by Robin Jarvis
Henry could hardly hear him, but he was not listening anyway. A sudden surge drove the clashing forces further across the bridge and the railed gap between the buildings was suddenly revealed behind them.
“Look!” Henry shrieked. “The black mirror.”
Lying where Brindle had left it, the astrologer’s shew stone had miraculously escaped any damage from the rampaging feet and hooves. Only when the apprentices darted over to snatch it up did Adam notice the missing segment.
“What if he’s already made his beacon?” he said gravely as he ran his hands over the yellow metal frame. “His people will come in their thousands to kill us. We’ll be hunted to extinction, just like the special ambassadors were.”
Henry did not answer; his attention was captured by something happening below them on the river. Pushing his face between the railings, the boy stared down and sobbed.
“There he is.”
Leaping down the Southwarke river stairs, an apparition-like figure was jumping the steps four at a time, heading straight for a three-masted night boat – a small caravel which was moored at the edge of the Thames.
Adam glanced up at the giant, dark outline of Gog – there was still room beneath his massive axe for a vessel such as that to pass through and escape. “He’s going to get away,” he said.
Henry shook his head vehemently. “No, he’s not. I’m going to stop him.”
“Don’t talk stupid,” Adam muttered. “Even if you could get to him, there’s nothing you can do now. He’s evil.”
Kicking the railings, Henry rounded on Adam. “Not deep down he isn’t!” he cried. “I know it. If I could just talk to him, I know I could call the real Brindle back.”
“There is no real Brindle. He was always like this inside. He’d kill you the minute he saw you!”
“No, he wasn’t and he wouldn’t. He didn’t kill the Queen because I stopped him. It’s true, Coggy – why won’t you believe me?”
Adam stared down at the caravel and watched the Iribian creep on to her deck. A startled shout came from the crewman on watch but one swipe of the reaping hook stilled that voice forever. Both apprentices witnessed the lambent light flare over the balm merchant’s features as he inhaled the invigorating deathscent.
“That’s why,” Adam snapped. “How many men are aboard that craft? How many more is he going to kill?”
On London Bridge, the din of the fighting had abated. All of the Count de Feria’s men were dead and Henry looked quickly at the assembled guards and horsemen who were pressing through that narrow way. He could never squeeze through them to reach those river stairs in time, so he gritted his teeth and did the only thing left to him. He clambered on to the railings.
“What are you doing?” Adam cried.
“I can’t desert Brindle now,” the boy answered. “I have to help him.”
“You’re as mad as he is!” Adam yelled. “If the fall doesn’t kill you, you’ll be drowned and if, by God’s grace, that doesn’t happen, then that devil down there will rip you apart.”
“If there’s a chance I can save him, I have to try,” Henry insisted as he lifted his leg over the spike-tipped railings, wincing from the pain in his bruised shoulders. “Whatever you say, I know that he was different before. He needs me and I owe him; we both do – you know that.”
Staring at the drop, the apprentice sought for ways of easing his descent. Directly beneath him one of the great buttressing beams drove down into the wide shoulder of a huge stone support that rose up from a wooden pier. The angle of the timber brace appeared gentle enough to scramble down – then if he could lower himself from the sloping corner of the great stone column and jump the remaining distance …
Henry’s eyes were drawn to the dark, churning water and his fingers locked suddenly about the rails as he froze. “I can’t do it,” he gasped. “Oh, Coggy, I can’t do it.”
Adam reached to help him back down. “Glad to hear it,” he scolded. “What were you thinking …?”
The expression of abject dismay and self-hatred which contorted Henry’s face pierced his heart. This was the second time he had failed the Iribian: first in the residence of the Spanish ambassador he would have betrayed him to protect his own skin from the Torture Master; now he could not face the perilous drop into those violent rapids.
“I wanted to save him,” the Wattle boy snivelled. “Oh, Brindle, forgive me – I’m too scared.” And he hung his face in shame.
