Burning Ashes

by James Bennett

  “Oh. Is this a bad time? I can always come back later.”

  As one, the creatures froze, looking up at him. Then the chain clanked to the ground. The ogre straightened his shoulders while the goblins flinched, their beady eyes taking in the newcomer, openly sizing him up. Red-scaled suit. Red hair. Green eyes and all.

  Yeah, you know my name, all right. “Incineration” is my middle one.

  The ogre swept the feather from his face and snarled, a buckled shoe splashing through a puddle as he took a step towards Ben, his fists clenched. Then the Remnant hesitated, his eyes straying over Ben’s shoulder and off into the trees, his cheeks drooping. He glanced behind him, looking for reassurance from the goblins, but found that his cohorts were already fleeing, scattering across the park. Dragon or no, six against one was one thing. But as the ogre took in the rabble at Ben’s back, a mist-shrouded throng rumbling up the sward, he appeared to change his mind, his fat lips quivering.

  Ben grinned. Then he held out his hand, palm crooked at the ogre.

  Be my guest.

  The ogre seemed to think better of it. Shoes slipping in the mud, cap flying from his head, the creature turned and ran, lumbering across the grass with only a porcine squeal in his wake.

  Ben watched him go. Then he walked up to the sword, cricked his neck and closed his fingers around the hilt. Again, a shiver of silver worked its way through him, lunewrought thrumming through his bones. In his mind, the sense of a gulf yawning around him, dark and deep. Endless. Thankfully, there were no visions. No Lady high on the palace walls gazing into the nether. Searching … No worlds upon worlds, a cosmic orchard dangling on the leys of Creation. And at his feet, only the faintest shimmer, a flicker of blue, the circle fading as he tugged at the sword. All the same, he felt no relief. It was bad enough knowing that the circles were there. There and souring …

  Blinking, he found himself looking at the sword. Wrenched free from the ground and light in his grip. He gazed at his reflection in the blade, the scarred, careworn look of him. The mask he’d worn for so long. A mask torn from him by the times, a pale, redundant rag. But his face, he’d learnt, was more than illusion, reminding him of the bond that he shared with the humans, those trapped beyond the wall. The humans he had come here to save.

  “No grand speech?” Caliburn said. “No glorious call to battle?”

  Ben clenched his jaw. “Speeches are so 1215.”

  “A shame. Arthur was rather fond of them. Stirring the blood. Galloping off into the fray.”

  “Yeah? How did that work out for him?”

  “You arsehole,” the sword said.

  With the horn around his neck and sword in hand, Ben led the Remnants onto the Mall. Behind them, at the end of the long, tree-lined boulevard, Buckingham Palace shone in the morning sun, her flag limp, her halls empty. The Queen had surrendered her seat to a royal bag of bones.

  And the Remnants came, a ragged tide eclipsing the building, the ground rumbling under their feet. Gnome, dwarf, green men, ettin, will-o’-the-wisp, tiddy mun, reynardine, hedley kow, blue caps and hunky punks spilled through the trees and onto tarmac for the first time. In his once-fine suit, now filthy and torn at the elbows, the Vicomte Lambert du Sang crept at the head of the army, a withered, reluctant lieutenant. Of course, Ben knew that the “youth” only wanted to feed—had no choice but to feed—and to eventually earn his reward, a long-awaited fiery death. It was a promise that Ben had made and one he intended to keep; the grim fact had no hold on his emotions.

  The Remnants, however, were a different story. Spellbound, entranced as they were, he couldn’t suppress a pang of guilt every time he looked at them. His makeshift army. Free of the spell, he wondered what he’d do in their place—join the fight for the city or seek vengeance against the ones who’d remained, awake and unfettered upon the earth. The Chosen and the Sleepers. Divided and conquered. For most of these creatures, the harp had stolen the chance from them, forcing them down into the dark. Into history, forgotten myth. And here, with magic—with bloody hoodoo, of all things—he held them still, chained by ivory and gold to his will. This was the grist of his remorse, troubling his thoughts. But in his heart, he realised that the Remnants’ freedom could prove short-lived. He was probably leading them all to their death.

  They’re dying anyway. He didn’t need the envoy to jog his memory; he could see it for himself. Another year, maybe two, and myths are all they will be.

  Still, it didn’t make it all right.

