Helen, her face aglow with adoration, smiled. “Norman,” she said. “His name is Norman.”
XXIII
Norman grunted as he opened his eyes. Blinding sunlight bombarded his retinas. His hands rushed to his face as he hauled himself to a seated position, gasping at the pain that erupted in his chest.
He’d been laid flat on a bench. It was warm to the touch despite being in the shade, hinting that he had been upon it for some time. Yet he had no memory of lying down—nor, for that matter, anything after guiding Allie towards the tower.
She stood over him now, with Richard close behind. They wore identical expressions of worry and confusion.
“Are you alright?” Richard said.
Norman shook his head, leaning forwards as the world swirled, off-kilter. His chest was throbbing with a vigour that he hadn’t endured since Jason had first stomped down on him. “What happened?” he muttered.
Horses were snuffling nearby. The smell of hay and manure was thick in the air. He guessed that they were somewhere near the stables. As his vision stopped swirling, he glimpsed the tower directly above him. The gate was off to the right, looking bare and lifeless without the compliment of night guards patrolling its catwalks.
“We were going for breakfast,” Allie said. “You fainted.”
Richard crouched down beside Norman and held up his index finger, moving it first left, and then right.
Norman found himself instinctively tracking it with his eyes, frowning as he did so. “Stop that.”
“I’m checking for head injury. I’ve seen Heather do it.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Not really.”
Norman brushed his hand away. “I’m fine.”
He struggled to his feet, blinking to clear his vision, which had begun swimming again. He held out his hand to keep Allison from taking hold of him, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”
The courtyard below the gate was filling at a steady trickle as men dressed in dark combat gear emerged from the tower: the security detail from New Canterbury, most of the night guards, and a few who had been part of the convoy. Alexander, Lucian and Marek stood waiting before the gate, giving orders and distributing weapons. Above them, Evelyn watched with narrowed eyes along her crooked nose, perched like a crow atop the catwalk. Behind her, John DeGray studied the wall’s defences with detached intrigue, ignoring the proceedings, looking oddly bare without Richard by his side.
The rickety stables rattled as a procession of mounts were led out to be saddled.
“You’re not fine,” Allison said firmly, laying a hand on Norman’s shoulder despite his protests. “You need to stop moving around. You might be hurt bad. You need a doctor.”
Richard clicked his tongue. “Abernathy’s been treating famine victims north of here the last few weeks. Nobody knows when he’ll be back. The best they have here is Anderson, but I wouldn’t trust him to fall out of a boat and into water.”
“Heather’s been teaching him, hasn’t she?”
“When she’s here during the summer. But he’s a ways from being up to scratch.”
Allison seethed. “They must have a doctor here. They must have something.”
Richard nodded. “Abernathy was Clara Fields’s other disciple. He’s as good as they come. But he’s AWOL.”
“Anderson will just have to do.”
Norman uttered a wordless yell, holding up his hand to silence them. “Stop it!”
They froze midsentence, bemused, and looked at him.
“What’s wrong?” Allison said.
“I’ll be just grand, thank you.” Norman tried to ignore how slurred his voice had become, ripping himself from Allie’s grip and stalking away from the bench. “I don’t need you”—he stumbled and had to grab the reins of a passing mount to steady himself—“mollycoddling me all day.”
“You’ve been struggling to even walk since you got up,” Allison said. “Maybe Heather was wrong. Maybe you should’ve stayed home. It looks like you’re getting worse.”
“She said that…I’ll be fine as long as I…rest up,” he wheezed. He locked his gaze on Alexander. The distance between them seemed enormous, but he ploughed on nonetheless, determined to reach him. “When are they leaving?”
“Now,” Allison said uncertainly.
“They were going to leave me behind?”
“They want to get home by midday. Norman, sit down…”
They were going to leave him. Just like Lucian had left him yesterday, just brushed him off.
Was this how it was going to be from now on? After being prodded like a circus animal for so many years, trussed up with responsibility and duty, was he to be left by the wayside, injured, impotent, and useless?
He took a few more steps, almost fell, then cried out and gasped. He needed to chew up some white willow, but couldn’t remember where he’d left the bag—or whether he’d already done so.
A few heads turned towards him, owl-eyed and concerned.
But he let loose a guttural groan and staggered onwards, waving people aside as he went. Men twice his size shrank back, bending into polite bows, uttering words of salutation. He ignored the absurd sight of their deference. His chest was white-hot, blinding, nauseating.
“Oh, Norman, don’t,” Allison moaned.
He carried on regardless, heading for Alexander. Overwhelming fury boiled in his guts, powered by an acute sense of betrayal as he powered towards the gathering. He knew his mind was scrabbling for purchase—that reason was failing him—but he was powerless to stop himself casting the last man between him and Alexander aside, and growling into his mentor’s face, “I’m going with you.”
Alex blinked, his eyebrows raised. “It’s a big risk going at all, Norman. We have to ride hard, and stop for nothing if we’re going to break through their lines. If you fall…”
Norman raised a pointed finger, teeth bared. His arm swung wildly, wavering at least a foot from where he had intended. “You can’t leave me. Not now.”
