Burning Ashes

by James Bennett

  Under this, dark wings smothered his heart. Carrion crows, the harbingers of doom, went fluttering through his soul. Things change. That’s what the witch had told him, a year ago on the Brooklyn Bridge. Such a seemingly mundane prophecy, at odds with the catastrophe since. For hundreds of years, this had been his city, his home. Hidden in the depths, the Fay burrows under St. John’s Wood, he’d scratched out a life, of sorts. Over time, as the Great Forest fell, replaced by a jungle of concrete, steel and glass, he had slipped into her majestic shadow, a ghost of a long-forgotten land. That it should come to this … The devastation below, over which he swept like a visiting demon, only served to compound his despair. He’d sworn to protect this city and its people. And he had failed both.

  Shouts, gunfire and the clash of steel shook him from his remorse, drawing his gaze to the river, oily and red in the deepening twilight. Through the centuries, a number of bridges had spanned the Thames. One of them had fallen in 1212, devoured by dragon fire, the houses upon it reduced to ash along with the people inside them. Thanks to him, Rakegoyle had fallen too, her wings smouldering, the river boiling around her bones. Once again, Ben shuddered at the synchronicity of fate, returning him to the site of his struggle with the old bitch. A struggle that had sparked the human panic in the first place, driving a king to press his seal to the Pact …

  This latest bridge was also aglow, he saw, lit by machine-gun fire and the flash of swords. Goblins and ogres swarmed along the concrete span, bullets sparking off makeshift shields, which even from above, Ben could see were nothing more than manhole covers and torn-off car doors. Enough to withstand the volleys of the Black Knights, who were retreating along the bridge towards King William Street, some on motorbikes, some not, many of the vehicles left lying abandoned in the road. They’re running out of petrol, he realised, his heart in his throat. And ammo. With rising dread, he heard the fading roar of gunfire and he couldn’t ignore the diminished numbers of the knights. He had no way of knowing how many of them fought elsewhere in the city and how many had fallen since he’d blazed his way through the thorn wall, but this loose banner of a hundred or so wouldn’t present much challenge to the horde when the last trigger clicked on empty.

  Worse, he could see the horrors to the north, a throng of bugbears, ghouls and greenteeth gathered around the foot of the Monument, the bronze crown atop the stone column ruddy in the flames and the sunset. Blood running cold, Ben watched as the troops rumbled as one away from the square, a tide of owl-like eyes, beaks, claws and flesh both pallid and green pouring into the narrow stretch of Fish Street Hill. Siphoned between the shattered façade of pub, restaurant and corner shop, the troops lurched in a hushed, grotesque mass, preparing to cut off the Fitzwarren retreat. Caught between the converging hordes, the Black Knights looked set to be the jam in a deadly sandwich.

  His eyes like lamps, the scene on the ground filled Ben’s vision with unwanted, but necessary detail. Drawing closer, he made out du Sang, the boy’s face streaked with gore, his curls lush in the half-light, the vampire gorged on Remnant blood. The Vicomte had little to fear from the oncoming troops. Perhaps he even welcomed them, embracing the chance of a lucky death. Du Sang appeared to rally the knights, calling to them with words beyond Ben’s hearing.

  Near to him stood Annis Cade, her bike discarded, her blade raised. Caliburn drank in the flames, the burning buildings along the river caught in silver. The two of them, one young and one not so young, might offer some in the horde a bloody end, but fangs and lunewrought would never be enough, Ben knew, to counter the attack entirely. Soon, the rabble at their back would come, pouring like tar onto the bridge, and the tide would carry them away, crashing over the remaining knights and ending all resistance. In fire and blood, the horde would see the nightfall in triumph, flames roaring to rub out the stars, a throne secured for a long-dead king.

  The armies met with a crunch of leather, steel and wart-ridden flesh. Du Sang bared his teeth, a red portcullis falling on a goblin’s skull, muck splashing from shattered bone. Knights were firing at close quarters or kicking and punching at the swarming mass. Bodies dropped to the ground, the troops trampling them underfoot.

