The Book of the Crowman (26 page)

Denise fucked him with the same fierceness as before, drawing him onto her, into her, not inviting but demanding. There was a frenzy about her; that same desperation for union in the face of total destruction, as though this really was the last time. It roused in Gordon the most primal, harsh desire he’d known. They became animals once more, glad to be alive for another moment, just one moment more.

Their pattern had always been to love and collapse, ride and rest again and again but tonight Gordon was unable to reach climax. His lust built and built but never reached its conclusion. Conversely, Denise cried out in ecstatic extremity time after time, her tones close to screams of pain. At one point, Gordon thought he heard a floorboard creak outside the door but he didn’t care whether Jerome was listening or not.

After a while, Gordon felt a great cold quelling his fire. It seemed to rise from the core of him like advancing frost. It took his strength and it bled away his desire until he finally fell unspent and unfulfilled beside her; his skin the ice to her steam. Denise seemed contented though, more than satisfied by their savage dance. She laid a hot arm across his frigid chest. Gordon felt his breathing decelerate until it seemed as slow as the tides. The chill gripped him in its glacial cocoon.

“I don’t feel well,” he said.

“You’re alright. Probably just tired – you ran most of the way from Coventry.”

“I think I got a bad can of beans.”

“Get some rest. You’ll feel fine in the morning.”

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. He was so cold, it felt as though her lips and arm were the only warmth he’d ever experienced. Her mouth lingered tenderly and for a long time, as though Denise didn’t want their closeness to end. Just before he fell into the arctic seas of unconsciousness, her lips left his cheek and her arm withdrew. It seemed as though she had sped continents away from him in just a few moments. He thought he heard her slip from the bed and dress before leaving the room but he could easily have been dreaming by then.

Denise watched from the doorway as Jerome stripped back the musty sheets and blankets to reveal Gordon, curled and childlike on his right side. His skin bore the scars of dozens of fights and the wounding touch of thorn and bramble. His long dark hair, black feathers bound into it, lay around his head and shoulders, hiding his face. His breathing came in long, deep pulls, the pause after each out-breath seeming far too long.

“You gave him too much,” said Denise.

After an experimental prod or two with the sole of his boot, Jerome began to secure Gordon’s wrists behind his back.

“He’s fine.”

“You’re not taking him like this.”

“It’s out of my hands now.”

Denise stepped forward and pushed Jerome off the bed so hard he fell backwards, knocking over the bedside table and smashing the bulb in the defunct lamp. The back of his head connected with the wall and he lay dazed for a few moments. She flung the rope and it landed across his face and chest.

“Don’t talk such
shit
.”

Jerome rubbed his head, his face screwed tight against the pain. He looked more stunned than angry.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked.

“He has the right to some bloody dignity.”

The First Guard struggled to his feet.

“Fine. Get him dressed then. But make it quick.”

He stood with his arms folded as Denise retrieved Gordon’s clothes from the floor. She knew where each item was; she’d been the one to tear them from him. She knelt beside him on the bed and rolled him gently onto his back. The hair fell away from his face and, by the candlelight, she saw the beauty and innocence of the boy he must have been until so recently. She looked up and saw the quiet satisfaction on Jerome’s face. He’d bested his rival without a single blow struck.

“Fuck off,” Denise said.

“What?”

“You heard me. Leave us alone. I’m not doing this with you gawping over my shoulder.”

Jerome left without another word.

When Denise was done, she called out for Jerome. He came back in to find Gordon laid out on the bed as though in a chapel of rest. His hair had been pushed back from his face and his hands were crossed at his breast. His coat of black feathers looked like a funeral suit.

“Very funny, Denise.”

“Appropriate though, Jerome. Considering.”

“I still have to tie his hands and feet.”

Denise stepped back from her drugged lover.

“Whatever.”

Jerome crossed to the bedside and checked Gordon’s pockets. Denise held up a battered rucksack.

“I’ve got all his gear,” she said.

Satisfied, Jerome hoisted Gordon into a sitting position.

“Can you give me hand?” he asked.

