by Robin Jarvis
The Iribian pushed him away and the boy was flung across the deck, careering into a heap of coiled ropes.
Moving to the prow once more, Brindle gazed out of the window. The massive torso of Gog was scrolling by outside. Up over the darkened city the caravel floated, soaring steadily over the spires and chimneys, into the lofty airs which coursed beneath the leaded firmament.
“Soon the tidal breath will have us,” Brindle declared, “and this island will be left behind.”
Staggering to his feet, Adam dragged a hand over his eyes, determined not to shed any tears. “So that’s it!” he spat. “You run away and hide, waiting for reinforcements. You’re as full of big talk as Henry. Not only are you an abhorrence, but you’re a craven one at that!”
Brindle whipped around and stormed towards him, cutting the air with his blades. “Be silent!” he thundered, the blue stone in his torc flaring to a dazzling brilliance. “Else I will trim your tongue.”
“You’re going to butcher me anyway,” the boy breathed, undaunted as the knives swept in front of his face. “I’ll say what I like. Your deathscent’s turned you into a braying coward, far worse than Clink Kitson ever was. It’s true: the Brindle you were before was more courageous than you. He was noble and excellent. Mistress Dritchly knew it, that’s why she nursed him back to health. That’s why he saved Henry and me from Old Scratch. What happened when that better part of you died – did you enjoy the smell of that as well?”
“Enough!” Brindle roared and the spectral glare danced beneath his skin as he gripped the reaping hook with trembling hands. “One more insolent word and I harvest your scent now!”
Adam screwed his face into a fierce snarl of hate. “Go on!” he bawled. “Cut me down; I’m the same age as your youngest son. Do you think he’ll be proud of what you’ve done here? When you and your kind have slaughtered us all, I hope your guilt hounds you to everlasting torment. That remorse you spoke of in Lord Richard’s garden – I pray it haunts and harries you until the end of your days.”
The Iribian towered over him and raised the vicious weapon, ready to strike, but Adam was not finished. A sudden remembrance blazed in his thoughts and he reached inside his tunic, bringing out a broken, thorny stem from which a bedraggled spray of white petals dropped to the floor.
“Here!” the apprentice cried, his voice blaring with condemnation. “There’s the only absolution you’ll ever receive. Damn you to the eternal fires!” And he violently thrust the eglantine he had plucked from the palace garden straight into Brindle’s face.
Incensed, the Iribian snatched the bloom from him and crushed it in his fist.
Holding his breath, Adam waited for the reaping hook to come razoring for his throat but Brindle made no other move. He stood there, transfixed, with his pale, luminous hand shaking and outstretched, his eyes locked on the pathetic, scattered rose petals which had fallen to the deck. Even though the filthy Thames had sullied them, his delicate senses captured the faintest echo of their former perfume. Abruptly, his savage mind flooded with the memory of that sunlit afternoon in Malmes-Wutton.
“The treasure beyond rejoicing – the breath of innocence.” The words came croaking from his trembling lips. The battle he had thought was over erupted within him once more and his face distorted grotesquely with unbearable pain and suffering.
Tightly, he squeezed the broken stem until the thorns pierced his palms and glimmering blood trickled between his fingers. Confusion and madness fulminated in his eyes and he blundered back, casting the reaping hook to the floor as a terrible, despairing screech left his lungs.
Adam watched in amazement. The Iribian’s flesh throbbed with that deathly light more fiercely than ever and the veins in his temples shone like jags of frozen lightning. Howling, he fell against the canopy and slid down the canvas, writhing in anguish as the two opposing sides of his nature strove for supremacy.
In the gloom of the steerage hold, a stooping skeletal shape left the cabin and prowled forward.
The apprentice thought quickly. He ought to run to the tiller and return the caravel to the river. He didn’t want to spend another minute sealed in this cramped space with that deranged monster. Then, watching Brindle squirm helplessly on the floor, an insane impulse urged Adam to go to his aid.
“Don’t be a fool!” he upbraided himself. “This is your chance: take up his knives and slay him – kill him now. He was going to murder you – do it, Coggy. It’s you or him.”
