The Feast of Ravens

by Andrew Beasley

  The Feathered Man was taken aback by the aggression of Ben’s assault, and raised its long bony arms to shield its head from the strikes of the quarterstaff. Ben took all his anger, pain and guilt and channelled them into the movement of his weapon.

  Jago Moon had trained him well, Ben realized, as he landed blow after blow on the creature. Seeing a gap in its defences, Ben switched tactics and lunged his staff straight into the Feathered Man’s stomach. With a certain satisfaction, Ben saw its muscles contract with the force of his blow and heard a winded gasp emerge from the fallen angel’s throat.

  But the Feathered Man was not beaten yet.

  It extended its huge wings to their full expanse and lifted itself into the air so that it was beyond the reach of Ben’s swinging staff. Then it hovered, its legs drawn up, the talons of its feet bared towards Ben, like a kestrel waiting to snatch a rabbit.

  Ben feinted to the right and the creature matched his move. He made for the left and it followed him again. And when the fallen angel went in for the kill it dropped on him with incredible speed. Ben tried to use his quarterstaff to knock those dreadful talons away but he was just too slow. The Feathered Man locked its feet tight around Ben’s throat and then began to drag him up into the sky, hissing in triumph.

  Ben was convinced that his head was going to become detached from his body. Frantically he tried to get his own fingers around the creature’s elongated toes and prise them away from his throat before his windpipe burst, but the Feathered Man squeezed all the harder until the blood pounded in Ben’s ears.

  With a sense of resignation Ben stopped struggling. He couldn’t budge those savage talons and he couldn’t escape the final image of Mother Shepherd’s face. Wouldn’t it be better for the Watchers if he let the Legion kill him now and have done with it?

  The veins at his temples stood proud as the pressure around his throat increased. His lungs were a furnace. His vision began to swim… The flow of oxygen ceased to Ben’s brain and he sensed his body starting to shut down as the Feathered Man’s claws continued to squeeze the life out of him.

  A face swam into his mind: his father, Jonas Kingdom.

  Then Jago Moon. The Weeping Man.

  Lucy Lambert…

  Nathaniel!

  Ben opened his eyes in time to see the lamp post rushing towards him. He knew that he would only get one chance. He loosened his shoulder pack so that the stout leather strap was hanging free, like a noose. He hoped and prayed that the Feathered Man would fly close enough for this to work. When he had positioned the strap as best he could, Ben clung to the fallen angel’s ankles with all his might, and braced himself for the moment of impact.

  Luck, or perhaps a higher power, was on Ben’s side, and as his bag snagged on the lamp post, Ben was yanked backwards with a terrible jolt. Amazingly, the strap didn’t rip free from the pack as Ben had feared, and instead it yanked the Feathered Man to a halt in mid-flight. Ben was grateful that he had been holding tight to the Feathered Man’s ankles, as that had probably saved his neck from being snapped. It also meant that, as the stunned creature loosened its grip, Ben kept a firm hold, and as he fell, suspended from the top of the lamp post by his backpack, he was able to swing the Feathered Man downwards in an arc, like a pendulum, until the creature’s face hit the cast-iron upright.

  Letting go of the fallen angel, Ben tugged his bag free and dropped down onto the cobbles.

  Behind him he could hear the Feathered Man writhing in pain. Its face was a broken mess, the beak shattered. It gave a final dreadful screech and then, to Ben’s relief, it died.

  Ben felt no triumph, no joy.

  He had been the cause of two deaths that day. One Legionnaire. One Watcher.

  Ben turned up his collar and walked away into the mist, hoping to lose himself for ever.

  The battle of St Bart’s was over, for the moment. The Watchers had fought the Feathered Men off, although victory had come at a price. Several of the refugees were laid out beneath whatever blankets could be found. They were mostly elderly, their bodies not up to the demands of fighting, but some were young, and perhaps had been too brave for their own good.