“I’ve done all I’m doing,” said Denise.

Jerome tried to prove his strength but struggled at every step, getting Gordon over his shoulder, lifting him up and then carrying him along the corridor to the kitchen and out of the back door. A horse and cart waited in the mist that swirled in the farmyard. A smart looking Wardsman wearing a helmet and armed with a cavalry sword, dagger and crossbow waited for them. On the back of the cart was a large grey ammunition trunk designed for heavy ordnance. Its similarity to a coffin was not lost on Denise as Jerome dumped Gordon’s limp body into it and staggered away with a relieved gasp.

The Wardsman stepped forward to secure the lid of the munitions box.

“Wait,” whispered Denise.

She ran back inside and the farmhouse and reappeared with the top hat she’d decorated for Gordon.

“He won’t need that,” said the Wardsman.

“I don’t care. I need him to have it.”

The Wardsman shrugged. Denise went on tiptoes, leaned into the box and kissed Gordon before placing the hat beside his crumpled form. The Wardsman screwed the lid into place with six wing nuts and leapt up onto the plank that formed the cart’s simple seat. He looked down at them. Denise thought she detected a note of amusement in his voice.

“The Ward thanks you for your loyalty. When the battle’s over, your asylum is assured.”

Denise managed not to cry, though the price of survival seemed suddenly extortionate. The cart disappeared into the mist. The clatter of hooves echoed around the farmyard and receded.

Gordon walks alone through a dead forest. The trees stand dry, barkless and woodwormed, their branches grey. The air hangs thick with the stench of rot and mildew. Distantly, he hears the cawing of a thousand crows – they are calling to him but he cannot understand their language. Eyes observe him from behind every tree but each time he turns to look, there’s nothing but the ranks of decaying uprights, stretching their dead bones into a dark sky.

In his right hand he carries a sword as broad as his forearm. The blade is dull green-black but for its edges, honed so sharp it makes the air sing. Whorls, knots and symbols are etched into the matt surface and these too shine as Gordon angles the sword this way and that. Where the blade meets the haft, an exact engraving of the Crowspar drips thick Black Light. Each droplet manifests wings and flits away before hitting the ground, no more than a ragged shadow at first but soon becoming a magnificent raven, soaring fast between the hulking, spectral tree trunks then upwards to add its bright blackness to the sky. Locks of hair hang from the hilt of the sword, hair taken from the head of his father, mother and two sisters. Between these hangs an array of black feathers, twirling and twisting as he walks deeper into the dead woods.

Something hanging among these fetishes catches his eye. He brings the sword closer. There among the black feathers is a single white one; ice bright and flashing. He holds the sword out in front of his face, turning it first one way then another. He tests the blade with a couple of experimental swings and the terrible whoosh as it cuts the air is like the rush of wind over a huge black wing. The blade flies at his will, stops and turns with his thoughts. Never has he seen such a powerful object.

Emboldened, he strides towards the centre of the woods.

The clearing, when he finds it, is the only part of the forest left alive. Each tree that rings it is lush with full growth. Vines, ivy and moss cling to the trunks and branches, the pale green hair of hanging lichens caresses him as he passes. The trees are full of scurrying insects and animals, all of them awaiting his arrival. They are still and attentive as he passes through this ring of life and into the clearing.

The centre of the circle of trees is marked by a standing stone. He advances toward it, a column about his height, and circles it, inspecting the markings chiselled into its surface. The stone has two convex faces and resembles a blunt arrowhead. On one face the symbols match those on his sword, though in the stone they are rendered with less clarity. On the other face there is a crude representation of a man.

As Gordon tries to make sense of the standing stone, a bird flies from the ring of trees that pulse with expectant vitality all around him. He recognises the movements of the bird, the signature and shape of its wings, the attitude of his body, the angle and curve of its head. It lands atop the monolith.

A crow. A crow unlike any other.

Save for its eyes, beak and claws, the crow is as white as polar snow.