  He swallowed the thought. The last thing he needed was doubt, not when desperation, more than courage, drove him. He gripped the sword and moved on, striding ahead up the Mall, his army marching behind him. Rusty weapons clattered on shields, bells tinkled, leaves rustled, stone crunched, tails swished, helmets sat low over haunted, mesmerised eyes. It seemed wise to head for the section of the briar, clawing at the sky at the edge of the park, which had suffered the touch of fire. The fall of Taranis in the square beyond must’ve weakened the barrier. It would be a simple thing for him to assume dragon form and fly over the wall, but he couldn’t waste time transporting five-hundred-odd Remnants into the city and hope to stand a chance against the king’s horde. Time was of the essence. Double the danger lurked behind the thorns. He’d seen the jets above, the streaking bullets and bombs. He could hear the explosions somewhere to the north of him, booming off the sky. The humans were coming, tanks, missiles and all, to make a last stand. From bitter experience, he knew that the troops, as desperate as him, wouldn’t make a distinction between a goblin and a gnome, an ogre and a dwarf. A dragon and a dead king.

  He grunted. At least he’d had the luxury of the truth, brutal as it was.

  Your fairy tales have all come true. Ben couldn’t know the shock of such a thing, the realisation that myths were real, dreams made flesh. Dreams. And nightmares …

  He’d almost reached the Guards Memorial, an obelisk flanked by bronze soldiers, when he drew to a halt, hearing the approaching growl of engines. He raised Caliburn, his ragtag army halting behind him. He scanned the park and the road for the source of the noise, his shoulders bristling with horns as he tensed for an ambush. If need be, he’d command the Remnants into the trees and take to the sky, find a way to divert the jets and the choppers with as few casualties as possible. If only I could reach them, let them know that we’re on the same side … But he also knew that better creatures than him had tried and failed. Centuries ago, granted, yet the prejudice went deep. The first thing the humans would do at the appearance of a diplomat dragon was open fire, perhaps with a rocket launcher or two. Panic would render them blind to a truce, he could feel it in his bones. His white flag would go up in flames. Eight hundred years or no, human nature hadn’t changed.

  But not all humans.

  His shoulders fell as the newcomers rode into view, grumbling in a loose convoy up Horse Guards Road. Brow drawn, he’d counted about sixty of the bikes by the time the first one reached him, skidding to a halt a few feet from where he stood. The gang must’ve ridden half the night, down the stalled, traffic-choked stretch of the M40, before roaring into London. The bikes came on, a black wave washing up the road. A legion of Triumphs and Harley Davidsons slowed to a halt, an array of leather jackets, machine guns and exhaust smoke in the shadow of the thorn wall.

  The lead rider wasn’t wearing a helmet, he saw. But then there was no law to stop her. And no Lore to prevent her alliance.

  Fool of a girl.

  “I told you—”

  “That we could do what we liked,” Annis reminded him, ignoring his outstretched finger, her face scarred yet defiant. “House Fitzwarren chooses to help you. Whether you like it or not.”

  Knights.

  Stymied by his own words, he puffed out his cheeks, conveying his annoyance.

  “It isn’t a funfair in there, honey. I can’t be responsible—”

  Again, she cut him off. “This is our fight too. Some of us prefer to die on our feet.”

&nbs
p; He recalled Lord Rulf in the Last Pavilion, the barely veiled desolation in his eyes. What would the patriarch say if he knew that his daughter was here, preparing to lead a charge into London? Ben guessed that he already knew. That things had come to that. That when the chips were down, when destruction loomed, Rulf had faced her rebellious spirit and found that he had nothing to say.

  Ben found the same. The fact was he’d been through fire and back with the ill-made knight and he had no reason to doubt her. And he realised then, standing there in the road, exactly what he was looking at. What he was seeing in her smooth-skinned face, her stubborn gaze. Not fear alone, no. Not just folly. Loyalty, perhaps, but more than that too. She represented something much greater, something larger than them all, Remnant and human alike. But it was too soon to put a name to it.

  Instead, he lifted the sword.

  “Then take this,” he said. “Loath as I am to part with it.” He gave a little cough. “I guess it belongs in human hands.”

  And you’ll need it, he thought but didn’t say. Magic won’t run out like ammo.

  Even in the gloom thrown by the briar, the blade gleamed, drinking in the morning. The gems on the crossguard sparkled as Annis reached for the hilt, with anything but cheery accord.

  “Excuse me,” Caliburn said. “Am I a spare umbrella kept in the hall? I’ll have you know that I was forged in lunewrought and—”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Ben replied.