Slowly, the boy reached for the abandoned reaping hook, all the while keeping his eyes trained on the Iribian. Brindle was shrieking in pain, his features contorted in terrible spasms as his pale flesh rippled and quivered with jolts of light. At that moment he was as vulnerable as an infant; ridding the uplifted isles of his terror would be the simple work of a moment.
Adam’s fingers closed about the hilt of the reaping hook. It was wet and sticky with blood and, with a yell of disgust, the boy flung it away. Staring at his palm which was now stained crimson, he was appalled at what he had been about to do. Yet the boy was also angry with himself – what other solution was there? Brindle had to die.
“But I can’t do it!” he cried wretchedly. “I can’t kill him.”
While he shivered and wiped his palm, he failed to see a tall, sinister figure emerging from the shadows behind. The Iribian’s screeches were deafening now and Adam did not hear the clink of chains as a towering framework advanced with lumbering steps.
Brindle’s torment increased, while the slit in his forehead flared and pulsed, gulping at the air with frantic movements like a cruel mouth choking for breath.
Stunned and bewildered, Adam watched as the Iribian’s howls reached a crescendo.
“No more!” Brindle screeched suddenly. “No more!”
Raising a quivering fist, he drove the rose’s thorny stem deep into his gaping nostril. The ensuing scream was hideous. Bright, shining blood flowed down over his face and coursed through his hair as the thorns gouged and tore into the flesh.
“Brindle!” the boy shouted. “What are you—?” With no thought for his own safety, Adam moved nearer. Before he could reach the Iribian, the deck juddered under them both and at last he heard the clang of stomping metal. Recognising that terrible, baneful sound, he whirled around in horror.
Rearing into the canopy’s high shadows, the Torture Master loomed over him once more and the boy whimpered with fear as that leering mask swivelled from side to side, gloating at the prospect of finally fulfilling its earlier task.
Terrified, Adam staggered away and went reaching for the discarded reaping hook, but the Spanish mechanical came lumbering after him, its iron claws and implements of torment thrashing through the air.
Just as the apprentice’s fingertips brushed against the bloodsoaked hilt for the second time, the terrible pincers clamped sharply about his shoulders and drove into his muscles. Adam yelled, but still he strained and struggled until his hand closed about the weapon. Then he was hauled off the deck and hoisted high.
Oblivious to the nightmare that had come among them, Brindle lay on the floor, staring at his open, bleeding palm, his forehead a tattered mass of torn flesh. The phosphorescent flames which blushed his skin were failing and the blood that streamed down his face was darkening to a putrid orange.
A blast from the Torture Master’s bellows fired the coals in its brazier and a long poker was thrust into their centre. Hanging by his shoulders, Adam kicked against the broad, grilled chest, causing the chains within that awful frame to clank wildly. Another whoosh from the bellows made the coals glow an intense yellow and a moment later the poker was withdrawn.
“Not this time, you rickety scrap of dungeon rust!” the boy cried and he lashed out with the twin knives, smiting them against the poker’s hinged rod with all his strength. There was a scream of metal and a spurt of flame as the bar was sliced in two and the length of severed iron clattered to the floor. The bellows roared in fury and the stump of the mutilated rod fl
icked uselessly on the mechanical’s powerful arm. Adam felt the vicelike pincers tighten round his shoulders and he yowled in pain. Extending its limbs with a shrill squeak, the Torture Master lifted the apprentice even higher and shook him violently.
Adam cried out. An iron claw shot towards his hand and the reaping hook was dashed from his grasp. Through the air the blades went spinning, glittering a deadly wheel of reflected light through the shadows until they flew through the canopy, shredding a gaping rent in the canvas. Down through the dark night, the Iribian’s weapon spiralled, plummeting eighteen fathoms to the Thames where it sliced into the water and vanished in the polluted depths.