Allison came rushing through the crowd. “He just passed out,” she cried. “He’s in no state to go anywhere.”
Norman snarled over his shoulder, “I have to go. I have to. You’re not leaving me here.”
“Norman, you’re in pain. You’re not seeing things clearly,” Alexander said. Worry plastered his face. “Nobody’s leaving you behind.”
Norman cut across him, spittle flying from his lips. “I’m going with you and you’re not going to stop me!” He tore the reins of the nearest mount from its master’s hands, gripped the saddle, and made to leap upon the stirrups.
They caught him just in time. He was manhandled back to the ground by half a dozen pairs of hands. A small part of his mind took note that Allison had been the first to leap, the one to stop him truly hurting himself.
Alexander stood over him, his eyes sorrowful and his lips drawn into a tight white line. He reached down and rested a hand on Norman’s shoulder.
Norman tried to shrug him off, whimpered, and then slumped, eyes weeping and jaw clenching. His cheeks glowed red-hot, for the pain had peaked, the fog was clearing, and acute embarrassment was coursing his veins. “You can’t do this to me,” he muttered. “After all you’ve told me, after all you’ve demanded of me. It’s not fair.”
Deep silence erupted in the courtyard. Around them, Norman sensed expectant eyes darting between him and Alexander—between the great messiah and his destined successor—frightened and confused.
Alexander squeezed his shoulder, his eyes on the crowd, wary, and stepped back. “We’ll be back,” he whispered. “I promise.” He turned away, leaving Norman slouched, alone.
Soon after, the klaxon sounded and the gate squealed open. Norman stared at the ground, his head swimming. It was only after the sound of clattering hooves kicked up that he was spurred forth a final time. “Why would you leave us—your friends, your family—to chase a group of thugs?” he cried at Lucian’s retreating back. His voi
ce shook. “What’s wrong with you—with the both of you?” He rounded on Alexander. “I deserve to know. You’ll tell me, or I’ll find out. Somehow I’ll find out. Someday soon, you’ll tell me just what the hell happened!”
Neither of them looked back, yet he thought he saw them stiffen upon their saddles. Then they were racing away along the street to the sound of thundering hooves, turned the corner, and were gone from sight.
Marek led the remainder in their wake. The courtyard emptied within the minute, and the klaxon rang out once more, again followed by the gate’s squeal.
Norman stared at where they’d been moments before, open-mouthed. It took him some time to notice Allison’s hand clasped around his wrist.
“Come on,” she said, “let’s get you something to eat. You need to get your strength back.”
“You don’t want to go with them,” Richard said. “They’ll be searching the city all day. You can’t be doing with that kind of thing. Sit this one out, huh? You need to rest up.”
Norman ignored them both, turning back towards the stables. Despite the steady pulse of the mass of nerve endings that his chest had become, he marched from the courtyard at a dogged pace. They shadowed him silently from then on, saying nothing, but remaining by his side nonetheless. He didn’t know where he was going. Didn’t care. He just had to get away.
Allison’s hand was still clutched around his wrist. “Are you going to be alright?” she said.
Norman felt a pang of shame wash over him. “Yes,” he said, “I’ll be fine.”
Her silence indicated that she wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t contradict him. Richard also seemed to take the message, and remained silent.
Despite Norman’s efforts to appear calm, a nigh-unstoppable bubble of all-out panic was rising in his gut. He knew that the pain was addling his mind, but could do nothing to stop it. In moments it would spill over, and he would lose control.
He turned to them both as his throat began to close. “Would you mind bringing breakfast here?” he said. He forced a smile to his lips, barely stifling a scream of hysteria. “You’re right: I just need to get my strength back. But I don’t know if I can manage the stairs right now.”
Their eyes softened; his shame deepened. “Of course,” Allison said gently, patting his arm and leading Richard away at great speed. She glanced back sometime later, her eyes warm, yet forlorn.
Norman remained still—though his muscles were breaking out in spasms—until they were out of sight, maintaining the impression of awaiting their return. It was only after they’d passed into the tower lobby that he collapsed against the stable wall, tearing at his shirt, rubbing his chest with desperate jerks. The burning was fierce, enough to knock the wind from his lungs. “I’m fine,” he wheezed.
He’d been abandoned. After being hounded for so long to be somebody he wasn’t, somebody he would never be, he’d been discarded at the first sign of weakness.
They’d told him every day since the cradle to believe it was his destiny to lead, to continue the elders’ work, to lead them all back into the light when the time was right.
But now he saw that he was but a pawn. In the end, they’d all been ready to cast him aside at a moment’s notice.
“I'm fine…,” he muttered, sliding down the wall until he sat on the grass, wreathed in shadow. “I’m fine. I’m fine…”
XXIV
Robert crouched low to the ground. A bead of sweat hung from his chin, trembling in the breeze. Further rivulets ran the height of his face, following the contours of frown lines and crow’s-feet.
He studied the ground, adding minute detail to the mental map of the hillside forming in his mind’s eye, taking note of the tiniest landmarks, picking out every bent blade of grass, every broken twig.
