The Feast of Ravens

by Andrew Beasley

The Watchers stood silently in the belfry of St Mary-le-Bow and listened to the sounds of a city destroying itself. In the East End it was said that if you were born within the sound of these Bow bells then you were a true Cockney. It was sad, Ben thought, that if you were anywhere within the sound of the Bow bells now, it probably meant that your life was falling apart around you.

  Mother Shepherd had summoned them and her expression was grave. “This is the worst day I have ever seen,” she began. “These are the worst words that I have ever spoken…”

  Ben held his breath. Mother Shepherd was old and she was beautiful, but there was flint in her voice.

  “The Legion are only days away from taking control of London, possibly Great Britain.”

  Ben gasped. “But what about the Queen?” he said. “Old Vic won’t take it lying down.”

  “Queen Victoria has been kidnapped,” said Mother Shepherd. “Mr. Sweet has also removed the Prime Minister and taken his place. Our spy in the Under has told us that Sweet has also removed the other six members of the Council of Seven.”

  “So Sweet is the only one pulling the strings in the Legion, then,” said Ben.

  Mother Shepherd nodded. “I had always hoped that it would not come to this,” she continued. “But as of now, we must consider ourselves at war. The Watcher way is that of peace, but the prospect of our nation under Legion rule is too terrible to contemplate. We have no choice…we must rise up in defiance.”

  “Kill or be killed,” said Jago Moon, scrubbing his hand over his stubbled head.

  “I did not say that, my old friend,” said Mother Shepherd. “Violence is still the act of a coward, but we shall defend ourselves and the innocent. We will place ourselves in harm’s way to save the lives of strangers. The Watchers will be the breakwater against this tide of hatred. We still do not aim to kill…we want to stop the Legion, but I think we all know that some lives will be lost.”

  “On both sides,” said Ben.

  A howl issued from Josiah’s lips, a cry of sadness and regret that erupted with such force it almost tore the air around it. This was the mighty warrior angel as Ben had first met him, the Weeping Man; full of sadness at the foolish ways of men.

  “There is more,” said Josiah. “In three days’ time, when the clock tolls midnight, and the twelfth of March becomes the thirteenth, the Feast of Ravens will begin. That is the night when the powers of darkness are at their most potent. The Legion believe that if there is a coronation on that black night in conjunction with a sacrifice, if someone is mad or foolish or wicked enough to place the Crown of Corruption on their head, then it would herald a reign without end.”

  “Although the Watchers have done their best over the centuries to hide the thirty coins of Judas and scatter them to the four corners of the globe, the Legion have tracked them all down. All but one, that is,” said Mother Shepherd pointedly. “If we can keep that last foul Coin out of their grasp, then the Crown – their great weapon – will remain incomplete. It will still be capable of unimaginable evil and destruction, but we will, at least, have a chance of defeating Sweet and the Legion.”

  Ben shifted uncomfortably, the Coin like a burning coal in his pocket.

  “You said Sweet needed a sacrifice,” said Ben.

  Josiah and Mother Shepherd exchanged glances.

  “There’s no easy way to tell you, Ben…but our spy thinks that the intended victim is your brother, Nathaniel.”

  “Over my dead body!” Ben snapped. “If they hurt Nathaniel, I’ll…” His fingertips brushed the Coin in his pocket and Ben found his thoughts were trapped in an angry world of red.

  “Benjamin,” said Mother Shepherd. “Look at me!”

  There was something about her voice that pierced through Ben’s rage. He guiltily let the Coin fall back, and felt its influence receding.

  “We know that you can stop the Legion, Ben,” she said, her own voice level and soothing. “And we will save your brother.”

  Part of Ben wanted to give her the Coin then, be shot of the damned thing. And yet… And yet…why not keep hold of it, for just a little while longer? It was safer with him, wasn’t it? It made him feel so strong, after all.

  “Does the spy know where Nathaniel is being held?” said Ben.

  “I’m sorry, Ben,” said Moon. “He did at first, but apparently Sweet keeps moving him. All we know is that the Feast is going to be held at the Tower of London.”