High overhead, silhouetted against the titanic figure of Gog, the ascending caravel looked like a child’s toy. The night airs tugged and pulled at the ripped, billowing canvas, tearing an even larger hole in the awning. When those chill winds blew upon Adam’s face, he knew that as soon as the tidal breath propelled the night boat beyond the aperture, the airless void would kill both he and Brindle. Through the fluttering gash in the canopy he saw the massive head of the statue come into view; at any moment the barbarian’s painted face would turn and catapult them to their deaths.
Yet there was nothing he could do. Manacles snapped about his wrists and the pincers released his shoulders, only for his ankles to be snared in tight iron bands. The boy’s hands were thrust above his head and, in measured, ratcheted degrees, the Torture Master began to increase its height, transforming into one of the most agonising instruments – the rack.
Adam felt his back stretch and his vertebrae click. “No!” he beseeched. “You’re ripping me in two!”
On the deck, Brindle was quivering. Goose-flesh crawled over every inch of his form as the livid light ebbed from his veins. Drenched in cold sweat and oozing blood, he continued to stare at the thorns in his palm until the boy’s shrieks penetrated his jumbled thoughts and he lifted his head in a daze.
The scene before him was horrible. Adam was screaming, his spine pulled to an impossible tautness. With his head thrown back, he saw the Iribian gazing at him and screeched for help. “Please!” he cried. “Brindle!”
But the balm merchant remained on the deck, the dying flickers of the ghostly sheen dissipating through his skin and, with his last breath, Adam cursed him. “You demon!” he choked. “I hope you rejoice in the stink of my death as much as you did the others. Hades take you!”
The boy’s hoarse voice rose to a squeal as his back cracked and the repugnant grin on the Torture Master’s mask filled his vision. A reverberating jangle of gears and grinding wheels suddenly boomed from inside the great image of Gog and its huge head began to rotate, turning towards the night boat.
Adam’s bitter words blistered into Brindle’s mind, burning themselves on his conscience. At last the final, lingering traces of the deathscent were expurgated from his veins and his true self gained mastery of his soul. A barrage of emotions exploded in the Iribian’s mind, but fury and horror overrode all else when he realised what was happening and the noble Brindle who had valiantly fought against Old Scratch sprang to his feet in a righteous fury.
“Release him!” he commanded fiercely.
The mechanical ignored the demand.
“Put the boy down!”
But the Torture Master obeyed only the Count de Feria and his instructions earlier that evening had been clear – the children were to suffer and die.
Enraged, Brindle rushed forward and seized hold of the vile automaton, pulling on the upraised arms. With a shudder the mighty limbs began to yield to his formidable strength, bending in his straining grasp, and an agonised cry of relief burst from Adam’s lips.
Mirroring the movement of the massive effigy outside, the Torture Master’s mask slid around to face this unwelcome, powerful assailant and its internals clanged discordantly.
“I said put the child down,” Brindle repeated, heaving the iron limbs out of shape to ease the boy’s torment.
In defiance, a spiked club swung out from the mechanical’s thigh, striking the Iribian in the side. He crumpled to the deck, relinquishing his hold on the mechanical’s arms which redressed the distortion and bounced back into position, forcing Adam to screech with renewed agonies.
Brindle’s brows creased in wrath and he threw himself against that infernal creation, avoiding the sadistic implements which flashed out to hit him.
“The ichors!” Adam wept. “Smash them.”
Shielded behind the iron lattice of the Torture Master’s armoured chest, the phials containing the cordials were out of Brindle’s reach. Bawling in thwarted rage, he leaped away but returned an instant later brandishing one of the murdered crewmen’s rapiers.
“I will not tell you again!” he thundered and, raising the sword over his head, he plunged it deep into the nightmare’s internal workings. There was a shattering of glass and yellow bile squirted into the Iribian’s face, but he held on grimly and tried to wrench the foil free for a second destroying thrust. But it would not budge; iron-toothed cogs bit into the steel and chains screeched on their gears, mangling the rapier in a tenacious grip.
A blast of outrage whistled from the bellows as the sudden imbalance of humours inflamed the fury of the Torture Master to a fearful intensity. The manacles holding Adam flew apart and the vengeful device rounded on Brindle.
