Brink (The Ruin Saga Book 2)

by Harry Manners

  The girl was dropped in a heap into the mud and hauled up again by her collar, jerked forward and away. Just before she passed out of sight, she glanced once again into the tent, and Lucian cursed under his breath. Then she was gone.

  What followed was the owner of the high-pitched, chilling voice. Both Lucian and Max were stilled. The man’s appearance only amplified the alarms in Lucian’s head; he had been in enough scrapes to know some men were born killers, and there was one of them. He was short, almost as short as Lucian himself, but every pound was solid, lithe muscle, built for deathly speed and dexterity as opposed to brute force.

  “Jason,” Lucian muttered.

  “Huh?” Max said.

  “Jason. His name is Jason.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He led them in New Canterbury. The people who put a friend of mine on his back for days, and slit another’s throat.”

  He was sure this was the man who had killed Rayford Hubble that night, and broken Norman’s ribs like toothpicks. Even that old Irishman they had found beaten half to death out in the forest—the ferocity of those wounds had the stink of this predator’s work.

  “Who is he?” Max said.

  “The Rottweiler let off the leash.” Lucian cursed inwardly. They would have to deal with him, too, if they were going to scale the cliff and take James down. Yes, there were thirteen of them. But that man … somehow, Lucian didn’t relish the thought of taking him on without an entire regiment behind him.

  Jason passed by, his lupine face pulled into a snarl, and vanished after his underlings and the little girl.

  Lucian turned back to the others and waved them forward. “We don’t have a lot of time. Soon there are going to be too many of them. All that smoke coming over the hills … There must be thousands by now. As soon as we’re done forging for them, they’ll march south. And then it’ll all be over.”

  The faces around him looked ready, their shoulders bunched and rippling, and the fists clenched until bone-white.

  Lucian nodded. “Alright. As soon as we get a chance, we move.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The setting sun turned red as arterial blood behind a thin veil of clouds. The light was low, yet gave life to every surface, every line, every speck of dust. Another golden inner light seemed to leak from the trees, the earth, and the hundred unwashed faces upon the red carpet were illuminated with anticipation.

  Norman would have said a few hours before that his life couldn’t have been much stranger. But now, standing here at the front of the crowds in an ancient itchy suit with a velvet pillow in hand, he had to admit he would have been wrong.

  Only moments after dismounting, he and the other riders had found fine clothing thrown over their travel cloaks by the people of New Canterbury. Despite vehement protest, Norman and the others were shepherded toward the fields where the wedding court had been erected.

  Robert himself had greeted Norman, then Allie and Agatha, who had dismounted from the first wagon. Robert had laid out his terms clear and fast: he would come, but first he was going to get hitched.

  Norman had been flabbergasted beyond response, but there had been little he could do. By then he had already been pressed into his suit, they had been standing on the red carpets, and Agatha had vowed to carry out the ceremony.

  In any case, it didn’t matter. They needed Robert. And Norman knew this was a deal breaker.

  Better to just get it over with.

  And though he didn’t want to admit it, a part of him would have given anything to have this: one last normal thing. It was only right. It was what they were fighting for, what they were all set to die for.

  So here he was with one eye on the sky and the failing sunlight as people stood from their seats and a ramshackle band struck up the traditional wedding theme, playing instruments taken from the precious repository from Alexander’s great time capsule of a house.

  The crowd turned to catch sight of an ocean of spilling white cloth, pooling from an Athenian figure of feminine curves, and trailing for yards behind. Sarah Clarke was hidden by no veil. Her eyes had never seemed so large, free of spectacles. No doubt she couldn’t see, but her face was unpuckered and freshly washed, radiant with fierce determination, taking each step as though pulling herself towards her fiancé with a rope binding them together.

  Allison led the bridesmaids. Norman expected to see her smiling giddily, in keeping with her longstanding reputation as chief gossip of New Canterbury. But she was different, now—older, more demure. A dignity had come from the trials of the siege in London.

  She had aged in soul by two decades, by the blood of Geoffrey Oppenheimer’s children. She still smiled, but it was a happy and content smile, one of a woman relishing the here and now.

  Sarah seemed different, too. Norman hesitated to call it coldness, but certainly she was tougher and more imposing. The rosy librarian and schoolteacher was now concealed by a shield to which men and women would rally.

  Then there was Agatha standing at the altar, more present than Norman remembered seeing her, but a shadow of the great woman she had been before the dementia had taken her.

  All the city’s women were standing tall. Compared to them, Norman and the city’s menfolk were cast in shadow.

  The bride swept by along the aisle and Norman met Sarah’s gaze. The last time he had seen her she had been gabbling and starry eyed, newly engaged. Now, she was another woman altogether.

  What the hell happened here while we were away? What have they had to do?

  He didn’t want to know.

  She smiled and he winked back. That was all that needed to be done.

  Then Allie was passing and his chest swelled up until he was sure it would crawl up past his teeth. “You’re next,” she purred as she passed and he held back a laugh, caught by a fit of sudden good humour despite everything—and that was why this was worth it.