  Red Ben stood before the thorn wall. In the settling silence, he took off the horn from around his neck, holding the relic tightly in his fist. With a flicker of will, his ribcage swelled, a ladder of scales rippling from groin to neck. His haunches bulged, rhino-sized, a growing shadow in the gloom. His splayed talons gouged furrows in tarmac. An unfolding chain, his tail snaked out behind him, the arrowhead tip reaching the vanguard of his troops, waiting at his back. Horns danced along his lengthening spine, travelling from snout to rump. He spread his wings, as red as the heat in his belly, his lungs swirling with gas.

  He grinned, his fangs parting.

  Time to open the gates of Hell.

  With a deafening roar, he blasted a flood of fire at the thorn wall.

  NINETEEN

  For the rest of that day, in fire, magic and blood, the Battle of London played out.

  At zero nine hundred hours, the Royal Artillery opened fire on New Road, a bombardment of rockets and shells hissing into the thorn wall, the briar bursting into flame. Explosions boomed off statue, parkland and reinforced glass, threatening to shake the hedge-swathed buildings apart, most of them riddled by monstrous roots. The thicket supported high-rises, office blocks and houses, the flames releasing the sagging structures in a crumple of girders and bricks. Trucks and cars, borne aloft by the brambles, shifted and fell, crashing into the road. The blaze lit the surrounding streets, shadows weaving across the Canonbury rooftops, rippling over the surface of Hoxton Canal. As the tangled branches writhed and split, charred wood caving inwards in the heat, the tanks crawled forward over the bridge, wolfhounds and panthers grumbling beside them, the armoured vehicles entering the breach. Down a corridor of swirling ash, the vanguard crept, pausing on occasion to refresh the fusillade, open the path ahead.

  Above, helicopters had wheeled and buzzed, strafing the barrier with rockets, pillars of fire bleeding through the thorns. With a crash of sparks, the dense vegetation shrivelled and fell, dark clouds shrouding the sun. Here and there, soldiers rappelled from the circling choppers, zipping down ropes to land in clusters on the rooftops of shopping malls and car parks. Gas masks winked, bug-eyed in the haze. Soldiers held machine guns and rifles close, the weapons loaded and ready. On the ground, through the manmade eclipse, the troops had come on, headlights blazing, barrels raised, forcing a passage to the other side, the empty borough beyond.

  It took time, but the flames worked swiftly, devouring the briar. For all its sorcerous provenance, the hedge remained simply a hedge, a mass of dry and knotted wood. The barrier may have bought the enemy time, a seemingly impenetrable obstacle, but these were not the Dark Ages, and Challengers, Apaches and Typhoons weren’t knights on horses with pincushion swords. Within an hour, the tanks and the armoured vehicles had broken through into Shoreditch and were roaring down the road for Old Street roundabout. In the distance, the Leadenhall Building rippled like a fountain in a mirage. Behind them, the advance guard, marines in aluminised helmets and suits, had managed to cross the canal. Silver boots shuffling through ash, flamethrowers belching, they picked their way through the breach. With burning thorns looming on either side, every man and woman among them believed that they’d entered the jaws of Hell.

  Goblins were waiting for them.

  At the roundabout, in the shadow of the office blocks, under the hoardings in the middle of the junction, the scattered divisions of the armies met. Behind overturned buses and cars, the goblins shrilled and hurled projectiles, rocks and trash bouncing off the tanks and the grated windshields of the wolfhounds, unable to make a dent. Gunfire tore through the day in answer, pinging off metal and tarmac, green blood splattering the scene. A rocket launcher popped, a stray rocket spinning through the air and detonating against a billboard, some sunny televised holiday prize exploding in glass and flame.

  The tanks advanced, crunching over the debris. Confident that the primitive state of the enemy was no match for a modern military force, the human soldiers had neglected to scan the surrounding buildings. They failed to notice the beasts, hackles raised, that lurked in shadowed porches, waiting. As the vehicles grumbled forward, the black shucks snarled and pounced, fifty or more of the coal-eyed beasts leaping into the approaching ranks. Fangs met throats and limbs in the blood haze, random bullets peppering the day. Men and women screamed, wrestling with savage balls of fur, flailing on the ground, then falling still. A tank rolled over one of the beasts with a groan of steel and a muffled whine, rumbling on towards the roundabout, keen to meet the screeching horde.