  There came a burst of silver, as blinding as lightning. Annis was swinging the sword, severed limbs blooming from the bridge. Caliburn took out a good portion of the vanguard, thirty or more goblins hurled into the sky. But the Remnant horde was great in number, victory so close now they could probably taste it. On and on the goblins came, the troops an ugly, gibbering mess, a cloud of weapons at the end of the bridge, the span shuddering with battle. And wherever Annis swung the sword, Caliburn thrummed with magical force. Silver flashed, bright in the mob, clusters of goblins flying.

  It isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough.

  Ben drew in his wings, preparing to dive, when he noticed the king, a smear of gold and blue, dropping like a stone from above. Out of the smoke, the squawk of aerial battle, Arthur leaned back in his saddle and descended, his wyvern shooting earthwards. Here then came the killing blow, the wyvern’s claws outstretched, aiming for the rear-guard of the knights with all the precision of a hawk.

  It was too late to stop him, the distance between them too great. Ben forced himself to watch as Arthur dived, some of the knights looking up with drawn faces and slack jaws, a shadow falling over them. With a deafening shriek, the wyvern raked its way through their ranks, flinging clawfuls of knights this way and that. Machine guns rattled, bullets thudding off scales. The dead king yanked at the reins, steering the beast skyward once more. He circled above the bridge, ready for another pass.

  Ben snapped in his wings, a spear thrown at the chaos below. He let gravity pull him down, down towards the battle, every minute spelling death. As he did so, Arthur returned, blood peppering his beard, wyvern claws ploughing into the frontline of knights. A furrow of blood and broken limbs parted along the length of the bridge, leading to the spot where Annis stood, wide-eyed and breathless, sword in hand. Ben cursed, loathing the distance between them. No. Wings eclipsed her tiny form, the king bearing down on her, determined to crush her, tear her from the bridge.

  Another death. Another death on your hands …

  A bolt of silver struck the sky, the echoes slapping off the river. Ben blinked, momentarily blinded, the clash of magic and leathery flesh boxing his ears. Even through the noise, he heard a roar go up below, human and elated. When his vision cleared, he saw the wyvern spinning away, its tail whipping over the water, a ribbon of guts in its wake.

  Annis lay on her back on the bridge. Caliburn had flown from her grip, lying several feet away. The girl was bloody, but whole, Ben saw, his heart swelling at the sight. She looked stunned and exhausted, but he could see that she still breathed. And the sword, it seemed, had opened up the wyvern’s belly. The beast wailed, flapping awkwardly over the Embankment, framed by fire and the night. High in the saddle, Arthur was wrenching at the reins, his spurs digging in. Crown askew, he pressed for speed, dragging the bucking beast around for a final pass.

  Fallen, disarmed, Annis watched the king descend, a bone angel come to claim her.

  Ben chose his moment. Roaring, he barrelled through the smoke, smashing into the wyvern’s spine. Scale met scale with a fang-jarring thud, claws tearing at flesh. Together, dragon and wyvern tumbled through the air, crashing into the middle of the bridge. Boom. The span shuddered with the impact, a wave of grit hitting both banks. Girders groaned under the sudden weight. Dust showered from the bridge struts, sugaring the water. Concrete buckled, cracks fanning out from a broad crater. Wings and tail flailing, Ben rolled with the smaller beast in his claws, barging his way through the mob. Under them, a carpet of crushed ogres and goblins, a slick of ermine and blood. In the face of the juggernaut, some of the creatures dropped their weapons and leapt out of the way, jumping with hands on caps into the river. Through the air, a crown spun, the last of the sunlight winking on gold. Then it clattered down on tarmac.

  When Ben came t
o a halt, the wyvern was still, limp in his grip. Panting, he let the beast go, his talons sliding out of its neck. A sack of scales and broken bones slumped to the ground. Unfolding his wings, casting Remnants away from him like roaches from a table, his head swung around, horns high above the rabble. Through the haze, he made out Annis, climbing to her feet. Limping, she headed for the sword, a hand raised to signal that she was all right, her eyes filled with smoke and confusion.

  It would have to do. If anything, Ben had only bought the girl some time. If he could clear the southern end of the bridge, scatter the horde, the remaining knights might stand a chance of crossing the river, escaping the throng of bugbears at their back.