Not wishing to threaten the creature, Gordon lets his sword rest at his side. The crow watches him with intelligent eyes, as ancient and wise as the Black Light itself. A great benevolence emanates from it, wrapping Gordon in a sense of comfort and well-being so profound he could weep. It feels as though he has come home somehow, discovering life here at the centre of the dead wood; finally finding his place in a world driven to self-destruction and insanity.

“You’ve come a long way,” says the crow in that silent voice of the land Gordon has come to know and trust. “But the journey isn’t over yet. Your greatest challenge lies ahead of you still.”

“I know. I haven’t found him. I’ve tried. I really have.”

“No matter what you’d done, you could not be any further along the path than you already are.”

Gordon trusts this creature. He knows he is dreaming and that it is safe to say what he has never yet told anyone.

“The war isn’t going to start tomorrow. Not the way everyone thinks it is. No one seems to understand that this war has been going on inside us all along. Maybe since the first human.”

“How right you are.”

“When this battle comes it won’t be the beginning of anything. It’ll be the end of something. I’m frightened it will be the end of everything. Not just us. And not just the Ward if, by some miracle, the Green Men can win. I think tomorrow will be the end of the world.”

The white crow hops to the left and to the right. It airs its wings and caws, raucous and irritated, showing the barbed blade of its tongue.

“You can’t say what tomorrow will bring but you’ve every reason to be frightened, Gordon Black. Something will end tomorrow and you must be as strong as you can be to weather it.”

“What about the Crowman? I must reveal him – give him to the people.”

“Yes. You must.”

“But how? Time’s running short.”

“That’s not for me to tell. All I can say is that the land has nothing but faith in you.” The white crow hops down and lands on his left arm. Gordon holds it up in front of his face. “The land has dreamed of you for a long time.” The crow’s bottomless eyes reflect the emptiness and doubt Gordon holds at the very heart of himself. The crow flaps and takes off, circling the clearing. “Be strong, Gordon Black! The enemy approaches!”

Its pure white wings cut through the darkness above the forest, and, as though having torn a veil, the crow is gone, the gash in the oil black night sealing behind it. The once-silent creatures of the wood, all aloft in the limbs of the final circle of trees begin to chitter and fidget. The ground quakes to the tempo of heavy footsteps.

Lumbering and creaking, Gordon’s foe enters the ring at the centre of the forest. The animals and insects disappear behind leaves and branches, into cracks and holes in the bark. Eyes blink and antennae wave in the direction of the intruder.

A grey beast, man and machine melded, smashes through the inner circle of trees, scattering leaves and vine remnants, splinters of newly grown wood and the limp bodies of a dozen tiny animals. Debris, some of it still twitching, rains down and the beast takes up its position facing Gordon. The thing, Gordon now sees, is a humanoid exoskeleton with two humans operating it. One sits inside its head, the other in its chest cavity. The two control centres are heavily protected but open at the front to enable the controllers to see out. Both the men wear the uniform of the Ward, as does the machine that is their slave and their prison cell – they are chained inside the thing and each control centre has been welded closed.

The beast has four arms, two ending in hammers and two in crossbows. Its steel legs are thicker then tree trunks. The hiss of hydraulics and the moan of gears accompany its every movement. Gordon raises the dark-bladed sword in front of himself and advances, looking for a way to slip his blade deep enough to kill the controllers.

The beast stomps towards him, lifting a hammer fist and swiping it laterally. Gordon leaps back, feeling the force of the wind but not the force of the hammer. It is a near miss, though, and before he has time to think about his own attack, a crossbow bolt lances past his head and lodges shaft-deep in the obelisk at the centre of the clearing. A second arrow is flying as Gordon dives to the ground, tucking his sword in and rolling away. A metre behind the spot where he stood, the tips of two flights are all that remain of the bolt. He leaps from his roll, trying to place himself behind the beast. It is far too quick, turning easily with him. The next two bolts from the crossbow also slip wide of him but only because he is sprinting. It’s a near miss. He hears metal sink deep into the wood of a tree somewhere behind him.