Adam stared in stunned surprise. He had never seen the cynical Henry so affected by anything before and a peculiar tingling began to creep up inside his chest. “You really thought his redemption was worth risking your own life for,” he murmured. “It really meant that much to you?”
Henry nodded wretchedly. “But I couldn’t do it!” he wept. “I’m too much of a coward.”
“Yes, you are,” Adam answered grimly, fixing him with a bitter glare. “But you also have a family at home to go back to. As you so regularly point out, I have nobody. If Brindle’s going to murder one of us, it ought to be me.”
Before he realised what he was doing, Adam o’the Cogs placed the shew stone on the ground and climbed over the railing. “You always were full of big talk, Henry Wattle,” he exclaimed. And with that, he swung himself down on to the stout timber strut below.
“Coggy!” Henry cried, watching in amazement when he saw what his friend had done. “Be careful!”
The massive beam was wet and Adam made a slithering descent to the sloping shoulder of the stone pillar. There was no going back now. Craning his head up, he could see Henry’s face squeezed between the rails, while below the turbulent water continued to rage and foam. Gingerly, he inched his way to the edge of the angled stone, estimating that the fall to the pier beneath was nigh on twenty feet.
“I’m going to break my neck,” he muttered, cautiously manoeuvring himself as close to the brink as possible.
The cool air rising from the Thames streamed through his straw coloured hair. He knew that the longer he waited, the worse his fears would grow; so, taking a great, determined breath, he dangled his legs over the side and pushed himself clear.
“COGGY!” Henry’s voice sang in his ears as he fell. “I didn’t mean those horrible things I said before – I’m sorry!”
Adam’s knees buckled and pushed into his chest when he hit the pier with a jarring thud that knocked the wind from him. Falling on his face, he lay spluttering and coughing as he retched the air back into his lungs.
Across the river, hideous screeches proclaimed the Iribian’s slaughterous progress on board the night boat and those dreadful sounds brought Adam shakily to his feet. One more leap and he would plunge into the swashing torrent of the Thames which came shooting under the bridge. Even experienced watermen drowned attempting to navigate those wild, frothing rapids in their rowing boats; how could a boy who had only ever swum in the village pond possibly survive? But it was too late to turn back and, with a grim resolve, he dived off the mighty pier and disappeared into the white-capped fury of the river.
High above on the bridge, Henry Wattle squeezed his eyes shut and prayed.
As the last of the crew collapsed at Brindle’s feet, the Iribian jerked the twin blades of his reaping hook from the man’s chest and laughed faintly. His cranial nostril was shivering with relish as the power of the deathscent coursed through his tall frame, renewing his energies and lapping his pale flesh with that macabre, frosty light.
He had never known such a glut of sensation – this surfeit of bliss was glorious. In his youth he had only been involved at the very end of those deranged wars against the special ambassadors. The scents he had culled in those massacres he had been forced to share with the others in his brigade. Now this ravishing heal-all was purely for him. Throwing back his head, he shook the ponytail of his hair and brayed in exultation.
Brindle knew that soon his people would follow the trail of his beacon, yet until they came it was not wise to remain in this island. Hur
ling the slaughtered crewmen over the side, he set about casting the vessel adrift. Chopping through the heavy ropes which tethered the night boat to the shore, he glanced up at the enormous figure of Gog then made a hurried inspection of the caravel as the current teased it slowly out into the middle of the river.
Such craft were common on the Thames. They were used as fishing boats in the coastal isles but, out in the perpetual void, they were swifter than the larger galleons and could travel at speeds of up to eight knots.
The lateen sails of this commandeered night boat were already set and, in his possessed and primal state, Brindle thought nothing unusual in that. Once away from shore, the three large triangles of canvas quickly filled with the breeze which gusted through the arches of London Bridge and the caravel began to cut sharply through the water towards the effigy standing guard at the entrance in the firmament.