  “So we’d better tear the city apart to find him,” said Ben. “Who’s with me?” he asked, walking away without waiting for a reply.

  “He is the Hand of Heaven,” said Mother Shepherd, when she and Josiah were alone in the belfry. “I can see the leader rising up in him already.”

  “Is that why you haven’t taken the Coin from him?” Josiah asked.

  Mother Shepherd paused, taken aback. “How long have you known that Ben has it?”

  “All along,” Josiah replied. “The same as you.”

  “Do you think that anyone else suspects?”

  “Not in the Watchers, no.” Josiah smiled. “I think they mostly put his temperament down to his red hair.”

  “Do you think I’ve been foolish to let him hang on to it?”

  “Not foolish,” said Josiah, “but maybe not wise.”

  “If I take the Coin from him – if you take the Coin from him – then its hold on Ben will remain as strong as ever; he will always yearn for it, like a drunkard for the bottle. But when he gives it up of his own accord, that will be the moment when the power of temptation is broken. Then we will know that he has accepted his destiny.”

  Josiah nodded. “Let’s hope he makes that choice soon.”

  “And you promise not to intervene before then?”

  “Not unless it becomes absolutely necessary,” Josiah agreed. He looked up at the dark sky. “I must leave you now, good Mother, I have a family matter to attend to.”

  “Godspeed,” said Mother Shepherd and Josiah walked away.

  Left alone, Mother Shepherd gazed out over the stricken city. “Oh Benjamin,” she breathed softly. “Please find the strength inside to do the right thing… Please prove that I’m right to have placed all our lives in your hands.”

  The Weeping Man reached the edge of the roof and threw himself into the embrace of the air, his wings emerging from the slits in his coat and carrying him high up above the grasp of the smog and smoke. Since he had been called to aid the Watchers he had lived among them and done his best to fit in. He had worn their clothes and eaten their food. And he had spent most of the time on his feet. But the air was his natural element. He was an angel, a servant of the Uncreated One, and he was born for the skies.

  Part of him felt a pang of guilt as he enjoyed the rush of wind beneath his wings. By necessity Josiah kept his true form hidden most of the time, but this blanket of fog, which had brought such misery to thousands, allowed him the brief opportunity to soar openly without fear of being seen from the ground. However, he had not left Mother Shepherd simply in pursuit of pleasure; Josiah was searching for another angel, someone he had known a lifetime ago in a different realm.

  Back then his name had been Moloch, but now he had chosen a new title for himself.

  Josiah was hunting for the Nightmare Child.

  Giggling, the Nightmare Child skipped through the streets of London.

  In the fog he met a woman, afraid and lost. He smiled at her and showed her her children, struggling beneath a swarm of beetles. He let himself into a grand house where he amused himself by picking out a tune on the piano, making sure that he was never seen by the lady of the house, of course. Playing the same keys over and over, until the poor confused woman knew his song by heart. He left her, sitting in the corner of the music room with her knees drawn up to her chest while she rocked back and forth, singing the tune to herself.

  No two nightmares were exactly the same. He was the creaking on the stairs, the tapping on the windowpane, the turning of the door handle. He was the shadow tha
t moved on its own, the face with no mouth, the undertaker who nailed the coffin lid down in spite of the shouts from inside.

  Nathaniel Kingdom’s nightmare had been especially delicious. It involved his brother Benjamin and a wall built between them that Nathaniel desperately tried to tear down, scrabbling at the stonework until his fingers were raw.

  Nathaniel struggled for such a long time before he finally gave in to the madness. It had been glorious; the boy’s fear had tasted so sweet.

  The Nightmare Child grinned. This was quite his favourite game and he wouldn’t stop until all of London had joined in the fun.

  Where to play next? he wondered. And then an idea struck him that was so delightful that he clapped his little hands.

  It was time for a prison visit.

  Josiah found the Nightmare Child easily enough – he followed the sounds of distress.

  The ancient being was sitting cross-legged on the wall of Holloway Prison. Josiah circled twice and then landed beside him.

  The Nightmare Child smiled at him as he arrived. It was a sickening sneer.