The relative cool of the morning was being replaced by humid gales, which caressed the hillside as the sky grew paler. He sensed stifling heat building behind the horizon. Intuition and experience told him that, once the sun had risen in earnest, it would be unbearable in the open.
He would have to move fast. He couldn’t afford to miss a sign because of heat fatigue.
At the sound of snuffling, he stood and turned. Canterbury was spread out below. The brilliant white spires of the cathedral undulated behind building heat waves, cast alight in the early dawn light by mobile floodlights—the only lights they’d managed to get going before sunrise.
From here, he could see a few dozen people working away in the fields, tiny ant-like figures scrabbling amidst a sea of youthful wheat stalks. Only those few had dared brave the streets; the rest had barricaded themselves in their homes, joined a guard patrol, or taken flight to the cathedral.
A few metres away, Sarah sat astride her elderly, anserine chestnut mare—the smallest of the Friesian crop in the city’s stables, the only mount she’d ever been able to ride with confidence—which looked very much like a Shetland pony beside Robert’s mount. Due to his size, he rode one of their precious Shire horses: an obsidian stallion named Zodiac, nineteen hands tall, birthed by his father’s hand, a trusted friend since childhood.
Robert kept one eye on her, ready to take her reins at any moment. She’d been unsteady since leaving the stables, and had almost fallen several times. If the horse gathered any momentum up here then the pair of them would go hurtling down the hillside.
It detracted only slightly from his level of concentration, but he feared it might be just enough to make him miss that all-important shred of evidence.
Yet she had insisted. Her bout of rage the night before hadn’t dissipated as he’d hoped. After over an hour of fretting and agonising, she had agreed to let him leave the house—so long as she went with him.
There hadn’t been time to argue it out. He couldn’t leave her feeling abandoned and terrified, yet he had to get to the hills. Against his better judgement, he’d relented.
He scratched the back of his head and peered into the depths of the forest at the hill’s summit. His line of sight beyond the tree line was blocked by a thick screening of boughs and branches, beyond which anybody could stand and study them with ease.
Unnerved, trying to ignore the flesh crawling on the back of his neck, he turned his attention back towards the ground. The soil had been moved recently. The disturbance was subtle, scattered, almost undetectable even to his eyes—but it was there.
“Have you found something?” Sarah said.
Robert glanced at her over his shoulder. “I’m not sure.” He stood, dusting his knees, and headed back towards Zodiac. Once there, making sure that Sarah’s gaze was directed towards the city, he raised a duffel bag from the mount’s thigh, revealing the long barrel of a high-calibre rifle—a deadly talisman that warded away some of the prickling upon his neck.
But his talisman hadn’t come direct from the lock-up. It had come from under his bed.
According to one of their few enforced laws, nobody was allowed to keep a personal firearm. He himself had suggested it in the first place. In times gone by, he would have put his instincts aside to make a good example.
But Sarah had changed that.
After Norman had been attacked, he’d taken it from the armoury. It had taken a great deal of care to ensure that its absence went unnoticed. Each weapon was engraved with a registration number, and a log was made of acquisitions and returns. Fixing the numbers had been difficult, and only possible because of the increased threat level.
At the time he’d felt as though he was crossing a line—going back on everything he’d worked for over the years—but now he was certain that he’d been wise to do it.
He rested the duffel bag back against Zodiac’s leg. “Has anybody been up here recently? Travellers from away? Foraging parties? Kids playing?”
“No,” Sarah said. Her eyes were still on the city. “I don’t think so.”
Robert looked upon the tree line once more as he saddled up, keeping a hand near the duffel bag, ready. “Okay,” he said, “let’s go.”
The screech of crickets was deafening, occasionally punctured by the squawk of a passing bird. The clearing’s grass towered five feet high, protected from sheep or deer by an encircling shell of beech and oak. The underbrush had grown thick, with nettles and thorns interlacing the ferns and drowning ruined colonies of lavender.
It had taken Robert and Sarah over ten minutes to fight their way through, led only by a sliver of light shining through the canopy, flat on their stomachs. They had advanced by the inch, so that their rustling had been obscured by the din of cricket song.
Now the sun beat down on them from directly overhead, an orange fireball blazing without mercy. The grass was damp, the air between the blades stifling and stale, earthy in taste and lacking in oxygen. Even breathing had become a burden.
Beside him, Sarah’s face was creased into a fierce mask of determination, rouge at the cheeks. Curled locks of hair clung to her crown and lay lifeless upon her shoulders, dark with sweat, and her robes were streaked with grime, clinging to her skin. Her breathing had become laboured, and she looked somewhat dazed. But she hadn’t made a single complaint.
The forest had been too thick to ride this far, and so they had left their mounts tied to a tree. Robert had made sure to position them facing downhill, so that a quick getaway could be made, should they need one.
“What do you think?” Sarah whispered. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the sights ahead.
Nestled in the valley below was a small collection of buildings, laced with ragged concrete and rusted iron girders. Its borders had become shrouded by vines and a thick spattering of buckler ferns, but Robert still dared to wager that the complex had once been a remote business park of some kind.
Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) Page 34