Hurriedly, Brindle searched for the mechanism which operated the protecting canopy. There was no sign of it on deck, so he kicked his way into the steerage hold at the aftcastle where the tiller was housed. In that low, lantern-lit space the smell of the pitch and tar was almost intolerable to him, but at last he found what he had been seeking – a sturdy metal wheel linked to chains and gears.
Gripping it in both strong hands, the Iribian cranked the wheel around and chains went rattling through the ship, setting in motion the raising of the deck canopy.
Presently, a sonorous clang proclaimed that the awnings were sealed. Brindle prepared to return to the deck, but halted when he noticed the door of a cabin. Curious, he investigated and discovered a tiny room which a single bunk and large wooden chest amply filled.
The chest served as a table and was laden with maps and charts of the uplifted isles. But there were also several prayer books, jewel boxes, a silver crucifix and a small casket covered in blue velvet which contained four phials filled with an indigo liquid and the empty impressions where two other glass vessels had been.
A contemptuous snort issued from Brindle’s throat as he realised that he was on board the Spanish ambassador’s ship after all. This anonymous, commonplace vessel was how the Count de Feria had planned to smuggle the Iribian out of Englandia. Growling, Brindle swept the objects to the floor and was about to lift the lid of the chest when his nostrils quivered and his eyes gleamed. A rumbling snarl left his lips, then he spun around and marched briskly out.
Encased in the canopy’s canvas cave, the deck of the caravel was swamped in a sombre gloom which the two lanterns hung on the main and mizzen masts failed to lift. But the balm merchant had no need of illumination. The figure he found there, staring in revulsion at the bloodsoaked deck, was hidden in shadow. Even though his signature scent was obliterated by dirty Thames water, Brindle knew him at once.
“Adam o’the Cogs,” he hissed. “What supreme madness has brought you hither, into the jaws of the Iribian jackal?”
Soaked and shivering, the scrawny apprentice raised his eyes and returned Brindle’s unfriendly glare. His struggles in the river had left him spent and he had only just managed to clamber on board the night boat before the canopy had sealed behind him. Already the air was stale in here, made foul by the grisly stench of hacked flesh and spilled blood, and the exhausted boy felt sick.
“Are you not afraid to be in the presence of this ravening beast?” Brindle demanded. “I have slain many of your kind this night and will continue to do so.”
“That’s why I came,” Adam told him. “To stop you.”
Brindle laughed and the cold colours which rippled through his skin shimmered bleakly.
“A little late for that, Cog Adam,” he scoffed. “I am stronger now than at any time in my life. There is no turning back for me. The weak, compliant creature you knew has departed and can never be recalled. Those impurities have been burned away in the crucible of this ludicrous realm. You should have acted on your early suspicions. Oh yes, I saw your gimlet eyes dogging my movements. I knew you had caught a glimpse of the deathscent’s power that day when Master Flye died. Then, in the Copper Cow, when I returned after paying my call on Clink Kitson – did you think I could not smell you spying upon the courtyard?”
“I hoped I was mistaken,” Adam said. “I liked you, we all did, but now you disgust me.”
“I care not,” Brindle replied, unmoved. “Your shallow, stammering mind cannot comprehend the beauteous rapture an Iribian experiences at the ending of a human life. If you could but perceive a thousandth of that overwhelming ecstasy, you would not condemn me.”
Appalled, the apprentice backed away. “I knew Henry was wrong!” he shouted. “He thought there was a chance that you weren’t wholly evil – even had me half believing it. But you’re worse than Satan himself. To murder someone merely for the reek of their death is the most disgusting, loathsome wrong I could ever imagine.”
Brindle took a step towards him. “Surely any murder is wrong,” he said with a malicious sneer curling his thin lip. “Can there be any deed more base? Yet with my kind we have good reason: we kill to refresh ourselves or repair our hurts and enjoy a tantalising sip of what you might call Heaven. Oh yes, child, your deaths mean so much more to us than they ever could to you. Your lives are never wasted – we value them far too highly.”
“You’re a monster!” Adam yelled, stumbling back. “I wish we’d let you die when we found you. We all trusted you.”
