The Scar-Crow Men (48 page)

With alacrity, the four pale figures lifted it into a wooden chest with rope handles on either end, and carried it along the central aisle.
Trying to protect it at all costs
. Keeping below the Enemy’s line of sight, the spy slipped out into the storm-blasted night.

In front of the cathedral, the small cobbled area already lay under an inch of water. Will could barely see more than a few feet through the torrential rain, but that would help him. Crouching in the shadows along the wall, he took out the blowpipe and darts and waited.

The four Fay emerged with the wooden chest a moment later. Cloaked by the night and the gale, Will was invisible to them. His first dart struck the nearest Fay on the hand. As the pale figure began to convulse, the spy loaded a second poison-tipped dart and propelled it into the neck of one of the Enemy at the rear.

The chest splashed into the deepening pool of rainwater.

As the remaining two pale figures drew their rapiers, Will ghosted along the wall behind them and thrust his dagger under the ribcage of his third foe. When the final Fay began to turn, the spy plunged his blade into his opponent’s throat.

Sheathing his weapon, Will grasped the chest by both handles. It was lighter than he anticipated. But he had only splashed four steps across the cobbles when a warning cry rang out. A bedraggled Meg stood in the nearest alley. Her eyes were wide with terror and with a trembling hand she was pointing above him.

Will spun round. Above the main doorway ran a long gallery of statues of the kings of Israel. One of them was moving.

Lightning illuminated the graven relief. Crawling across the carvings like a giant spider was Xanthus, his shaven, symbol-etched head turned towards the spy.

Mouth torn wide in a bestial roar, the Hunter leapt.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

THROWING HIMSELF OUT OF THE PATH OF THE WHITE-FACED
Hunter, Will heard the chest shatter. The spy rolled back to his feet only to see the
Corpus-Scythe lying exposed in the deepening pool of rainwater and Xanthus crouching over it. Will felt a pang of bitter regret. He’d come so close to escaping with his prize, but a face-to-face fight at that moment was a battle he was unlikely to win.

Meg had already fled. He sprinted away from the square towards a narrow street on the northern side of the cathedral. The way ahead was long and straight with no alleys in which he could lose himself.

At his back, the spy heard splashing as the Hunter bounded across the cobbles.

A door to the cathedral hung ajar to his right. Will dived into the dark space and drew the heavy iron bolts, although he knew it would buy him only a few moments. He raced up a flight of broad stone steps two at a time, a plan already forming in his mind. Ignoring the door to what he guessed was the grand gallery connecting the two towers, he continued climbing until his breath burned in his chest.

From far below, the clang of the bolt being drawn back echoed up the well of shadows.

The steps ended atop one of the cathedral’s two towers. From the window space, he had a view across storm-buffeted Paris. Thousands of stars of candlelight flickered in inky space. On the grey Seine, the Unseelie Court fleet glowed with a ghostly luminescence.

Xanthus would think him trapped, the spy thought. That gave him an advantage.

Pulling the grapnel from his cloak’s pocket, Will hooked it on the coping and threw the attached rope out of the window. He had no time to test if it would hold. Hanging out into the tearing wind, the spy grasped the rope and slid down.

He was hurled around wildly by the gale and blinded by the downpour. Smashed against the stone of the tower, he held on with shaking hands, then kicked away from the wall to continue his descent. As he swung, he glimpsed a face in one of the open arched windows along the gallery between the towers. He was sure it had been Meg. Was it she who had left the tower door ajar?

Will felt a wrench and the grapnel gave way. Arms whirling, he fell, the rope tumbling around him.

Slamming into the rain-slick cathedral roof, the spy felt his breath driven from his lungs. He had no time to recover. Numb from the impact, he careered down the steep pitch on his back.

When he glanced down, he saw the edge of the roof racing towards him.

Will curled his hand around the tangled rope and yanked hard. The grapnel flew through the air and crashed ahead of him; jerking his arm up, caught the cold iron of the hook with his free hand as he sped by. With his stomach flipping, he shot over the edge.

Overcome by the dizzying sensation of falling, the spy felt every bone in his body jar when the grapnel caught on the coping at the edge of the roof. He slammed against the stone wall once more. His fingers slipped, then held tight.

