.’

  ‘Who amongst the gods would be prepared to abort such a thing?’ Jerzy asked.

  ‘Somebody isolated,’ Church replied. ‘Someone who has more on their mind than idle talk. Get your things together, Jerzy. We have a long ride ahead of us.’

  4

  The Court of Peaceful Days was as quiet and desolate as the last time Church had seen it, but it had undergone a subtle change. The gates were no longer barred and a carpet of colourful flowers spread out from the perimeter fence to the court’s walls. Butterflies fluttered over them and honey bees buzzed back and forth in the stillness of the morning.

  The door was opened by Rhiannon, also subtly changed. Her helmet and armour had been replaced by a plain dress, and her face had matured with a deep sadness with which she had finally come to terms.

  She greeted Church and Jerzy formally before Church offered his condolences for the dreadful losses her court had suffered in the battle outside Eboracum.

  ‘In war one must always accept defeat as a potential outcome,’ she said. ‘But for my people death was never a real consideration. Now everything has changed. The Far Lands are no longer comforting. They are new and strange and terrifying. The night is too dark and draws too close. I can no longer rest easily.’

  She motioned to Church to leave Llyrwyn inside the door. Arms will no longer be carried in this court. It will no longer ring with the clash of martial anthems. No more shall thought be given to war without thought given to what comes after. This court now stands for healing, and quiet in
trospection, and study.’ She paused to stare at the sunbeams breaking through the glass roof of the atrium. ‘For what few of us remain.’

  In an empty dining room they ate fresh fruit while Church made his request for the removal of the Caraprix from Jerzy’s head. Rhiannon asked no questions. She needed some time for preparation, and so Church asked for her leave to visit the Wish-Post. He hoped to see Ruth, but the first thing that came into view caused strange echoes in the depths of his missing memory.

  5

  The transport café was an oasis of light in the dark countryside. Large enough to dispense greasy fry-ups to 150 truckers at a time, its picture windows on three walls now splayed out rectangles of light across a largely deserted car park.

  Shavi counted only three other diners, bleary-eyed and unshaven as they pored over outdated copies of the Star, one hand gripping a chipped mug of treacly tea. He was tired and his back ached from too long in the driver’s seat of his van. For the last five days, he and the Bone Inspector had crisscrossed the Midlands, to the best of their ability attempting to follow the ley lines that radiated out from Avebury. They always spent the night at one of the nodes of the network of fiery power identified by the Bone Inspector – at Arbor Low stone circle in the Peaks of Derbyshire to the Rollrights and Belas Knap in the Cotswolds – knowing that whatever dissipated energy remained in the ground would at least make them invisible to the forces hunting them.

  Whenever Shavi was tempted to make light of the cynicism that infected the Bone Inspector’s rants about the powers secretly controlling the world, he only had to turn his mind to the numerous disturbing incidents that had dogged their path: the car with smoked windows that had attempted to run them off the road in a small village outside Oxford; the police road blocks that cropped up frequently, forcing detours; and the infestation of black spiders they had seen repeatedly along their route. Something terrible was out there, ready to attack if he ever let his concentration slip.