  Sarah reached the mocked-up altar and turned to face Robert, who had turned a bizarre milky white despite his charcoal-black skin, and was covered in a layer of dripping sweat. Built like a bulldozer, the macho-man of New Canterbury had been tamed. He was shaking visibly. Sarah in turn looked nervous, but between them they seemed to shine, holding back the doom incumbent upon them and the city with some force.

  Agatha cleared her throat. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today …”

  Norman stepped forward with the velvet pillow held out before him and tried to keep his eyes off Allie while Robert and Sarah’s smiles grew wider until they were both identical jokers, and the rings lying on the pillow were taken.

  Never thought I would be best man at a time like this.

  Robert squeezed his shoulder and Norman stepped back, taking in the crowd and remembering with visceral impact just how much he loved this city and these people. He came to stand beside Heather, scarcely recognising her.

  She was withered and work weary, a shadow of the long-faced doctor who had saved him from the edge of death not long ago, when Jason had crippled him. “You look well,” she whispered.

  Agatha was announcing the conclusion of her part of the spiel and the “I do’s” were commencing. Robert and Sarah were holding hands, staring not at but into one another, blind to anything else. Yet it wasn’t a gushing, sickening puppy romance—rather a furious and desperate vehemence, like two people gripping one another amidst the roiling of a coming maelstrom.

  Norman nodded. His broken ribs troubled him still and the ride from London had them crying out in blinding pulses, a bad omen for the long ride north. But he owed every breath he took to Heather. “How are they?” he muttered, nodding to the city’s people.

  “Crumbling, afraid. We’ve lost almost everyone we could rely on.” She cocked her head at the altar. “Except those two. They’re holding us together, getting us ready.”

  Norman flexed his aching chest, ignoring a phantom truck—another Echo of the myriad that now appeared everywhere—turning a corner on a faraway street, and nodded.
“I know you’ve given everything, but I need to know you’re with us to the end. When it comes …”

  “I’ll do everything I can, Norman.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you ready to lead them?” Her eyes were on him. “You never wanted any of this. Of us all, it’s most unfair on you. None of the rest of us were forced to live this life.”

  “It’s done now.”

  “And?”

  He turned to her. “I’m ready.”

  “I pronounce you as joined under God,” Agatha said, her face amused and fond and alive. “You may kiss the bride.”

  Heather nodded. “Just remember that it’s your life.”

  This was never my life, Norman thought.

  Heather gripped his hand and her fingers’ chill stole into his. “Ride safe.”

  Under the bloody sky and golden rain of falling autumnal leaves, Sarah and Robert’s lips came together, and two became one.

  *

  There was no reception, no after party, no honeymoon. The attendees trailed back to their homes in silent procession, and the riders from London returned to their temporary camp before stripping off their moth-eaten tuxedos and preparing to go.

  Those who were going to stay—Allie and Agatha included—began moving supplies to the city larder from the wagons, and bade their goodbyes. The newlyweds were left alone at the altar for the little time it took to prepare, and whatever occurred there nobody knew or cared to know.

  Norman was soon once again ready to saddle up, with his troop of volunteers in front of him.

  Richard and John were at the very front, their faces drawn and nervous, but their gazes set and diamond hard. Beside Norman huffed the bulk of Robert’s black Shire horse, Obsidian, awaiting his master while standing a head over the other mounts. All had rallied to Norman, but there was no doubting who was going to lead them north—to what black rump they would fix their gaze the whole way there.

  Then Allie was in front of him, held by the arm by Agatha. “I may be old ‘n’ crazy, but I know two people steelin’ to ignore each other so’s they don’t have to say their last goodbyes,” she drawled.

  Norman was astonished to see her still lucid. It seemed her body had rallied against the dementia for this one last hurrah, sensing the end. “I’ve seen wiser people ‘n’ the both of you do the same when they knew something bad was coming and they sure as all Heaven regretted it once it was too late. So here’s me doing you both the biggest good.” Her eyes twinkled. “Make nice, and make sure you get your behind home safe, Norman.” She sighed, held his chin, and shook her head. “So old, we’re all so old. How did things go so wrong?” A note of simple sadness touched her brow, then she tottered away toward the cathedral.

  Norman was left alone with Allie and the two of them shifted uneasily. Minutes ago they had been all side glances and coy smiles; but now, face to face, knowing that this could be the last time …

  “I …” he said.

  “You come back.” He was startled by the cutting power in her voice, and the fact that she was meeting his eyes dead straight.

  She’s so different, so much more than she was, Norman thought.

  So have you, said another quieter voice in his head. In time, maybe both of you could have been real leaders, somebodies.

  “You come back to us. I don’t care what you have to do. You bring them all back.”

  He struggled for a few moments, wanting to touch her, to brush her hair behind her ear and feel warm skin on his—perhaps the real world couldn’t touch them if they held on tight enough.

  But if he gave in now, he would fall into her like a black hole, and they wouldn’t be able to pry him off with a crowbar.

  And so, against the raving want of every mote in him, he took a step back and swallowed. “I will.”

  Her eyes and nose had reddened, her round face young and glowing with pent-up hurt, shaking with the effort of keeping her hard stare. She sniffed wetly then turned and was gone in a blur of rosy cheeks and auburn hair.