He didn’t look down, but he could feel the drop pulling beneath his feet. On straining arms, he hauled himself up, grabbed the edge of the coping with his right hand and pulled himself back on to the roof.

Will kneeled on the brink of the abyss and caught his breath. He felt the furious gale tear at him, threatening to pitch him over the side, and he knew he had to move on. But when he looked up, he saw he was not alone. Near the north tower, Xanthus now balanced on the edge of the roof, seemingly oblivious to the wind and the rain. Illuminated by the white light of a lightning flash, the predator stretched out his arms and closed his eyes in beatific supplication to the heavens.

‘Across your world I have pursued you, for the vengeance demanded by my brother and my people,’ the Hunter roared above the howling gale. ‘But this ends now. Your time has come, spy.’

Your time has come
, Will’s devil whispered in his ear.

Returning the grapnel to the pocket in his cloak, the spy saw there was still a chance that he could follow his original plan. In the shadow of the soaring spire where the transepts crossed, a white stone arm reached towards the Seine. Will identified numerous places where he could descend – if he could but reach the roof of the southern transept before Xanthus caught him.

But the spy was gripped by a puzzling sight. Stooping on the edge of the roof, the Hunter was removing an object from the sack he had strapped to his back. Silver gleamed.

The Wish-Crux
.

The box the Enemy had attempted to use that rainswept night at Lud’s Church.

Transfixed, Will watched the hunched figure set the gleaming chest on the coping and open the lid with a careful, almost awed motion. Will thought the dark within the box seemed to suck as powerfully as the void beside him.

After a moment, he saw movement in the black depths. Small shapes emerged into the driving rain and began to skitter along the edge of the roof towards him. Overcome by a grim foreboding, Will turned and lurched into the buffeting wind along the edge of the abyss. His shoes slipped on the wet stone. Arms outstretched to steady himself, he fought to maintain his balance.

Above the south transept, the spy glanced back. In the hunch of the Hunter’s slowly loping form, Will saw weakness, perhaps exhaustion. Could it be that the predator’s strength had been drained by his control of the elements during their long pursuit?

The spy’s gaze was drawn back to that black trail of scurrying forms, each one almost as big as the palm of his hand.

Spiders?

Certainly like no spiders he had ever seen before.

On the south transept roof, Will was held fast by the crashing waves of wind. Bowing his head, he pressed on, one agonizing step at a time. Blinded by the driving rain, the thunder rolling out above and lightning crashing down in jagged forks, Will felt his world was in turmoil.

Turning, the spy saw the spiders had caught up with him. Although they looked insignificant, he was sure some dark power lurked within them.

Death is close
, his devil whispered with a throaty laugh.

‘Damn you! Leave me be!’ the spy raged.

Hammering one shoe down upon the nearest spider, he sensed the black shape burst
under his leather sole. It felt like crushing a hen’s egg. Black ichor oozed out from beneath his foot and was washed away by the rain.

Just as he began to think that the skittering things were too easily destroyed, one arachnid propelled itself on to his hose and scurried up his body. He felt each leg like a hot needle stabbing into his flesh. Too fast to be brushed off, it swept down his arm to the back of his hand. With a shiver, the creature sank its fangs into Will and tore away a chunk of flesh.

The spy yelled in pain, blood spraying from his hand. Tearing the spider free, he crushed it in his palm. The black ichor steamed as it gushed between his fingers, and he hurled the squashed remains away. By then the other spiders were swarming across his body, tearing and biting.

Fearful that his thrashing would pitch him over the edge, the spy battled towards a small spire at the end of the transept where there was a patch of shelter. Whenever the snapping jaws bit through his clothes, he felt like he was being burned by hot pokers. Blood ran freely down his arms and legs, and however much he tore the spiders away, others replaced them. Unopposed, they could strip a body in a matter of moments, he realized.

The sands of time run out finally, and hell awaits
, the devil growled in his ear.

His hands slick with blood, Will gripped on to the spire for support. Through the sheet of rain, he could see the pale, hunched shape of Xanthus creeping towards him. The Hunter had drawn his rapier ready for the killing blow.