  Faced with goblins alone, the advancing troops may have stood a chance. But these creatures had long ago learnt the art of slyness. Nearby, on Great Eastern Street, a gaggle of greenteeth poured from the medieval mouth of St. Agnes Well, climbing from the ruins and the sewers below, the slick-skinned hags dripping with wastewater and shit. Beady eyes glittering with hunger, the greenteeth crawled in a swampy, stinking mass toward the junction of Old Street, their hands, knees and breasts dragging on the ground.

  Above, gargoyles swooped, dropping like boulders into the fray.

  Meanwhile, the Remnant army, led by Ben, had broken through the thorn wall and charged into Trafalgar Square. With a mighty roar, the dwarves went barrelling through the smoke, axes swinging, to meet the rabble on the other side. Ogres, their furred cloaks no longer so fine, their hose torn and blackened, had come lurching down the steps of Nelson’s Column, knives and clubs in hand. Between the bonfires that littered the square, the creatures had clashed, helmets, shields and teeth splintering, bloodied beards cracked in grins, feathered caps flying. Gnomes leapt from armoured shoulders, tearing at hair and poking at eyeballs, teeth nipping at the lobes of grotesque ears. Here and there, the smoke condensed and took on equine form, shagfoal galloping out of the brume, their eyes flaming, leaving heaps of trampled bodies in the stampede. In the wreckage of the fallen idol, the thorn wall a smouldering mouth, Remnant met Remnant with bellows and screams. As though no time had passed at all, the fabulous beings and beasts resumed the battle of centuries ago, on the gore-soaked fields of Camlann.

  Gradually, faced with such a force, Arthur’s horde began to fall back, spilling into the surrounding streets, dispersing into tight knots of conflict. On Shaftesbury Avenue, shop windows exploded, the black knights roaring out of the smoke, guns blazing, driving the goblins back. Soho became a warren of smoke, bullets and blood. Bugbears lurched behind the crumpled stalls, stalked by green men in the brume, the two creatures clashing on occasion, leaves and fur flying. At Waterloo, a witch came spinni
ng down from the skies. Aflame with some backfired spell, she went crashing into a petrol station, an explosion blossoming on York Road.

  At dusk, the battle came to a head on London Bridge.

  Ben swept over the city, his wings shredding the clouds of smoke, a widow’s veil over the sunset. Tucked behind his plated breast, the Horn of Twrch Trwyth felt cold against his skin, the touchpaper to the terror in the streets. The relic had dragged the Remnants from the Sleep and plunged them headfirst into the whirlwind, the storm of violence below. Others, free of enchantment and the quickening spell, had come, armed to the teeth and ready, desperate to liberate London.

  The thorn wall was truly ablaze now, ignited by the crashed aircraft (wyverns, griffins, gargoyles and witches still wheeling and screeching between the smouldering spires and rooftops) and the British squadrons that arrived on all sides, spurred on by the chaos in the city, the stirring call of war. From above, Ben could see them, the rows of tanks, trucks and soldiers marching down the shrouded arteries into London. The A23 to the south. The M4 to the west. He tried and failed to push the image of a conveyer belt from his mind, fresh meat rolling towards a grinder. Or perhaps an oven. This conflict, it seemed, was no place for humans. But what choice do they have? He could only admire their courage, while curling his snout at the price of the attack. An ocean, a waste of blood. The smell of it hung rank in the air, a pall as thick as the smoke.

  Is this really our nature? Us and them? he wondered, his mind shrinking from the truth. To kill or be killed? After all this time, is this the world we’ve made …?

  To the east, down the winding length of the Thames, a submarine bobbed to the surface to launch a missile, sections of the briar hissing down into the river in giant flaming burrs.

  At various sites across the capital, pillars of smoke coiled into the sky, joining the general miasma. Coasting on the sweltering wind, scales greased with ash, Ben followed the arc of the Embankment, searching for Annis and the Black Knights, lost somewhere in the fray. Somewhere, oil blazed, stinging his nostrils, spiced with the stench of burnt fur and flesh. Big Ben and the Eye danced and shimmered, uncertain silhouettes in the haze. Every window of Somerset House was aglow, an audience of cracked glass raging at the ruin. The river reflected its tears of flame. Cleopatra’s Needle rose from the smog, a reminder of recent trials, when he’d imagined that an undead priest, a goddess reborn and a breach in the Lore were the worst of his troubles. Back when he could still afford hope. Believed he could restore the balance of his world, lonely, oppressed as it was.