  The Watchers that remained were battered and bruised, exhausted but still standing. Jonas Kingdom wore a bandage round his head where a Feathered Man had caught him with a glancing blow. Lucy had felt the rake of claws down her own arm, but she refused to make a fuss, binding it herself with her scarf, never abandoning her post on the harpoon gun.

  It was Josiah, the Weeping Man, who had won the day for them. They all knew that without his great skill with the sword there would have been twice as many casualties. Lucy had seen him battling with Feathered Men in the sky above her head, weeping as they left him no choice but to plunge his sword into their hearts.

  There was no rejoicing or celebration to mark the end of fighting, but a sense of quiet contemplation settled on them all as they tended to the wounded. They had survived, they were alive; that was a blessing, at least.

  When Jago Moon returned to the eyrie that peace was shattered.

  A deep and profound shock fell upon them all as they tried to make sense of the body that he was cradling tenderly in his arms. Then the tears began. Gently, Jago Moon lowered Mother Shepherd to the ground and sat silently at her side, his old fingers knitted with hers. Lucy crouched beside Mother Shepherd’s beautiful face. One by one, the other Watchers came and stood around in silence, their heads bowed, their eyes red.

  Mother Shepherd looked so serene, Lucy thought. She had always carried light within her and even in death her face shone. Jago Moon refused to speak, or perhaps wasn’t able to say what had happened, his jaws clenched tight in grief. But within moments, roof-runners were sent out to pass on the terrible news to every Watcher camp across the city. First one church bell began to ring mournfully, then another, and another, until across the rooftops of London all of the Watchers were united in their grief.

  After a few minutes the tolling stopped; a final solemn note rolled out across the fog. It was the darkest day that Lucy had known since her father and brother had been taken from her. Death, in all its misery, had found her again.

  The emptiness they all felt was vast and aching, and yet Mother Shepherd would want them to continue, Lucy knew that. There wasn’t time for mourning. The Feathered Men had found their makeshift base at St Bart’s and could return at any moment. So for now they had to up sticks and move again. The Watchers worked together, and as quickly as they were able, they decamped to the roof of Tranter’s Temperance Hotel on Bridgewater Square. It was really no distance from the hospital at all, although with their army of walking wounded, it may as well have been a hundred miles away. But the main advantage Tranter’s had was that the roof was just below the level of the mist and so at least it made them harder to spot.

  Jonas Kingdom and his team were making excellent progress with the Liberator under the most extreme circumstances, but there was a fear at the back of Lucy’s mind that it might all be just too late. She was also aware that, as tired as they were, they wouldn’t be able to rest at Tranter’s for long. The Watchers would have to keep moving if they were to have any chance of staying one step ahead of the Legion now.

  Jago Moon drew her to one side, where Josiah was waiting patiently. She looked at their faces and braced herself.

  “Mother Shepherd spoke to me, before…” Moon’s voice cracked. “…before it was all over. Ben was with her at St Paul’s and they argued. There was an accident and…well, you know the rest… She kept insisting that it was her fault, that she had allowed Ben to carry more responsibility than he was able to bear.”

  Lucy tried to piece the picture together in her mind, horrified at the image she created. “What was the fight about?”

  “The Coin,” said Josiah. “Ben is carrying the last of the Thirty.”

  The Coin! Lucy was shocked. Two emotions clashed inside her. Pity: she couldn’t imagine how much torment Ben must have felt carrying that cursed thing a
round the whole time. And anger: how could he have been so stupid? Risking his life…risking all their lives…and now Mother Shepherd was gone.

  “So what next?” she said.

  “We find him,” said Moon. “We need Ben, now more than ever.”

  Although the fog still made blind men of them all, somehow Ben had managed to find his way back to Old Gravel Lane. He wondered if perhaps there would be some comfort for him here, back where he had belonged before he found himself in the middle of a war. This was the street where his family had lived; it was on these cobbles that he had larked around with the other street urchins, throwing jacks and picking pockets; getting his ears boxed. Grand times for the most part – except for the grinding poverty and the constant hunger that gnawed in his belly, obviously.

  It all seemed a lifetime ago. Coming back now, Ben felt like a stranger.