  And what then? The truth bit at him, a knife under his ribs. Hide in the shadows? Live in the dark? Yeah, you’ll get to know just what it feels like …

  The thought gave him no sense of justice. In the end, the Remnants and the humans—some of them at least—had found themselves forced into kinship, a desperate alliance. If he drew hope from the fact, it was like the last glimmer of sunlight, slipping behind the rooftops.

  We’re the same, aren’t we? The Lady had shown him in the Orchard of Worlds. I’m part of you. Made of your dreams.

  To the south, the Shard glimmered, lit by the burning city, the spreading inferno of London. The towering building of steel and glass shone like a blade, steeped in the blood of Britain.

  On the bridge ahead, beyond the carcass of the wyvern, King Arthur, the Once and Future Corpse, rose to his feet. Pale he was, a small figure in dented armour, a mess of broken bone. Still, he grinned. Still, the light danced, a promise of winter in hollow eyes. He was ruin, Ben knew, and ruined, his torso bent over crushed ribs, his right shoulder up by his chin, jammed there by his battered frame. No viscera dripped from him. No guts coiled between his legs. His flesh had congealed long ago, a nest of maggots and worms. Whatever muck comprised his brain held no sense to move him. Only light, blue and spectral, made him animate. The energy of magic.

  But that energy had to come from somewhere.

  A certain failsafe, a certain spell, has triggered to signal our return. Arthur, the Once and Future King, has risen. He recalled how the Lady had looked off into the trees, betraying her shame. Her fear. Or … a corrupted version of him.

  Yeah. Fear. And something else … In his mind, the shift of silk in the orchard. Something you don’t want to think about.

  Ben had seen masks before. He was pretty sure he was looking at one now. Arthur was a tool, nothing more. An instrument of the High House, playing out the course of a mouldering spell.

  And some say that he shall come again, when the realm faces its direst threat …

  Prophecies whirled in his skull. Promises of return. Of revival. The dangling carrot of the Sleep, compelling the Remnant leaders to agree to the enchantment, allaying their fears. An illusion. A lie in which they had longed to believe.

  Well, here he stood, this feted king, ravaged yet defiant before him. Along with his suspicions, Ben got the feeling that he wasn’t looking at the real threat, only a storm cloud come to the city, raising Remnants and a wooden idol to devour a feast of souls. And for what? To throw the country into panic? To draw our eyes from … He caught his breath, his scales cooling despite the embers in his belly. Earlier this year, he’d come to learn the taste of the truth, bitter and cruel as it was. Whatever was coming, Arthur’s work here was done. His hecatomb roared around him regardless, claiming innumerable lives … Ben had seen enough rituals to curl his snout at the smell, wondering what powers the king had summoned. To which gods he paid tribute.

  Gods?

  Once, perhaps. The First-Born had their day. Now she is merely a queen …

  Caliburn. Damn you. Ben spat out the notion in gobbets of blood, scraps of flame. This had all started with the Fay, and with the Fay he guessed that it would end. In fact, he’d learned that things went even further back, back into the darkness before Creation and the womb of myths. Back when the earth was golden and new, a ripe fruit on the branch.

  Before everything had gone to shit.

  Arthur’s jaw hung loose, his grin missing a handful of teeth. The king shuffled forward, dragging one leg behind him, his body mangled by his fall. Ben suppressed a surge of pity, curdling with his disgust. The man that the king had once been, bringing Logres to its most glorious hour, had nothing to do with the horror before him, that was clear. The awakening charm had usurped his glory, perverted his legend, the cruel alchemy of gold into shit. And wasn’t that the nub of the matter? The Old Lands debased, crushed by the modern world? Christ. Arthur was nothing less than he’d ever been, Ben realised then, bruised and aching on the bridge. A metaphor. A living symbol, mirroring the health of his realm.

  The king’s spurs scraped on the ground, setting Ben’s teeth on edge. His breath made a mirage of the space between them.

  You’re a plague. Ben drew himself up, his haunches tensing. You were meant to be an Example. His tail swished back and forth. And in the end, that’s what you’ll be.

