by Tom Becker
“Elias Carnegie,” Holborn proclaimed. “You have been found guilty of attempting to pervert the course of the Blood Succession, in the hope of preventing the true victor from taking the throne.”
The wereman snorted loudly, and spat a sizzling globule of phlegm into the snow. Ignoring him, Holborn continued his speech: “This villainous attempt to meddle in the affairs of the Rippers cannot go unpunished. Tonight we take vengeance in the name of not only Lucien, but his hallowed forefathers Thomas, George, Albert and – of course – Jack.”
The silence in the campsite was shattered by Carnegie’s harsh laughter.
“This is a farce,” he growled. “Jack would turn in his grave if he saw the human sputum now sitting on his throne.”
Lucien lunged forward and cracked Carnegie in the face with his riding whip. The wereman didn’t flinch, ignoring the trail of blood running down his cheek. Jonathan had to bite his tongue to stop himself crying out.
“Anything else you’d care to share with us?” the Ripper said, his voice ragged with hatred. “Any last words, wolfman?”
Carnegie thought for a second, then threw back his head and unleashed a piercing howl so loud it seemed to echo off the stars. From the other side of the camp, the hellhounds joined in, sharing the deafening lament with a kindred spirit. Finally, the howls died away.
“Enough of this,” rapped Lucien. “You will be hunted down like the mongrel you are. I only hope it will be me who strikes the killing blow. Free him!”
As one of the Runners unlocked Carnegie’s restraints, the wereman rubbed his chafing wrists and stretched his muscles. Holborn brought out a solid gold pocket watch from his jacket and inspected the dial.
“You have twenty minutes before the hounds are set loose. May the Rippers curse your every step.”
Instead of running away, Carnegie stood stock-still, his eyes fixed on Lucien. There seemed to be a promise of sorts in his gaze. After what seemed like an age, the wereman turned on his heel and walked slowly from the campsite until the night swallowed him up.
Jonathan felt himself breathe again. The crowd’s earlier jollity had been replaced by a sombre mood. As the musicians struck up another tune, Lucien and Holborn began an intense conference. The Ripper was gesturing angrily after Carnegie, his face creased with rage.
“He looks furious,” whispered Raquella.
“Carnegie has that effect on people,” Jonathan said, with a half-smile.
Eventually the Abettor nodded reluctantly, and cupped a hand to his mouth.
“Let us begin! Bring in the horses!”
Jonathan checked his pocket watch incredulously. “He can’t start yet! It’s only been five minutes!”
“Since when has Lucien played fair?” replied Raquella. “No one can escape Bleakmoor in twenty minutes anyway. It’s down to us, now.” She caught her breath, and when she spoke again, there was a note of wonder in her voice. “Oh Jonathan, look!”
A pack of horses had come trotting into the camp: muscular black stallions with flaming manes of yellow, red and blue hair. Their eyes were bright with an intelligence Jonathan had never seen in an animal. Even he had to admit, there was something gloriously regal about the way the horses moved.
“What are those things?”
“Night Mares,” Raquella replied. “The most fabled steeds in Darkside.”
As the hunters began to mount up, Jonathan cast Raquella a dubious look.
“I don’t know how to ride a horse!”
“You don’t need to know,” hissed Raquella. “Just hang on and don’t let go – they’ll do the rest.”
A Night Mare had stopped in front of him, its bright yellow mane blowing in the wind. Placing his foot in one of its stirrups, Jonathan awkwardly swung up on to the horse’s back. The Night Mare’s powerful flanks twitched, as if affronted by the clumsiness of his ascent. It tossed its head and snorted, jets of air spraying from its nostrils.
With the hunt assembled, Lucien raised a twisted bronzed horn to his lips and blew, sending a strangled, jarring note into the night. The Runners released the hellhounds, who raced out of the camp on Carnegie’s trail with a ravenous joy. The Night Hunt had begun. Taking a deep breath, Jonathan kicked his heel into his horse’s flank, and charged forward after his friend.