The spy ripped the spiders away with gore-drenched hands. He hurled his body repeatedly against the spire to crush more. Yet he felt his strength ebbing with each gout of blood he lost, and he didn’t know how much longer he could endure.

Then his pale foe stood before him, swordpoint twirling in line with Will’s heart. ‘You have led me a merry chase,’ Xanthus said, ‘but finally my brother can rest peacefully, and the High Family will know that Cavillex has been avenged. When your Queen’s head sits on a spike at Nonsuch Palace, yours will rest beside her.’

‘Your brother died as he lived, a coward,’ the spy snarled, drawing his own rapier. ‘I ran him through as if I were spearing fish in the pond on Whittington Green, and thought even less about it.’

Raging, the Hunter lunged wildly. With a flick of his wrist, Will parried the thrust easily, the force of his response almost unbalancing his opponent. Steadying himself on the edge of the giddy drop, Xanthus saw what the spy intended. He calmed himself, his eyes narrowing.

‘You appear weaker,’ Will said, pulling a snapping spider from his bloody left cheek and tossing it away. ‘You have allowed your hatred for me to get the better of you.’

‘I have strength enough for you.’

The Hunter thrust again, his sword-stroke more refined this time, and faster. Will clashed his blade against his foe’s, and returned the thrust. Xanthus deflected it with a twirl of his rapier.

They were only testing each other, the spy saw. Both of them had been weakened and each wanted to see the limits of the other’s resolve.

As the spiders swarmed across his chest, Will’s clothes were being eaten away. Through the tatters, he glimpsed bloody bites on his pale, wet flesh. He could feel his time on earth leaking away.

He thrust his rapier towards the Hunter’s heart, followed up with a slash towards the neck and then struck low, driving the pale figure back along the edge of the roof. Lost to the storm and the burning bites, Will sensed his world retreat to the small circle of his vision, and to Xanthus’ fierce face. Their swords clashed to the rhythm of the thunder.

The spy’s foot slipped on the wet stone and for one moment he thought he was about to plunge over the edge. For an instant, he teetered. The Hunter swung his sword in an arc, the steel shimmering in the fading glare of a lightning strike.

At the last, Will dropped to his knees, gripping the coping while he regained his spinning senses. His Enemy’s sword flashed over his head.

Seizing his moment, the spy thrust his rapier upwards into Xanthus’ exposed stomach.

Crying out, the Hunter fell back, clutching at his wound. As he lay, half hanging over the edge, Will tore off the last few spiders with shaking hands. In the corner of his eye, he spied pale figures moving in both the cathedral’s towers: the Unseelie Court had found him.

Retrieving the grapnel, Will affixed it to the mass of decorative carvings that cascaded from the small spire. As he wound the rope around his left wrist, he saw Xanthus was back on his feet, holding one hand over the blood-pumping wound.

‘If I am to die this night, I will take you with me,’ the Fay spat.

His strength draining from him by the moment, Will knew he had but a slim chance to survive another fight. Propelling himself up the pitch of the roof, he turned to swing towards his foe.

And in that instant the world went black.

So it ends
, Mephistophilis laughed.

The spy’s thoughts rushed through his head in that frozen moment, and he knew exactly what had happened. During the flight to Petworth House, Mephistophilis had demanded a payment in return for his aid.

You will give me something, and only for five minutes, no more, then I shall return it
.

His sight.

The devil had chosen his moment well.

Unseeing, Will felt his feet sliding on the slick tiles. He would continue down the slope, directly on to the end of Xanthus’ blade, and thus Mephistophilis would have claimed what he set out to achieve those long weeks ago in the Rose Theatre.

One last gamble
, he thought.
For Jenny, for Kit
.

Yanking the rope taut, the spy leapt with all the force he could muster. His head spun as he flew.

In the dark of his head, Will felt the wild wind in his hair, rain drenching his face. His feet crashed into a solid mass, what could only be the Hunter. Pain seared his side. His foe’s blade, tearing his flesh.

A cry rang out, and then spiralled away from him.

In his mind’s eye, Will pictured Xanthus propelled over the edge of the roof, blood trailing from his stomach wound, his face contorted in impotent rage. And that pale figure falling away, down into the dark, and death.