  He was all but alone on the street, a solitary shadow stumbling through the fog. Occasionally he saw the outline of another wanderer in the white, but they always kept their distance, moving away as quickly as possible. Probably weary of being accosted, Ben thought; there was no safety in London any more. Everyone with any sense had shut, locked and barred their door. The shops were boarded up. All the shutters were down. Planks had been hammered hastily over windows and signs painted to deter looters: No valuables inside. Or the rather more direct: An Englishman’s home is his castle and I shall defend it!

  Welcome home, Benny boy. Ain’t life grand?

  The Lane had always been full of noise and bustle, and more than anything it was the strange stillness which unnerved Ben now. The few sounds that did reach out through the mist brought no reassurance: muttering behind closed doors; a woman mumbling incoherently; a cat hissing at some unseen foe; a bottle rolling on the cobblestones; a child calling for a mother who wasn’t coming home.

  It was like a ghost town, he thought. Even the docks were silent, the cargo ships grounded by the uncanny fog. He brought his face up close to the window of a sailors’ outfitters. Normally it would have been full of bright blue and red flannel shirts, hammocks, nor’westers, canvas trousers, rough pilot coats, and ship’s biscuits “guaranteed to keep in any climate”, but the window had been smashed and the contents were all long gone. Ben studied himself in a broken shard of glass still clinging to the frame. It was the first time he had seen his reflection since the fog had fallen and he was shocked by what he saw.

  He looked older, for one thing, and tired too. He had lost some weight in his cheeks, so that the face that stared back at him was squarer than the one he remembered, beginning to leave childhood behind.

  So this was the face of the boy who killed Mother Shepherd.

  There could be no going back, not after what he had done. Perhaps once he had dreamed that he truly could be the Hand of Heaven, but that path was closed now.

  So where did that leave him?

  On my own and on the run again, he supposed. The story of my life.

  A shadow moved across the window and a hot breath on the back of his neck warned Ben that he was wrong on one count – he wasn’t alone.

  He spun, fists raised, ready for a fight. When he saw who it was, Ben put his hands down but kept his guard up.

  It was a girl, with cropped hair that stood up at odd angles. A girl with green leather gloves, a velvet jacket and emerald eyes which flashed at him through the gloom.

  “Hello, Benjamin,” Ruby purred. “Where did you get that tatty old hat?”

  “I thought you were dead, Ruby.”

  “I make it a rule never to judge by appearances,” she replied.

  “Why are you here, Ruby?” Ben said angrily. He didn’t want to be near anybody. People got hurt when he was around.

  “You know I like to keep an eye out for you, Ben,” she said. “You always seem to be getting yourself into scrapes.”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Really?” She arched an eyebrow.

  “I’ve left the Watchers, that’s all,” he said. The sound of those words spoken out loud was shocking to his ears.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Ruby.

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because I know you better than you know yourself, Ben Kingdom.” She said it with a wink and Ben felt the pull of her emerald eyes.

  “Go on then,” he challenged, his voice softening. “Prove it.”

  Ruby paused. “You’ve got the gift of the gab and you think you look the business. When you were younger you dreamed of adventure but now you’re in the middle of one, you’re not so sure. You always wondered if there was something special about you, but you’re afraid of the responsibility of leadership because in your heart you don’t want to let anyone down.”

  “Anything else?”

  “You like pork pies.”

  “Everyone likes pork pies.”

  “Not as much as you, they don’t,” Ruby continued. “Was I close?”

  “Nah,” said Ben. “Nowhere near. Except for the bit about pies.”

  Except on every point.

  “What makes you think you’re an expert on me anyway?” said Ben.

  “Because I like you,” Ruby answered. “Because I listen to the things that you say when we’re together.”

  Ben hesitated. He had been down this path before and look where that had got him.

  And yet here was someone who knew about him and still wanted to be his friend. There couldn’t be too many of those left in London. Ben felt himself slipping back into his old ways; pretending that nothing bothered him, acting as Jack the Lad to make up for the ache of guilt and fear and shame inside.