  Claws splayed, he bounded over the wyvern, rushing at the king. Flame swirled in his throat, mustered to turn flesh into ash. As his jaws stretched wide, a plume of heat flooded from his lungs, blackening the road.

  The king was waiting for him. Arthur threw out an arm, releasing fire in response, a jag of blue light crackling through the air. The force of it smacked into Ben, his breath scattering in sparks and smoke. Frost splashed across his breast, cold as the horn tucked behind his scales, hissing against his heat. He bellowed, the sorcerous volley as fierce as a burn, pricking tears from his eyes. All the same, he couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. Roaring, he let his momentum carry him forward, a red-scaled boulder along the bridge. He met the king with claw outstretched, snatching him up in his grip.

  Between his talons, the light blazed and sang, blue, flickering shafts. Magic hammered in his skull, thrashing at focused thought. Grimacing, Ben watched his claw turn from red to pink, frost crackling over his scales, up his foreleg. Fire and ice. Death versus life. The notion skittered through his brain, its meaning evading him. He had to move fast. Or, for all his strength, he’d find himself frozen on the bridge. Breathless, empty of life.

  With a howl, he snapped out his wings and leapt into the sky, a spark shooting from the city. Through the smoke he soared, the clouds churning in black rags, the night yawning beyond. The air burned through his under-wing gills, pulling him into the heights. Frost was spreading across his shoulder now, biting at his muscles, sinking into flesh. In no time at all, his grip was weakening, the king a blizzard between his claws, trying to fight his way free.

  As Ben rose over the city, the streets bleeding like magma below, he could feel winter gnawing at his heart. The Horn of Twrch Trwyth met with the floe, a deepening core of cold. Leaden, encased in ice, his foreleg was growing as heavy as stone. Snarling, he fought against the creeping magic. Brow knotted, he focused his will, pushing ever skyward.

  Then, with a snap of his wings, he came to a halt in the air, suspended high above the river. Between his talons, he made out eyes, blazing at him in fury. The dead king grinned at his handiwork. In moments, that grin said, this fight would be over. And the dragon would fall.

  But you’ll fall with me. This is my city. Mine.

  With this, Ben reached his destination, his bulk reflected in panels of glass. Tail thrashing, its arrowhead tip slicing the dark, he’d soared his way up the face of the building. Roaring, he forced open his claw, his scales cracking and spinning away from him, shards of ice and frozen flesh. The next moment, his foreleg shattered, releasing the king from his grasp.

  As he tumbled through the air, triumph blazed in Arthur’s eyes, his beard weaving in the wind. Then, with a resounding crunch, the summit of the Shard speared through his back. The tip of one steel and glass blade pierced his armour, snapping his spine like a twig. In a plume of bone and dust, his ribcage burst along with his heart. Somewhere, wyverns shrieked, a dista
nt dirge. Flames danced, cackling below.

  Ben barely heard them, his gaze fixed on the king. Silently, Arthur slid a foot or two down the panel, the glass shuddering, but holding true. He hung there, impaled and struggling, his limbs thrashing at nothing. Then he slumped, falling still, the fire in his skull snuffed out.

  Once. Future. And no more …

  Ben could only trust to that. Frost binding him, his strength ran out, leaving him hanging, a deadweight in the sky. His wings, limp in the wind, covered his bulk like a shroud as he fell. Unconsciousness claimed him, the air screaming in his ears.

  He crashed down into the Thames, the waters hissing over his head.

  PART THREE

  Golden Age

  Then fell on Merlin a great melancholy;

  He walked with dreams and darkness, and he found

  A doom that ever poised itself to fall,

  An ever-moaning battle in the mist,

  World-war of dying flesh against the life,

  Death in all life and lying in all love,

  The meanest having power upon the highest,

  And the high purpose broken by the worm.

  Tennyson, Idylls of the King

  TWENTY

  Benjurigan …

  Around him, darkness yawned, filling his dreaming eyes as he opened them on the sward. The strict rows of trees swam into view, marching off into the gloom like stooped hags. Elsewhere, he had a sense of himself thrashing underwater, bubbles raging around him, the Thames swirling in embrace. The notion was fleeting, an echo fading with returning awareness. Or the uneasy insight of a fugue.