8
The Night Mare plunged into the darkness after the hounds, hooves pounding through the snow. Jonathan bounced violently in the saddle, only his desperate grip on the reins preventing him from being unseated. As the horse sharply threaded its way through frosted gorse bushes, he realized Raquella had been right – if he could just cling on, the Night Mare would take care of them both. Even as he fought to stay on its back, Jonathan marvelled at his steed’s combination of intelligence and raw power.
The hunt galloped across the broad hillside: a malevolent, thunderous brood. Some of the riders hunched low in the saddle as they spurred their mounts forward, while others stood up in their stirrups, brandishing swords above their heads and filling the air with whoops and war cries. Others held aloft flaming torches, the light picking out their horses’ bright manes. Far away to the south of the moor, the streets of Darkside were sprawled beneath them, mapped out by twinkling street lamps. In the midst of this wild, primeval chase, the rotten borough looked a beacon of civilization.
Though his Night Mare had settled into a fierce gallop, the more experienced riders were already leaving Jonathan behind. He was aware of Raquella riding alongside him, a look of determination etched on to the maid’s face. In the distance, the hounds snarled with desire as they pursued Carnegie’s scent.
The hunt veered right, heading towards a gully at the bottom of the hillside. They picked up even greater speed as they descended, so Jonathan didn’t see the drystone wall looming out of the darkness until the last second. He felt the mare’s muscles tense, and then suddenly they were flying in a majestic arc over the wall, landing on the other side without breaking stride. The impact sent Jonathan toppling sideways – hanging frantically on to the horse’s neck, he managed to stay in the saddle and right himself as his steed pressed on down the hillside.
The leaders of the hunt had come to a halt at the bottom of the gully, their horses milling around in the shallow waters of a brook. Hellhounds pressed their snouts to the banks of the river, yelping dismally. In the middle of the throng, Lucien was cursing as he angrily scanned the hillsides for traces of movement. The hunt had lost Carnegie’s trail.
As they neared the brook, Jonathan reined in the Night Mare, mindful of keeping as much distance between himself and the Ripper as possible. Although he had only been riding for a matter of minutes, his arms and legs were already aching. It was a relief to slow to a trot and sit back in the saddle.
From upstream, there came a triumphant howl.
“The hounds have picked up the scent!” roared one of the hunters, his riding hat adorned with bloodstained feathers. “The wereman has doubled back on himself, heading for the ridge! Onwards!”
Kicking his mount sharply in the flanks, the man urged the horse upstream along the brook, its hooves splashing through the water. A cry went up from the hunters, their blood thirst renewed. Geeing his Night Mare into a gallop, Jonathan exchanged a worried glance with Raquella. There was no way they were going to be able to keep pace with the hunt – the riders were too experienced, their horses too fast. Even now they were navigating the steep incline as easily as if it were flat. Unless Marianne provided her distraction soon, Carnegie was doomed.
Thundering back up towards the ridge, the hunt made for a sparse wood of fir trees clinging to the hillside. Ahead of them, the hellhounds howled with excitement as they bounded into the copse; they were closing in on their prey. The leaders of the hunt were about to follow suit when a loud explosion went off among the trees, and a ball of fire rose into the air.
As the hellhounds closed in on him, Carne
gie knew that he was going to die.
The wereman wasn’t scared. A lifetime spent courting death meant that it held few fears for him. In many ways, it was a miracle he had survived this long. Ever since his capture at Battersea, he had been a dead man. Lucien’s men had drawn it out for as long as possible, but Carnegie’s fate had been common knowledge among the grim gaolers in the depths of Blackchapel, and the wretched prisoners who shared the wereman’s cell. By the time he had been hauled up to Bleakmoor, Carnegie had been sorely tempted to sit down in the middle of the campsite and wait for the end to come, ruining the Ripper of his sport. Even in death, perhaps a victory of sorts would have been possible.
So why hadn’t he? Why had he loped away, making for the nearest stream in the hope of throwing the hellhounds off the scent? Why was he now scrambling through this infernal wood, branches and brambles tearing at his skin? The truth was, although Elias Carnegie may not have feared death, he didn’t hate life enough to roll over and die. Anything that wanted to kill him was going to have to earn the right.