  Ruby smiled. “I think we make a good team, Ben. Won’t you join me?”

  Just then, an idea occurred to Ben. Ruby could get him into the Under. Ruby could lead him to Nathaniel. Ben still might be able to rescue his brother. He smiled in return.

  Unexpectedly, Ruby flung her arms around Ben’s neck. He didn’t understand what she was doing until she stepped away and he felt the folds of a silk scarf around his neck.

  “Why did you do that?” said Ben.

  Ruby shrugged. “I can’t have you going around looking like a tramp, can I?”

  It was a nice scarf, Ben had to admit, as he tucked it inside his jacket and turned up his collar.

  “How do I look?” he asked.

  Ruby smiled. “You’ll do.”

  “Lead on then, Miss Johnson,” said Ben, putting on his brave act. Same old, same old, he thought, as he followed her through the fog.

  Ben couldn’t imagine how his life would ever move on from that morning. Mother Shepherd had told him how powerful forgiveness was, and yet he doubted that he would ever be able to forgive himself. Josiah had taught Ben that life was all about choices, but more than that, the angel had explained that it was how a person reacts after they have made a bad choice that makes the difference between a life of purpose and a life wasted. But really, what choice did he have now? Ben asked himself. Mother Shepherd was dead because of him. What was he supposed to do? Go to the Watchers and say, “Sorry I killed your great leader, please forgive me… What’s for tea?”

  And yet the possibility of being reunited with Nathaniel kept a spark of hope glowing inside him. Maybe they could save each other?

  Ruby lifted a manhole cover to reveal a ladder. Silently Ben followed her down the rungs, letting the darkness of the tunnel swallow him completely.

  Ruby had promised him that he could lay low in the Under. She said that he could stay there for a while and no one need know. Unfortunately they hadn’t gone ten yards when he was spotted. The man obviously recognized him and immediately scurried off back the way he’d come. After that, the news of Ben’s return seemed to spread like wildfire. No matter which tunnel Ruby took, it felt as if they were expected. Faces peered out at them from behind doors, people stopped and gawped. First in ones and twos, then in groups. Standing. Staring.

  And then the murmuring started.

  It’s him!r />
  He’s the one!

  That’s Ben Kingdom!

  Whichever way they turned, they couldn’t escape the strange whispering mob. Ben and Ruby exchanged an anxious glance.

  Picking up their pace, they pelted away together along the corridor, trying to put some distance between themselves and the crowds. Ben soon began to recognize the tunnels and had to push down a sense of dread. Ruby was taking him back to where it had all begun.

  He would rather be anywhere else and yet Ben had no choice but to keep running.

  I’ll find you, Nathaniel. And then we can both get the hell out of here.

  “Hello, lads, did you miss me?” Ben stood in the barracks’ doorway and did his best to sound casual, as if he had nipped out for a bag of chestnuts and was late getting back. He didn’t want to give these dangerous boys even a hint of the vulnerability he felt inside. However, judging by the way they were all looking at him, Ben could tell they weren’t having any of it.

  There was unfinished business between them, after all. Such as Ben abandoning the Legion the last time he had been here and bringing down a length of tunnel on their heads as a leaving present. Plus there’d been that little scuffle just last night.

  Hans Schulman regarded him coldly, his face more world-weary than Ben had ever seen it. Alexander Valentine didn’t appear to have moved since Ben had left months ago; he was still lying on his bunk. He was one step nearer the grave, Ben guessed, judging by the pale blue tint of his lips and the red bubbles he blew each time he coughed. Jimmy Dips was there, nursing his resentment. Then there was Munro, the hunchback, who always reminded Ben of a mistreated animal: nervous and subservient but waiting for his chance to bite back. Beside him was Buster, his three-legged bulldog, who took this opportunity to welcome Ben by hopping closer and peeing on his foot.

  John Bedlam was there too, the little yob, still yearning for a fight. And Mickelwhite, obviously ready to pick things up where they’d left off.

  Ben felt their eyes drilling into him.