There has to be some weakness in the beast, but what he can do with a simple sword against projectiles and giant hammers, he has no idea. Nor does he know what effect, if any, his blade will have on the beast’s steel carapace. If the controller of the crossbow arms is as good as he ought to be, the next two bolts are going to anticipate his speed and direction. One of them will nail him for sure. In the slim moment of the reload, Gordon runs straight towards the beast, dodging two late hammer blows and diving between its legs. As he does so, he takes as good a look as he can at the workings of the thing. It has only one weakness that he can see.

The column-like legs turn with surprising speed, threatening to crush him. Even as he thinks this, sensing his presence directly beneath them, the controllers make the beast leap up. It comes down feet together in the place where Gordon took a moment to peek up into its workings. He manages to dodge away but the thunder of the landing and the shaking of the earth under its weight throw him off balance.

This time a hammer hits him in the left shoulder. He leaves the ground and as he sails through the air, he feels two more bolts fly past him. One of them slices opens the sleeve of his coat of black feathers, scoring a deep, hot track along his right forearm. When he lands, on his back between the trunks of two trees, he has dropped his sword. It lies a few feet away, between him and the beast. His left shoulder hangs lower than it should. Shattered bone angles up through the black feathers of his coat. His left arm won’t move at all. His right arm is wet with blood but he thanks the Great Spirit the bolt did not lodge in his flesh. Flexing his fingers, he finds the arm is still serviceable. A crossbow bolt slams through his left bicep. The velocity is so great, it passes right through and into the ground, pinning him.

He hears the beast advancing, its footsteps like the pound of falling boulders. The controllers want to be sure of their final shot. Already a crossbow hand is rising as the beast strides towards him in three-metre paces. Gordon tears himself up from the ground, calling on the Crowman and all the forces of the land and sky to muster within him. He hears the tearing of his own flesh wrenching free of the shaft that pins him and the sound of two bolts loosed from the crossbows almost simultaneously.

He rolls to his right, anticipating the agony of tumbling over his broken shoulder and skewered arm. The pain clears his mind like lightning illuminating a dim room. He rises from the roll and one of the bolts opens his calf to the bone as it passes across his shin.

He can still run, and run he does, stopping to regain his sword as he races towards the beast. The distance between them closes fast. A hammer arcs downwards and he sidesteps it, aiming and trailing his sword as it passes by. The blade opens a curve of hosing and grey oil spurts free. The reeking fluid is hot where it spatters his coat but he has inflicted a genuine wound. The hammer arm can flex but it can no longer straighten. Both he and the beast have stopped. He is almost directly beneath it. Now the crossbow hands fire again and this is their last volley; no more ammunition is stored in the arms. The bolts disappear into the earth, one slipping directly between the beast’s steel toes. To reach him here the remaining hammer hand will have to smash into the beast’s own legs. Once again it leaps up trying to crush him on landing. This time, Gordon is ready. As it comes to earth, he is standing clear with his sword ready. He slices through the cables, first behind the beast’s left knee and then behind its right. He has to dodge again as the beast collapses onto its own heels.

For a few moments the controllers are mystified by their hamstringing. Gordon uses this pause to climb onto the beast’s knees and deliver an upward thrust straight through the protective bars on the machine’s chest. He can just see that he has gut-stuck the thoracic controller. He slips the blade free and a wash of blood and watery entrails cascade down over him. He smells the shit of the controller leaking from a breached and dangling loop of intestine.

As he climbs the chest, passing the disembowelled controller, there is an impact so enormous it knocks over the entire machine. Gordon lies face down across its chest cavity, horizontal now. He cannot breathe. From the cranial controller he hears manic giggles. He tries to lift himself but is unable to. Neither of his arms will work. Nor will his legs. He turns his head, trying to look over his shoulder. All he can see is a huge mechanical arm, its hand seeming to disappear into his own back. No wonder he can’t breathe. The beast has smashed a fist into itself, putting a hammer hand right through his upper body and knocking itself into a position it will never rise from. Insane, the cranial controller still cackles to himself from the prison that is the beast’s head.

Gordon’s world goes dark.