But as the howling grew louder, he knew that the time of reckoning was fast approaching. For all his vast knowledge of Bleakmoor’s terrain, amassed over a lifetime’s roaming the hills in both human and animal form, Carnegie couldn’t outrun the hounds for ever. There might have been more fitting places to die, the wereman supposed – at a card table in a smoky tavern, or a street brawl on the Grand – but the harsh wilderness of Bleakmoor called to the beast within his soul. It would serve as a final resting place.
Then, from behind him, there came a loud boom, and a blinding light, and Carnegie realized that he might not be alone after all.
As the sky lit up and the ground trembled underfoot, the Night Mares at the head of the hunt reared up with fright, sending their riders tumbling from their saddles. A blazing orb of fire shot up above the treeline like a comet. The night rang to shouts of alarm and horses’ squeals. Amidst the chaos, the hunters who hadn’t been thrown to the ground reined in their horses, unsure whether to help their fallen comrades or continue the chase.
At the rear of the hunt, Jonathan’s nostrils were overwhelmed by an acrid concoction of gunpowder and seared animal flesh. Reining in his horse, he saw two hellhounds come slinking back out of the trees, their snouts blackened and hides burned.
Marianne’s “distraction” had consisted of a line of explosive charges dug into the ground. A decade of combat had given the bounty hunter a strategic sense that was second to none – having spent hours poring over maps of Bleakmoor, she had correctly anticipated the wereman’s escape route and planted the charges at the fringes of the trees.
“Jonathan!” hissed Raquella suddenly.
Twisting in his saddle, he saw that the maid had reined in her Night Mare.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s my horse,” she called back. “I think it’s gone lame. I’ll go after Marianne and the others. You get Carnegie!”
Jonathan nodded, then urged his mount up the hillside and through the disorderly remnants of the hunt at the wood’s edge. As he swept past, Jonathan saw Lucien being dragged to his feet by the Abettor, the Ripper’s riding outfit dappled with sooty snow. Lucien looked up with astonishment as he recognized Jonathan.
“Stop that boy!” he cried out hoarsely.
Startled, the remaining riders hesitated before springing forward to obey their ruler. Jonathan had a slender lead over them, but his cover was gone. As he entered the copse, he knew that if he didn’t find Carnegie, they were both done for.
The trees were still smouldering in the aftermath of the blast, burning branches cracking off from the trunks and toppling into the wet snow. Waves of heat rolled out from the heart of the explosion. Although a thick grey curtain of smoke hung in the air, the Night Mare weaved in and out of the trees with ease, its footing sure even in the slush. Jonathan felt increasingly comfortable on the back of his steed, as though horse and rider had formed some sort of unspoken connection.
The rumble of hooves was all around him now. Through the smoke, he could see the silhouettes of his pursuers, and flashes of scarlet riding gear. From out of the gloom there came a metallic singing sound; instinctively, Jonathan ducked, as a blade swung through the air where his head had been and bit into a tree trunk. A huntsman had drawn alongside him – cursing, the Darksider had to rein in his horse as he struggled to free his weapon from the trunk. Jonathan steered his Night Mare sharply to the right, leaving the huntsman in his wake.
Things were getting serious. Carnegie was nowhere to be seen, and Jonathan was in danger of getting surrounded. There was a twanging noise, and an arrow flew narrowly over his shoulder. Jonathan cried out with alarm, forcing the Night Mare into another abrupt change in direction. They began a precarious zigzag through the heart of the wood, arrows peppering the air around them. Jonathan lay flat in the saddle, burying his face in the bright yellow mane of his steed.
They had reached the far edge of the wood when Jonathan realized that he had been outflanked. The huntsman with the bloodstained feathers was waiting for him astride his mount, a large axe in his hands.
“Nowhere to hide, lad,” he called out. “Ready to die like a man?”
