The Burning Man kots-2, page 3
part #2 of Kingdom of the Serpent Series
‘Yes, there is,’ Church shouted. ‘Look!’
Above the Thames, whatever Mallory had spied earlier was moving closer. Occasionally it was caught in the spotlights illuminating the new buildings that lined the river, and then it gleamed like something jewel-encrusted. It was still a silhouette against the city’s lights, but Mallory could tell it was the size of an airliner. A burst of fire erupted from the front with a roar, and in its glare Mallory saw burning eyes and a serpentine tail, and the billowing wings that carried it on the currents that surged amongst the skyscrapers.
Gaping, he almost forgot where he was. It was a dream, of the city, of his own troubled, imprisoned mind. Behind him, the spiders swarmed along the side of the building, many plucked off by the wind and sent spiralling into the dark gulf, forgotten now in the face of approaching wonder.
‘Is that …?’ Sophie had opened her eyes as though she had sensed what was coming.
‘Yes,’ Mallory said, ‘it is.’ He was puzzled why he wasn’t more surprised. He saw Church smiling and that didn’t surprise him either.
The Fabulous Beast caught the thermals and soared over the Thames.
‘Come on!’ Ruth urged. ‘I’ve got spiders nibbling at my fingers!’
‘You’re summoning it?’ Mallory asked.
His eyes glassy, Church didn’t respond.
The Beast glided languorously around the towers of Docklands, the beat of its enormous wings echoing louder than the wind.
As it neared, Church came alive. ‘When it passes beneath us, jump.’
Mallory and Sophie looked at him with horror.
Before they could protest, Ruth placed one hand in the small of Sophie’s back and propelled her off the ledge. Church did the same with Mallory.
The wind tore at Mallory as he fell, kicking. Two seconds of plummeting stretched to an age, and then he hit the back of the Beast, winding himself. He slid, grabbed a bony tine along its spine, felt the others land nearby. The wings thundered with a steady, deafening beat and they rose higher, and higher still. Mallory watched the lights of the towers fall away as he clung on for dear life.
He realised he must have been wearing an odd expression, for Church was looking at him curiously. ‘Scared?’ Church asked.
‘No,’ Mallory replied, baffled. ‘I just had the strangest feeling of deja vu.’
2
England sleeps, England dreams. Across the rolling landscape beyond the capital, chill in the late spring, there is no peaceful darkness. Sodium lights burn brightly everywhere. There is no silence. The arterial roads still throb with traffic.
In the north-west of England, on the edge of the wild but beautiful country that runs down to the Lake District, Caitlin Shepherd sits in her car outside the Tebay motorway service station. The lights are bright, but all is still. Soon it will open for the first visitors of the day, the lonely few for whom travel is life. But not travel in the sense of mind-altering, character-enriching experience. Back and forth travel, mundane travel, a relentless round with no final destination. Perpetual motion with no meaning is Caitlin’s lot, shipping samples of beauty products to shops that will consider stocking them, or perhaps not, and, like Caitlin, will not give it a second thought the moment the decision has been made.
Another dawn approached relentlessly. She craved sleep for escape, even though she was not allowed the luxury of dreams, but sleep would not come.
She was not alone. Several container lorries were parked nearby, their cabs dark. Yet Caitlin felt that in one of them someone was watching her. She always felt she was being observed, tracked, hunted, wherever she was, whatever she was doing. Paranoia, she thought wearily, another mental illness to add to the constant buzzing voices in her head. Her doctor had prescribed pills, several different types, in fact, and for a while she’d taken them; the voices stilled, the unease dulled, and with it went any sense, however slight, of being engaged in life. Eventually she threw them all out and consigned herself to a future of never being happy.
She closed her eyes. Sleep still did not come.
Wake up, Caitlin.
One of the voices, the little girl. She fought against the urge, then gave in and looked around, hating herself for it. It always made her feel queasy when the voices told her things her unconscious could not possibly know.