Yelping, the apprentice slumped to the deck – and at that moment the night boat shook. The tidal breath came galing from the mouth of Gog and tremendous forces began to wind about the vessel’s timbers. The ruined canopy was torn asunder and a ragged length ripped free of its framework, to fly twisting into the funnel of air. For a brief moment it whirled in the howling cyclone. Then, with a tremendous rush, it was sucked out into the void.
Around the caravel those squalling forces twined and the din from the canopy’s flapping shreds was deafening.
Staring up at the space beneath the giant’s axe, Adam looked at the empty darkness beyond. Already he was finding it difficult to breathe. From the deck those objects not fixed down were snatched by the wind and sent shooting through the aperture, while torn rigging lashed perilously like whips overhead.
His long hair streaming wildly in the tempest, Brindle ran to the aftcastle and burst into the steerage hold. But the Torture Master was at his heels and the doorway splintered around its demented, invincible bulk as it came pounding in pursuit, every instrument of torment bristling with malign intent. The low ceiling buckled and smashed before its unstoppable might and the terrible arms demolished the remaining planks, flinging them up into the screaming storm.
Racing to the tiller, the Iribian slammed his body into it and the night boat pitched in the sky, swinging sharply starboard. Flailing its harrowing devices, the mechanical was hurled off balance and went crashing through the wall of de Feria’s cabin. The spiked iron head rammed into the hull, bursting through the timbers and, from the brazier in its stomach, the glowing coals exploded. Many went showering down to hiss in the Thames far below, but others shot across the floor where they scorched and smouldered, igniting instant fires.
Brindle’s action had jolted the caravel out of the vortex and it dropped alarmingly. The keel collided with Gog’s enormous shoulder and an almighty tremor shivered up the three masts. With a crackling groan, the mizzen yard broke free and toppled from the heavens, its sail fluttering after it. Foundering in the air, the night boat twirled downward, scraping against the giant figure as it sank.
Still holding the tiller, Brindle tried to steady her. The caravel veered unsteadily around in a yawing arc and pulled away from the statue, meandering away from the river and over the rooftops. Only then did the Iribian notice, with dismay, bright flames licking up from the wreckage of de Feria’s cabin.
Running on deck, he found Adam still lying on the floor, weak and aching.
“The ship is burning, Cog Adam,” Brindle told him urgently. “It cannot remain aloft much longer. I’m going to return her to the water as quickly as I c
an but you must be prepared to jump clear, lest she breaks up too soon.”
Fearfully, the apprentice stared up into his mutilated face and was relieved to see that no trace of that brutish primitive remained. The dignity which had once seemed divine and had won the affection of Mistress Dritchly had returned to the Iribian’s countenance and the boy smiled. “Brindle,” he said warmly. “It’s really you, you’re back. Henry was right – I should not have doubted.”
Taking Adam in his arms, Brindle lifted him gently to his feet. “I deserve no glad greeting,” the balm trader uttered gravely. “The guilt is still mine. Many perished at my hands this night. There can be no escaping that. I must submit to your justice and suffer the consequence.”
“The Queen will have you executed.”
“Then so be it. If it brings an end to this evil I will gladly welcome …”
His words died as he remembered the device he had made to summon the rest of his kind and he reached for the velvet pouch hanging at his waist. But the cord which tied it to his belt had been cut and he turned a horrified expression on Adam.
“The beacon!” he cried. “I have lost it! The call must be silenced – my people must never find this realm.”
As the leaping flames spread to the rigging, both of them searched the deck, but the pouch was nowhere to be found.
“It isn’t here!” Adam called. “The tidal breath must have hurled it out into the void.”
Fiery shreds rained down as the triangular sails began to blaze. Sheltering the boy from them, Brindle led him back to the shattered ruin of the steerage hold.
“Will the beacon still guide your kind here?” Adam demanded.
“Not if it journeys far from this forsaken region,” he muttered, stumbling through plumes of thick black smoke and avoiding the fierce heats to return to the tiller. “We must set hope against despair and pray that my race never discover this—”