The Book of the Crowman (25 page)

The dawn light gathers strength, enabling Megan to see more clearly, but the thump of hooves is closer now.

She crests a small rise and comes out between two small patches of woodland. On the other side of this natural gateway, the land begins to look familiar and she realises that she can see both New Wood and Covey Wood from here.

Between them is the village where she was born, Beckby, her root in this land. I will not rest, she thinks. I
will
make it home.

The land speaks, its voice silent but vast in the approaching sunrise:

Everything you need will come to hand in the very moment of its requirement.

The gum clogging her muscles drains into the earth and is replaced with simple vigour. She is tired but she can run and the strength of every living thing in the morning twilight will run with her.

Megan gathers velocity down the incline from the gateway between the trees, racing across the familiar landscape. The earth here recognises the touch of her feet and her feet know this earth. A silent wind thrusts her forward. The extra speed is proof of magic but Megan’s elation at the wonder of it lasts only moments. That same breeze carries the howling of bloodhounds.

Gordon guessed they’d covered another four or five miles and dusk was coming down fast.

The A5 dipped and rose in long sections. As the sun set, they crested one final hill. The dirty red ball of the sun quenched itself into the dark horizon to their right. Ahead of them the A5 was dead straight for four miles or more – not a single kink in it. It passed between fields and alongside abandoned radio masts, around the bases of which a thick mist now twisted and tangled. The road cut through a distant and crumbling logistics park where trucks rusted in their dozens and vast, once-white warehouses had fallen in on themselves like wet cardboard.

At the limit of his vision, Gordon thought he could see a couple of wind turbines and the place where the A5 met the M1. But as the grimy, bloody light fled from the landscape, the view shrank and it was difficult to be sure of anything. Mist spilled from the fields and closed like a grey sea over the road.

Jerome nodded to their right.

“Looks like there’s a farmhouse down there. We’ll stop there for the night.”

Gordon looked but couldn’t see anything other than trees and fields, all becoming obscured by mist as the minutes passed.

“Where is it?”

Jerome pointed. He must have had a better vantage from his horse. Gordon looked again and thought he could just make out a grain silo between the trees. He couldn’t see a farmhouse, though. Not even any outbuildings.

“Listen,” he said. “It’s not far now and I don’t mind travelling at night. We should keep going.”

“My instructions are to bring both of you in safely. It isn’t wise to travel at night. We’ll stay here and leave at first light.”

“Jerome. Use your eyes, man. We’re almost at the rallying point. I need to get down there right now – it’s for the good of the cause, I promise you.”

Jerome brought his horse around and walked it right up to him. Gordon stood his ground. The horse breathed into his face and nuzzled his shoulder. Gordon smiled briefly and held the animal’s head.

“We’re stopping here,” said Jerome. “I have my orders.”

“Fuck your orders. Come on, Denise, let’s go. You can stay on your horse or you can walk. It’ll take a couple of hours, tops.”

She looked from Gordon to Jerome and back again.

“You know, if what the Chieftain says about the Ward is right, aren’t they going to have scouts and spies all over the place? I’m frightened, Gordon. I’d much rather travel during the day – like we did before.”

Two to one. Proving to Gordon that democracy was fundamentally flawed. He couldn’t stand the idea of not being with her tonight, of not being inside her. He had, of course, considered the danger of roving Ward scouts but they usually travelled in ones and twos. They’d have been easy enough to dispatch but Denise’s opinion changed things.

There was a compromise, of course. After spending some time with Denise, he could leave while she and Jerome were sleeping. Travelling alone at night, he’d be there as dawn rose or even earlier, allowing him to continue the search without too much of an interruption. And Jerome may have been an idiot, but Gordon knew he’d take Denise safely the rest of the way.

“OK, you win,” he said. “The farmhouse it is.”

Jerome wheeled his horse away and walked it off the A5 onto a side road just beyond the top of the rise. Denise’s horse followed its companion and Gordon walked along behind them. There wasn’t much to see; the mist grew thicker by the moment, seeping through the hedges and swirling around them.