  Norman forced himself not to watch her go, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor until he was sure she was gone. By the time he pulled himself into his saddle, Robert was beside him, walking tall and powerful as a bull elephant. He leaped up onto Obsidian’s back, took a single cursory look at the men and women ready to follow him unto hellfire, and said, “I’m ready.”

  They filed away from the city as darkness fell and the few streetlights afforded by the city’s reserve power popped to life, without any grand speech or salutation to push them onward.

  Norman fell to thinking of the long years he had lived here and taken it all for granted, hating his great destiny and his poor lot in life, all the while forgetting how fragile all this really was.

  Before he knew it, they were cresting the northern hills and the last flames of day were sinking below the Earth, and Robert stopped to hold up his hand in the direction of the dismantled altar—where, upon the windswept grass laden with shadow, a lone figure dressed in white was waving.

  *

  The sea roiled all along the base of the chalky cliffs. Each wave crashed upon the rocks with the roar of a lion, and together with the banshee wailing of the wind it was easy to believe the devil himself surfed ever closer just over the horizon.

  Alexander fought the gale with his brow bearing the brunt of the high wind, keeping fixed on the way ahead, treading through the beaten grass lining the cliff edge. Beachy Head had changed little since his boyhood: that famous sheer cliff face thrusting up from the waves of England’s southern shore. Southampton was close and, on occasion, he caught sight of a wisp of smoke trailing skyward from that direction—the fires still burned, it seemed. But he tried to keep the smoke to his back, unable to stomach the sight of it.

  The cliffs had been his destination since leaving the compound at Canary Wharf. He had no idea why; they had simply possessed his mind’s eye. He had only known that he had to get himself away. He had done enough damage. He had felt eyes on him from inside the gates and out, watching. James finally had all his chess pieces in place, ready to put his final play into action.

  Isolating himself wouldn’t forestall the attack, for things had gone too far now, but what else was there for him to do?

  But no matter how much he had tried to convince himself all the way through the wastes, the same thoughts had plagued him.

  You just wanted out. You needed to get away from your demons and the real world. Dress it up all you like—you ran away.

  And that was the bare truth. He knew it despite speaking over himself.

  So he tried not to think. He concentrated only on putting one foot in front of the other, feeling the cold slowly work its way through his long billowing cloak and into his bones.

  He was an old man. He realised it with a gravity he’d always been too busy for before. His joints were stiff with the slight cold despite the summer sun, and his balance had wilted from a once-thoughtless silent dance over ground to a bemused unsteady shuffle.

  Where did all the years go? asked a voice.

  Into New Canterbury, answered another. Into the council and books and classrooms and vaults.

  And now James is holding a match to all of it.

  His heart lurched and he went back to plodding, pushing away mental film reels of libraries ablaze, London darkened by the coming legions, and all those he had brought together crying out upon flaming pyres.

  One foot in front of the other. One foot, now the other. Just keep going.

  That way he could almost believe it was all academic, a fairy tale, just some trifling what-if. He carried on that way until the cabin came in sight.

  For a while he registered it only as the sole human constriction in sight and his mind was preoccupied with a fitful childish rage against it and all man’s creations blighting the land—maybe all the doubters had been right, and it would have been better to let it all fall back to dust after the End. Suppose he was the very evil he had set out to counter: the deca
ying force that would send what remained of civilised life crashing to the ground.

  He had accepted there would be prices to pay for his mission’s success a long time ago. He had known there would be grudges and that people would suffer and starve and die if their work was going to make any real headway. Those sacrifices would have to be made. And he had considered them a small price well worth paying, considering the countless future generations that could benefit.

  But now everything was clouded. It could all have been for nothing. And so many could have suffered along the way under his unfeeling heedless influence. Was he the tyrant, and James the liberator after all?

  The same taunting voice in his head again. That was always the way of it. He tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. And you’ve made yourself an enemy nobody can stop.

  He pushed those words aside with a literal jerk and blinked to shake himself free. The cabin was closer. And now he could see a thin, pale sliver of smoke was coming from the chimney. Somebody was inside.

  He had wandered very close, closer than any measure of sense permitted. And now he was treading the muddied ground under the guttering, against all instinct, numb to common sense.

  He now craved company more than anything, even if it meant death at the hands of his host. Anything was better than being alone with his thoughts. He pushed open the door and peered into the gloom, at once recoiling as a stoppered puff of stale air swept over him, redolent of sickness and the sour stench of human waste.

  Yet still he stepped forward, drawn by the flickering darkness thrown about by a tiny hearth fire set against the far wall. The unmistakable profile of somebody bedridden shuddered in shadow close to the doorway. From within came a voice no more than a broken whisper. “Billy? Billy, is that you? Please, let it be you.”

  Alexander stepped inside and came into the single room under the cabin’s tin roof, askance and frugal and rough-sawn. A sunken skeleton clothed in blue-tinged skin lay amidst a mass of blankets, staring up at him with enormous, unfocused eyes. Alexander frowned. He had heard that kind of accent before, from the old man they had found beaten in the woods around New Canterbury. He waited a moment, then said, “Never thought I’d meet another Irishman.”