An attractive, charismatic Asian man loomed up next to the passenger window, his black hair gleaming in the car park lights. A leather eye patch covered one eye, but it did not make him look the least bit menacing. He smiled and tapped gently on the glass. Yet Caitlin could see he was on edge, his eyes flickering from side to side, searching the dark.
‘Go away,’ she said.
‘We need to talk.’ His voice was calm, yet insistent.
‘No, we don’t. If you’re not away from here in ten seconds, I’m going to turn on the ignition and drive over you.’
The sound of a lorry door opening echoed across the quiet car park. The Asian man glanced in its direction, his voice and body language becoming a touch more urgent.
‘My name is Shavi,’ he said. ‘I am a Brother of Dragons-’
‘I’m not interested in your little cult.’
‘You are a Sister of Dragons. We share a heritage-’
‘Six, seven, eight …’
‘Forgive me,’ Shavi said.
Shattering the window with a tyre iron, he yanked open the door. Caitlin yelled and leaned on the horn. Barely one short blast echoed across the car park before Caitlin went woozy from the fumes from a small wooden box that Shavi had thrust under her nose.
‘Just herbs,’ he whispered. ‘Do not worry.’
Dreamily, she saw herself being hauled out of the car as if she was watching a stranger. Shavi carried her effortlessly away from the bright lights to the dark of the moorland that pressed up hard against the service station. Behind them, Caitlin was vaguely aware of movement; rescuers responding to her cries, she thought obliquely.
She was aware of the stars and the moon, the lush smell of vegetation, but she couldn’t muster either fear for herself or any desire to fight back.
It was only when they lay behind a scrubby bush on cool grass with the lights of the service station a distant glow that she began to think coherently once more. Her attacker, she realised, didn’t seem violent; in fact, there was a benign, gentle air about him. Yet she struggled as soon as she was able.
He placed a hand firmly over her mouth and said quietly, ‘Hush. Look.’
Responding to something in his tone, she peered past the bush towards the car park. Shadows shifted across the moorland. People searching for her? Shavi released his grip on her mouth, and it was that action which convinced her to trust him.
‘What is it?’ she hissed. Some quality of the quickly moving silhouettes did not appear right.
‘Keep watching,’ he said. ‘But if they come too close, be prepared to move quickly into the wilderness. If they see us, we will not be able to outpace them.’
His words unnerved her. What’s out there? she thought.
Before she could voice the question, a shape loomed up on the other side of the bush and she almost cried out. It had approached from a different direction, moving quickly. Shavi pressed her down, holding her still. His heart thundered against her back. Their chance of escape gone, they could only hope against discovery.
Caitlin could smell a foul farmyard odour. Breathing like the scraping of rusty iron echoed loudly. Whatever was on the other side of the bush had stopped. It sniffed the air.
Its bestial qualities increased her heartbeat another step, and she became afraid that her body would betray her with some random muscle spasm. Yet she had to see. Twisting her head slowly, she looked through the branches of the bush.
There was not a hint of humanity in the brutish thing that waited beyond. Eyes gleamed with a yellowish light in a face that combined the qualities of hog and gorilla. The body was thick-set and powerfully muscled. From its posture, Caitlin couldn’t be sure whether it moved on two legs or all four. She noticed it was clothed, and with a second, chill glance realised the nature of those clothes: flayed human skin, scalps and internal organs had been stitched together in some sickening amalgam of uniform and war trophy. An eyeless face stared back at her blankly from the side of the creature’s head.
It waited for a full thirty seconds that felt like as many minutes and then moved off rapidly, keeping low.
When she was sure it was gone, Caitlin asked shakily, ‘What was that?’
Shavi searched the moorland until he was satisfied they were safe. ‘A Redcap,’ he said. ‘They are the shock troops of the Enemy.’ He returned his attention to Caitlin and a look of sympathy crossed his face. ‘I am so sorry. The world is not the way you believe it to be.’