The hunt was drawing ever closer behind Jonathan – the only way out was past this man. Taking a deep breath, Jonathan pulled out his cosh and spurred his Night Mare into a charge, screaming at the top of his lungs. In reply, the huntsman raised his axe above his head in a two-handed grip. Before he could bring it down on Jonathan, a scraggy hand reached up from behind the man and pulled him sharply from his mount. The huntsman yelled with surprise as he lost his grip on his axe. Falling to the floor, he was set upon by a grizzly, snarling figure, who knocked him out with one punch.
“Carnegie!” cried Jonathan.
The wereman got to his feet slowly and gave Jonathan a craggy grin. “Aren’t you meant to be the one saving me, boy?”
“I’m doing my best! Come on!”
Carnegie bounded up into the saddle, and the two of them rode out from the trees and out on to the open slopes of Bleakmoor.
As they galloped to the top of the ridge, Jonathan risked a glance back over his shoulder. The Night Hunt had descended into anarchy. Riderless Night Mares were cantering across the hillsides, some being chased by hunters unwilling to trek home on foot. The blaze in the wood was still going strong, sending clouds of smoke billowing into the night sky. Aimless arrows still pierced the night sky, but no huntsmen had followed them out of the trees, and Lucien and Holborn were nowhere to be seen.
Jonathan laughed with triumph, and urged his horse onwards to safety.
9
The sun had risen half-heartedly over Darkside, as if unsure it was worth the effort. In the dingy warren of the Lower Fleet, a single ray of light cut through the clouds of smoke, catching upon something metal on the back of a rickety cart. It was a saucepan, balanced precariously atop a pile of bric-a-brac: broken furniture, battered copper piping and chipped plates. A mangy horse dragged the cart over the cobblestones, every weary clop only serving to hasten the animal towards the grave. At the head of the vehicle, two men sat beside one another – one with his head bowed, cradling something in his arms, the other staring glumly ahead as he held the reins.
Jacobs was in a miserable mood. Normally a happy-go-lucky man, he had been in a miserable mood for days, and the source of his unhappiness was sitting right next to him. Magpie’s face was haggard and drawn, the dark rings beneath his eyes betraying several long, sleepless nights. In his arms he held a rough piece of stone. Jacobs had half a mind to snatch it from Magpie and run the cart’s wheels over it.
This wasn’t how things were supposed to be, he lamented to himself. Jacobs and Magpie had been a team since childhood, stealing milk bottles from doorsteps and conning beggars out of their pennies. No job was too small for them, no profit too meagre. As adults, they had gone into the rag-a
nd-bone business together, but were always willing to try their hand at something else – street hawking, sewer cleaning, prisoner transportation. . .
Which was how their troubles had begun, Jacobs thought dolefully to himself. When Magpie had stolen that wretched stone from the boy at the gates of the Bedlam, at first Jacobs had been amused. Served the little bleeder right for such crazy talk: the Crimson Stone, indeed! But when Magpie turned up for work the next day still clutching the rock, the joke began to wear a little thin – and disappeared entirely when he stopped talking to his partner.
To make matters worse, Magpie’s obsession meant Jacobs had to work twice as hard to earn a living. Already that morning he had sold a large bundle of linen (being careful to under-change the nearsighted washerwoman), and a set of silver candlesticks that, whilst not actually silver, were close enough to avoid feeling any guilt about pretending otherwise.
There was a low snore by his side. Magpie had passed out in the cart. Great – now Jacobs would have to handle the rest of the day’s negotiations on his own.
He didn’t cheer up until the cart creaked into Dwindling Road and a dilapidated building loomed into view. To most Darksiders, it was known as the Wayward Orphanage; for the young Jacobs, it had been home. It had been within the Wayward’s walls that he had first met Magpie, where he had learned his first lessons in the vital subjects of cheating, conning and stealing. Every time he passed it, a wave of teary nostalgia always overcame him. Briefly, Jacobs thought about nudging Magpie awake, then decided against it.
Outside the front of the orphanage, he saw a bath chair – a light, hooded carriage favoured by the borough’s more genteel inhabitants – resting at the side of the pavement. The rest of the street was deserted. Jacobs’ nostrils began to itch with the opportunity for a quick profit. Bringing his cart to a halt, he licked his palm and smoothed down his straggling hair, then strutted over to the bath chair.