The Iribian prowled closer. “Is it wisdom to befriend the beast?” he growled. “You must not trust that which you cannot tame.”
Furious and afraid, Adam edged away. “Are you going to butcher me now?” he spat defiantly.
A shudder gripped the caravel as the vessel reached that part of the Thames which boiled and bubbled. Tremendous forces seized the night boat and it began to lift from the water. Within the Count de Feria’s cramped cabin, the lid of the wooden chest started to open, pushed up by an iron claw.
On the deck, Brindle ran to the prow and stared through the window set into the timbers. Up out of the river they rose, in perfect alignment with the aperture high above in the starlit heavens.
Adam was holding on to the heavy ropes which trailed down the mainmast, to keep his balance as the craft continued to rise. “You didn’t answer,” he snapped. “Are you going to kill me?”
“All things are possible,” came the callous reply. “’Twould be a blessed release for you if I did – a kindness even.”
“Before your degenerate race comes to turn these islands into abattoirs, you mean!” Adam yelled.
Brindle’s fingers played about the hilt of his reaping hook. “Not really,” he said. “You still don’t see, do you? Mankind was never meant to dwell out in the deserted void. You have no right to be here, but then how can I expect you to believe that? You still cling to the absurd conviction that your God raised these islands and set them in the great darkness so you might be closer to Him. I marvel at the credulity of you ignorant people, I truly do.”
Returning along the deck, he purred with amusement and casually drew the twin knives from their sheath. “There can be no future for you out here,” he announced. “Your keepers are dead.”
The dim glow of the lanterns glanced over the bloodstained blades as they moved towards the apprentice but Adam stood his ground and looked Brindle steadily in the eye. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“Do you still not perceive the truth of it?” the Iribian taunted. “Those benign tutors you’re so in awe of, the ones you named the special ambassadors …”
“That kind people you hunted out of existence!” the boy countered.
“They weren’t teachers,” Brindle sniggered. “They were collectors! They visited your old world and discovered the wildlife with all its dogma and peculiarities much to their liking. But, oh, how quickly your species perished compared to their own protracted lifespan. That is why you were brought here and amended. Ha! Cog Adam, your precious Englandia with its haughty, conceited monarch is no more than a series of elaborate cages,
a playground to be visited and enjoyed at their leisure and you are the exhibits. This uplifted world of yours is a pleasure garden – there was never anything sacred or holy about it.”
“You’re lying!”
Brindle brought the knives of the reaping hook close to his own face and viewed the boy through the slender gap between the blades.
“It astounds me how you have managed to survive for so long without your caring patrons,” he remarked. “Perhaps in that you were indeed blessed, but it cannot continue forever. Structures fail, untended devices falter. My chance arrival amongst you was the real blessing. I shall bring an end to this unnatural menagerie, populated by its mongrel aberrations – verily ’tis the most merciful thing to do.”
Adam’s head reeled at the Iribian’s words; he wanted to deny them and scream but the caravel gave an abrupt lurch and the apprentice thrust all other doubts and fears to the back of his aching mind.
“Don’t do this,” he begged. “Whatever you think of us, you can’t let everyone be murdered. Don’t we deserve better than that? Please don’t set up the beacon – don’t bring your people here.”
Brindle pushed the tip of one blade carelessly into the stout mast and carved a snaking line down its length. Beneath his malignant features the luminous sheen pulsed starkly as he regarded Adam and, in a chilling whisper, announced, “’Tis done.”
The apprentice shook his head in disbelief. “It can’t be,” he murmured. “Your torc, it’s still working.”
“Oh, Cog Adam,” the Iribian scoffed, “you know only the rudimentary science of spindle shafts and pendulums. Even now a summoning call is journeying through the furthest reaches of the desolate night. My homeland will hear it, they will be coming.”
Adam’s anger scalded inside him and he cried out in rage. “You’re obscene!” he shrieked, springing forward to strike Brindle’s face with his small fist. “Stop it! You must – stop it!”