3
London sleeps, London dreams. Hyde Park is quiet. The tourists will not return until the fumes and the roar of constant traffic fill Lancaster Gate. Moonlight catches the still pools in the Italian Gardens. The statue of Peter Pan watches over the boundary between the magical and the real, conjuring dreams of stolen children and other worlds.
Hunter brought his knife away from the gaping throat and stepped back to avoid the arterial flow. Another job well done, more peaceful sleep for the country. On the surface his flamboyant, piratical appearance — long black hair tied back with a black ribbon, single gold earring, devilish goatee — belied the nature of the work he did; underneath, it illuminated it perfectly: a new age cut-throat.
Dragging the body into the cover of the trees, he meticulously wiped his blade on his target’s jacket. He needed to sleep; his weariness had built up brick by brick over the relentless weeks and months, in Bosnia and Fallujah, Tehran and Pristina, and a score of other places that all merged into one. Only the faces remained distinct. Superficially they were similar, glassy-eyed and bloodless, but he could never forget the telling details: a frozen, accusing stare; the faint impression of contempt or betrayal on the lips. Every one the same, every one different.
‘Nice job.’ A woman’s voice, laced with sarcasm.
Hunter started; no one ever crept up on him unawares. His shock was quickly brought under control, the knife palmed, ready for use. He didn’t speak. Instead, he rapidly scanned his surroundings and was surprised once more that he couldn’t locate the intruder.
‘What are you? Some kind of psycho? Existence chose well this time.’ A pause. ‘Actually, situation normal.’
Now he had a lock on her position. He shifted his body weight, ready.
The woman recognised his subtle movement. ‘If you’re thinking of using that knife on me, it won’t do any good. I’ve had worse things than that stuck in me.’ Her tone highlighted the double entendre.
The branches of an overgrown bush parted and the woman stepped brazenly out. She had white-blonde hair and an expression that fell somewhere between challenging and seductive. Her smile suggested that Hunter’s coldly efficient brutality had not scared her in the slightest.
Hunter weighed his options. He couldn’t leave any witnesses behind. His superiors in Vauxhall would instantly shift him into the box marked ‘Liability’, with all the repercussions that entailed. Nor was he prepared to hurt an ‘innocent’ (and the one thing that kept him going was that none of his victims were ‘innocent’).
He lunged quickly, hoping to find a way to resolve his dilemma once he had her in a position where she couldn’t raise the alarm. As he shifted his weight, he found his ankles mysteriously constricted and he pitched forward to the ground. Long grass was inexplicably wrapped tightly around his feet.
‘That’s how I like my men,’ the woman mocked. ‘On their knees before me.’ She tapped his arm lightly with her motorcycle boot, then skipped out of the way when he lunged for her again. ‘So, did you see what I did there?’ She nodded towards his feet.
‘You did that?’
‘Yes, I’m a beautiful wood nymph.’
‘You have a very high opinion of yourself.’
‘I like to call it realistic.’ She sat cross-legged just out of reach.
Hunter began to saw through the strong, fibrous grass with his knife. ‘You should start running now,’ he said.
‘I never run. Besides, I can do much worse than that. You know how painful it is when you get a thorn stuck in your thumb? Now imagine one going through your eye and into your brain.’
Her statement held such utter conviction that Hunter had to believe she thought she could do it. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Laura DuSantiago and I am here to save the world,’ she said archly. ‘And you go by the name of Hunter when you’re not using one of your many aliases.’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘Existence.’ She lay down and stared flirtatiously into his face. ‘I’m not interested in the stupid little-boy games you’ve been playing. I’ve got a bigger agenda.’
‘Which is?’ Hunter freed himself, then balanced the knife on the palm of his hand before thrusting it into the ground.
Laura appeared quietly impressed by his choice. ‘Ever felt this life you’re leading is wrong? Made up? That you’ve got another life you can’t quite remember?’
Hunter’s practised non-committal expression gave nothing away.
‘Do certain places give you a real buzz, like there’s electricity in the ground? Do you get creeped out by a man called Rourke?’