  “I don’t know why you bothered to bring that,” said the Nightmare Child, his eyes on Josiah’s sword. “You and I both know that you won’t use it.”

  Josiah said nothing.

  “It has been such a beautiful day, Josiah,” said the Nightmare Child, giving a wistful sigh. “Such larks. I’m so glad you could join me. Why not have a seat?” He peered down into the prison yard. “I think you’re in time to see something special.”

  But Josiah did not sit; instead he crouched on his haunches, ready to launch himself into the air at a moment’s notice. He knew Moloch well enough not to let his guard down for a moment.

  “Moloch,” he addressed the fallen angel, “I wish we did not have to meet under these circumstances.”

  “Circumstances? Whatever do you mean?” Beneath them, under the choking fog, came the sounds of a prison in full riot. “I’ve only been making a few house calls,” the Nightmare Child said, smiling. “These human minds are so fragile, I find, so open to suggestion.” Wails of torment echoed up to greet them. “I think I might fly down later on and open the gates, just to see what happens. I never did approve of prisons.”

  “Which is a shame, considering where you will be going one day,” said Josiah, with flint in his voice.

  “And you’ll be there to bind the eternal chains around me I suppose, brother dear.”

  “I am ashamed to be called by that name,” Josiah replied.

  “I’m hurt,” said Moloch. “But the fact remains, you are my brother.”

  “Not since you left our home and followed the Burning Man.”

  “Picky, picky,” Moloch scoffed. “You always were the sensitive one. What is that name they’ve given you while you walk among them? The Weeping Man? You’re not going to cry now, are you?”

  “There’s no weakness in compassion,” Josiah countered.

  “Really?” The Nightmare Child filled his voice with mock amazement. “I can pick any one of these pitiful humans and if I threaten to hurt them I can make you jump around like a puppet trying to save them. Are you telling me that doesn’t make you weak?”

  “Why do you hate them so much?”

  “Why do you care for them at all?” Moloch snapped back.

  “I care for them because the Uncreated One cares for them. I don’t need any other reason.”

  “But their lives are so short and insignificant, their ambitions so limited.” He sounded incredulous. “Why should anyone be troubled if they live or die?”

  “Tread carefully,” Josiah warned. “You know that if I ask it, I could have an army of the angelic host join me now and we could sweep you and the Legion into the sea.”

  “Ha! We both know that is an empty threat. The Uncreated One will never allow the host to swoop in and save the day. He likes these humans to solve their own problems. You, dear brother, are all they have.”

  “You’re forgetting about the Hand of Heaven.”

  “What? That red-headed boy? He’ll be the Hand of Hell before the Feast of Ravens, take my word for it.”

  Josiah locked the Nightmare Child in his gaze and rose slowly to his feet. “I hoped that you might see the error of your ways, but I realize now that you are beyond redemption.”

  The Nightmare Child hissed, his face twisted with rage. “Redemption? Why should I want that? In three days’ time you will bow down to me!” he said, his own wings unfurling and carrying him into the air.

  “I pity you,” said Josiah as he flew away. “But I won’t shed a tear for you.”

  Ben’s plan was simple enough: find some filthy Legionnaires and make them tell him where Nathaniel was being held. There was nothing more that he could do on the Liberator – that was down to his pa and the engineers now – leaving Ben and his party free to hunt.

  Shouldering a fresh pack of Watcher supplies, Ben stood close to Jago Moon, with Lucy and Ghost. He knew that the old man’s keen ears were straining, picking up every nuance and vibration in the air around them, each movement of furtive feet, each whispered breath.

  “This way,” he rasped. “Stay close to old Jago Moon and you won’t go far wrong.” Obediently the young Watchers fell in behind him and let the blind man lead the way.

  His ears were searching for the telltale sounds which would alert him to the presence of the Legion. The Legion moved invisibly in tunnels beneath the pavements, but that did not mean that they couldn’t be heard when they were near enough to the surface. Moon had trained himself to pick out the echoes of subterranean footfalls, often accompanied by muted whispers. Next he would listen for the clang of a ladder being climbed, the creak of a trapdoor or the rasp of a metal cover being slid aside. Then the quality of the voices would change, from the muffled reverberation of the tunnel to the free resonance of the open air. Plus, Legionnaires would often give themselves away by muttering things about “Watcher scum” – that was always a good hint.