Soon he was following the sound of hooves on tarmac rather than the sight of two horses. Considering Jerome had seen the farm from the A5, they seemed to walk a long way before they reached a gate. Once they passed through though, Gordon realised the First Guard had at least been right about something. He could now see the grain silo, outbuildings and the main farmhouse, all ranged around a broken and pitted yard.

He expected the house to be partially ruined or burned out by looters but when he got closer he could see not even the windows had been broken. He reached into his pocket for his knife. The place was in such good repair, the chances were the occupants had defended their territory with some vigour. If this was of any concern to Jerome, he didn’t show it. He dismounted and wrapped the reins of his horse over the top plank of a wooden fence bordering the sloping fields. From here Gordon could just make out the tops of a few radio masts poking up through the deepening fog. Other than that there was no sign of the A5 or any other feature of the land. He might have been looking out across a vast, grey lake.

Jerome helped Denise down from her horse and secured it beside his. He was a lot shorter without his mount, Gordon was amused to note, but he was bold; he opened the back door of the farmhouse like he owned the place and walked inside without any attempt to keep the noise down. Denise looked back and held her hand out to Gordon. By the time he’d reached her, though, she was already inside.

Jerome was rifling through the kitchen cupboards, bringing out tins and putting them on the counter. A couple of candles burned on the well-worn pine of the kitchen table. Jerome worked almost frantically in the shadows, releasing food and seasoning it with salt and pepper. Moments later, he handed Denise and Gordon a tin each. The lids had been cut open with a short knife blade he’d found in a drawer. Gordon noticed the cooker was a range, set up for solid fuel. If they gathered some wood they could get a fire going.

“Why don’t we eat this stuff hot?” he suggested.

“What’s the point?” asked Jerome.

Gordon sighed quietly. All of a sudden he was very tired of Jerome’s brash, careless attitude. Perhaps he’d have responded better if an order had been issued to cook the food.

“Never mind,” said Gordon. “I don’t suppose you found any cutlery, did you? Or are we dining with our fingers tonight?”

A spoon struck Gordon in the chest and clattered to the floor. After a moment, he picked it up and began to eat. His meal was a can of unflavoured butter beans. They tasted bitter.

“Did you check the dates on the cans?”

“They’re all fine,” said Jerome.

Gordon ate quietly. The quicker he and Denise could find a comfortable room to settle down in for the night, the better. His eyes met hers again and again in the flickering gloom and he saw in them her rising heat, just as he had seen it on every other night he’d spent with her since they’d sheltered by the river. Maybe staying in the farmhouse wasn’t such a bad idea.

The moment she placed her empty can on the table, Gordon stood up and reached out to her. This time she took his hand. He picked up one of the candles and held it out in front of them as he made for the corridor leading away from the kitchen.

“Sleep well, Jerome.”

The First Guard didn’t reply.

Megan takes the tiniest, most overgrown routes she knows towards the village outskirts, ducking through gullies, between hedges and along disused farm tracks. This extends the distance she has to run but it will slow the horses if not the dogs. The animal inside her rises to the chase, not like the fox to the hounds but like the wolf. She is leading them the way she wants them to come, knowing the territory is unfamiliar to them. Behind her, already far too close, erupt the curses from riders slowed by thickets and tracks treacherous with loose rock.

She keeps to the edge of the village, all the time making for New Wood. The last section between the cottages and the first pine trees is open and she pounds along through the dawn, the dogs and mounts, though somewhat slowed, still on her trail. As she reaches the edge of the wood, she hears the riders approaching fast and realises they must already have cleared the obstacles she’s led them through. Their hooves become a gathering of thunder, a storm close on her heels.

The path through the pines is narrow but not narrow enough to prevent her pursuers from following. The sounds of the dogs is frantic now as they finally close on their quarry. Their baying is interspersed with snarls and growls. Megan knows they are hungry, that they can sense their prize is close.

She flies into the clearing with the dogs’ teeth clashing at the space left by her feet, the snapping of their jaws as clean and neat as river rocks clapped together. With her sanctuary now in view and a cry of triumph about to leap from her throat, it is with disbelief and indignation at first that Megan feels hot, determined teeth take a hold her left calf, closing over the flesh and piercing it to the bone. Wet warmth bursts from every puncture in the blood-rich muscles.