His bland, ever-friendly line manager. ‘How do you know about Rourke?’
‘Oh, he gets around. Have we had sex?’ she added with a hint of puzzlement that did not appear manufactured.
‘I think I’d remember.’ Yet even after he’d said the words, he realised that, strangely, he wasn’t sure. ‘But we could get it out of the way now if you like.’
‘I think you ought to be disposing of that body first.’ She teased him with her eyes. ‘But before that I’ve got a little fairy story to tell you, about five great heroes, a magical quest and a threat that could destroy everything we hold dear.’
‘Okay.’ Hunter lounged back with his hands behind his head. ‘Then can we have sex?’
4
England sleeps, England dreams.
In one of the few areas of unspoiled landscape within the shadow of the capital, Church breathes deeply, enjoying the soothing night air and the aromas of grass and tree. Here there is an abiding sense of peace that is difficult to find in the cluttered, busy nation. It comes not from the confluence of natural elements, but from something intangible deep within the land itself, a force that is both there and not there, physical and spiritual, earthly and otherworldly. It refreshes him and renews his purpose, but that is not the reason he is there.
Overhead, the Fabulous Beast swoops on the night winds. While Church stands on the rolling parkland looking up, he is also in the Beast’s head looking down at himself. Its thoughts, if it has such things, are unknowable. Church is not even sure it can be characterised as alive, in any sense he understands. It is an idea, a manifestation of the power in the land, a terrible force of nature, a symbol and a Beast all at the same time. It is also the last one.
It must be protected in the same way that the Earth must be protected, for once the symbol is gone, the thing it symbolises withers and dies, too. It is the last one, and the last hope for a better world.
The ground shudders and a section of turf tears itself upwards to reveal a gaping hole that disappears into the earth. The Fabulous Beast circles one final time and then plunges into the dark tunnel. The turf closes behind it.
The Enemy won’t find it there. It can rest until it is needed again.
Satisfied, Church turns away and prepares for the struggle to come.
5
The Grim Lands, where there is no sleep and no dreams.
Mists blanket the rocky, depressing landscape. Through the folds of grey, the dead move slowly, their whispering tread converging on a subterranean temple as desolate and heartless as anything in that place, but filled with a deep, tidal power.
Why is there a temple in the Land of the Dead? What could they worship there?
The dead do not enter, but instead gather at the entrance to the long, stone-lined tunnel that leads to the heart of the complex, in their tens and twenties, hundreds and thousands, all of the dead, from all over the Grim Lands, converging on that one place, where they wait, as silent as ever.
Why do they wait?
At the far end of the stone-lined tunnel is a great hall, carved from bedrock and lined with stone blocks. The ceiling is lost in the shadows. Wall paintings soar up into the gloom, their inhuman scale as disturbing as the images they depict. Grotesque effigies without any human characteristics stand grimly. Everywhere is still.
In the centre of the hall, on a stone plinth, lies a long marble box. Standing around it at the four cardinal points are the Brothers and Sisters of Spiders — Etain, Owein, Tannis and Branwen — as silent as their true brothers and sisters beyond the temple.
They wait, though time has no meaning to them, for an alignment of ritual and word long since put into effect. They watch the box. They listen. And as the vast army of the dead draws to a halt, the atmosphere becomes infused with dread. A hiss of sparks heralds a discharge of black energy.
In the lull that follows, a moan rises up, becoming a chant, low and somnolent. It is the dead cheering. There may be words hidden in the unearthly sound, and if there are they would be these: He is risen.
The stone lid of the box slides aside and crashes to the floor. It is the loudest noise ever heard in this hall, and its echoes reverberate for almost a minute. A hand rises from the box, followed by another, but this one is silver and mechanical. Heavily tattooed and muscular, Ryan Veitch levers himself up. He is pleased that his plan has worked and that he has not yet joined the ranks of the Grim Lands, and pleased at the response from his vast army of followers outside the temple. He is pleased also that more subtle strands are now creeping out from the spell to which he had reluctantly committed himself.