  They didn’t have long to wait before they found what they were searching for.

  Moon’s ears pricked up and his nose twitched in alarm. The harsh tang of paraffin. The chime of glass bottles, rattling together in a crate. The whisper of dark intent.

  The rasp of a phosphor match being struck.

  “Fire starters!”

  Mickelwhite struck the match and lit the rag. Bedlam picked up the bottle filled with paraffin and hurled it against the side of the warehouse. Jimmy Dips held the crate. Hans Schulman kept watch.

  They all wore thick woollen cowls that had been issued to them by the Quartermaster, the Legion’s notorious weaponsmith, and for an instant their shadowy faces were illuminated by the blossom of fire. They cheered as another bottle shattered against the wall, the huge splash of flames quickly feeding on the timbers. They felt the warmth of the flames on their faces – it felt good.

  “Right,” said Mickelwhite, “we can’t hang around here, gentlemen – you know Mr. Sweet’s instructions.”

  “But why?” asked Jimmy Dips. “I mean, it’s fun, scaring people an’ that. But what does the Legion get out of it?”

  Mickelwhite explained slowly, as if he were talking to an idiot. “Because what the Legion desires more than anything else is to be feared. Because when people are afraid of you they will do what you tell them to do.”

  Jimmy Dips still looked at him blankly. “And how does that help us?”

  “The Legion aren’t going to hide for much longer, Jimmy. Don’t you get it? It was never going to be about us simply choosing to live outside of the law. The plan was always that one day we would start making the laws. After the Feast of Ravens, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

  “But how are we going to do that, Captain?” said Jimmy.

  “Over my dead body!” an unexpected voice thundered, as Jago Moon charged at them.

  The old man was terribly quick. A single roundhouse kick knocked Hans Schulman flying into Jimmy Dips, sending the crate of par
affin bombs clattering to the ground. The bottles shattered on the cobbles, the broken glass glistening like scattered jewels in the light of the flames.

  Meanwhile, the stealthy, silent Watcher with a shaven head, the one they called “the Mute”, was walking rings round Bedlam. Mickelwhite watched out of the corner of his eye. Every time Bedlam launched one of his kicks or big swinging punches, the Watcher simply ducked beneath it or flicked it out of the way, and then countered with a short sharp punch of his own.

  Jimmy Dips was meant to be Mickelwhite’s squire, and as such he was supposed to rush to fight alongside him at times like this. However, Mickelwhite could see that Jimmy was far too occupied trying not to get himself beaten up by the Watcher girl they all knew as “Scarface”.

  Through the swirls of mist Mickelwhite’s eyes settled on the fourth Watcher in the group and he smiled as he pulled his sabre from its scabbard.

  “Ben Kingdom! You’re mine!” he shouted and charged towards him.

  Kingdom reacted far quicker than he had expected, easily ducking beneath his sabre slash and then drawing a sword of his own from a sheath slung across his back.

  “This will be fun,” Mickelwhite declared. Not waiting another moment, he lashed out towards Ben’s head, his sword missing by a whisper. Ben was not slow to respond however, planting a straight-legged kick in Mickelwhite’s stomach, his own blade licking out towards the captain’s cheek.

  Winded, Mickelwhite staggered backwards, bringing up his blade just in time to save himself.

  Noticing that the broken crate was now behind Ben, he launched a series of hacking blows designed to force the boy backwards in an attempt to make him fall. Ben blocked every slash that Mickelwhite rained upon him, but he stumbled as the back of his legs met the wooden box and his feet flew out from beneath him on the paraffin-slick cobbles. Ben hit the ground heavily, but before Mickelwhite could follow through, Ben sprang up from his prone position to land upright in a single fluid move.

  “Tell me where my brother is,” said Ben, “or I’m going to kick you all the way to Whitechapel.”