And then she is falling; falling and still trying to run as the second dog’s jaws clamp around her right thigh, stronger and more painful than the first bite, its teeth like needles of fire. The weight of two bodies hauling on her brings Megan to a halt and the dogs begin to shake their heads, tearing open the wounds they’ve made, releasing more of Megan’s blood to steam at the touch of the cold morning air. The horsemen surround her, their mounts wide-eyed and snorting clouds of exertion, sweat rising from their sleek bodies to twirl and evaporate in the grey light.

Her strength and animal will leaks away with her freely running blood. Megan falls to the ground on her face. The two dogs, each attempting to claim its share, pull away from each other, opening her legs as they try to tear her in half. All she can do is wait for them to lose interest in the flesh there and go for her throat.

I almost made it back, she thinks. At least I have done a Keeper’s work.

She hears a hiss and a dull, wet snick. One of the dogs lets go of her. The same sound comes again, this time followed by series of high-pitched yelps. Megan looks up from the ground. Around her the horses rear and whinny. One dog stands, staring ahead and panting, an arrow directly through its head. The other chases itself in weakening circles, trying to remove a similar shaft that protrudes from between its heaving ribs. Soon the circling dog lies down, its teeth snapping weakly at the arrow.

Megan looks towards the roundhouse. Mr Keeper is naked but for his bandages and a bloodstained sheepskin tied at his waist. His chest is heaving as he supports himself against the door, a third arrow nocked in his longbow. The riders rein their horses in and turn to face him. He looks so thin and pale to Megan that he could be a spirit. She begins to crawl towards him but she can only pull herself with her arms; her legs won’t respond. His eyes meet hers for a second and he urges her on, levelling his next arrow at the riders.

She hears a voice from above and behind her but she doesn’t turn to see which of the men is speaking.

“This girl is a criminal. An arsonist. She’s destroyed my mill and we’re taking her back to Nunwych for trial.”

“She walks the Black Feathered Path, gentlemen. And your attack on her is a far greater crime than any mill fire she may have caused. She cannot be a criminal because she acts on my orders. No doubt she set fire to what was underneath your mill too, eh?”

There is no response at first. When it comes the man’s tone is low and threatening.

“You Keepers do nothing but hold the world back from the glory it could attain. We were close. We could have resurrected the magic of the past, the powers that were every man’s before the Black Dawn.”

Megan sees the weariness on Mr Keeper’s face.

“Those powers were the cause of the Black Dawn.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, I know it,” says Mr Keeper. “I know it very well.”

“You’re nothing but meddling old men with outdated views. You’ll all be relics of history within a generation.”

“We’ll see.”

Limping, his breathing laboured, Mr Keeper approaches the riders. The horses rear as he closes the distance, panic making them stamp their hooves. Megan hears him whisper to the horses, though his mouth doesn’t move.

No harm shall come to you.

The horses settle. When he is only a few paces away, Megan is able to see Mr Keeper’s wounds, bleeding freshly beneath the bandages. He should be lying still and resting.

“You look half dead already,” says the miller.

“It was you three who half killed me,” says Mr Keeper. “Don’t you remember?”

He bares his teeth at them and the growl of a huge cat vibrates from deep within his chest. Once again the horses rear and the men struggle to calm them.

“You?” blurts the miller. “But…”

“Don’t talk to me about the power of the old times and the magic that existed before the Black Dawn. Your search for past glories is born of ignorance and stupidity. It endangers us all. I wanted to give you a chance to see things differently, to appreciate the magic that is all around you every day. The decision has cost me dearly. My duty is to this land and its people, not to three foolish men.” Mr Keeper uses his longbow to point back in the direction the men have ridden from. “Go back to your homes. Don’t return to this village unless you come willing to talk and willing to listen. If you continue your dabbling into the technologies of the past, your equipment won’t be the only thing to burn. What you’ve done carries a death sentence.”

There is silence for what feels like many minutes. Megan’s vision begins to narrow and dim. She hears the men turn their horses around but Mr Keeper calls them back.

“Take your filthy dog carcasses with you.”

After that there’s nothing.