The ranks of Green Men flowed forwards and Gordon took up his position at their head once more. Following him were the mounted sub-commanders, leading the first much-depleted columns. Behind them, more sub-commanders and their vast units were also moving forward. The Ward army began to spread to the left and right, stretching the line of imminent contact. The Green Men’s sub-commanders responded. Rifle fire was already cutting down swathes of the Green Men’s front ranks but now each sub-command split into infantry and longbowmen. The bowmen began to loose volleys of arrows over the heads of their own fighters and into the deeper ranks of Wardsmen in the distance.
Finally, the Green Men and the men of the Ward came among each other.
Gordon was first to sweep into the enemy lines. Those nearby him saw the young man become a furious warrior and they were inspired. He didn’t engage any of the Wardsman singly; he slashed at arms and legs and faces and moved on before any soldier could retaliate. Those who saw him coming raised their swords or their crossbows but Gordon anticipated every attack. He swooped between the grey uniforms, a black figure leaving a wide red trail behind him. His rage and energy spread from Green Man to Green Man and Ward troops began to fall like dry stalks to the scythe.
60
Ranks of Wardsmen broke away in various flanking manoeuvres.
Dempsey and the other sub-commanders who’d held back near Clay Coton met each of these attempted incursions with longbow volleys. This tactic even proved successful in repelling cavalry charges along the sides of the Green Men’s main attacking force.
What amazed Dempsey most was the battle’s direction. The Ward were being pushed backwards towards their rear position in the village of Crick. He’d long since lost sight of the black-coated figure that was Gordon Black. He prayed the young man was still alive – if not for him, this battle might have been lost before it really started. Dempsey’s suspicion, though, was that Gordon, fighting as a lone unit, would have tired and fallen within the first hour or two of the battle. No one was capable of that expenditure of energy – running and fighting, grappling possibly – for very long. The troops at the front of the attack had been reinforced twice now and Gordon had not come in with either of the waves of fighters returning to rest and eat.
Now that they had pushed the Ward so far back, Dempsey had no choice but to march his forces along behind the main columns in support. When the daylight began to weaken, Dempsey watched in astonishment as the Ward signalled a full retreat into the village of Crick. The Green Men, still fit to fight and still winning the battle, did not follow. Sub-commanders brought their ranks back to the fields north of the village and those of higher rank took shelter in the abandoned farms and houses of the village of Yelvertoft.
Dempsey searched for Gordon among the returning, exhausted troops but couldn’t find him, though he asked every tenth fighter he passed if they’d seen him. None had. Yet the looks on the faces of every Green Men he saw were triumphant and somehow serene. There was a sense of certainty that he had not seen on any face since the Ward slipped into power and began to crush the life out of the country and its people. Where had it come from, this sudden self-belief from those who, only the day before, struggled to draw breath with the Ward’s boot crushing their windpipes? Simply from taking up arms, from having the courage to face up to the enemy and say “enough”? Dempsey didn’t think so.
A group of smiling, bloodied Green Men walked past his mount and he called down to them as the dusk spread its blanket over Yelvertoft’s small main street.
“How did it go out there today?”
The front man of the group stopped.
“It was like the prophecies. All those visions from before the Ward took over.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was like being part of something… awesome. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was doing something right.”
Dempsey nodded. Fighting the Ward made him feel the same way. But the man was right, there had been so much more to it today. Dempsey noticed the man’s face was wet with tears. Everyone in the group was crying with him. The man spoke up again:
“This’ll never be forgotten, you know. They’ll be telling this story for the rest of time. This was the day the Crowman showed himself to us. This was the day he fought alongside us as a brother. Not an idea or a concept or a piece of propaganda but a real man. Flesh and blood.” The man looked to his comrades in arms. “We all saw him, didn’t we?” Every one of them nodded, solemn and rapt at the thought of what they’d done. “Three or four of us at least owe him our lives, I’d say. That’s how close he was to us. And tomorrow, we’re going to end this war and set the land free. We’ll see you out there, brother.”
“That you will,” said Dempsey. “That you will.”
Dempsey awoke troubled from a dream. All he could remember was the image of a twisted black tree high on a hillside, outlined against a setting sun. In the tree, there were three crows. The crows were talking to him and whatever words they’d uttered had terrified him into wakefulness. Now, as he rubbed the grit from his eyes, he was glad he couldn’t remember what it was they’d said.
No one he’d talked to after the success of the first day had seen Finney, Carter or Stone. Dempsey had searched for them until the darkness made it impossible to walk. By then he was on the outskirts of Yelvertoft near the overgrown country road leading south to Crick. There he’d found a short row of minuscule houses, all of them deserted. Smashing the window of the last property in the line, he’d climbed through. A very brief fumble in the dark confirmed he was in a tiny bungalow that would once have housed someone elderly and alone. The single bed was musty but otherwise clean.
Now he was awake and it was still dark outside. He knew there was no chance of weaving his way back into slumber. The nightmare faded so fast, all that remained was a sense of unease. Beyond this, the only emotion Dempsey felt was the desire to get back into battle and win this thing today. In years to come, they would call it the Two-Days War. He gathered his pack, let himself out through the front door and went in search of his horse and some breakfast.
The thump and whine of a mortar made Dempsey dive to the ground. The shell struck about twenty yards away, blowing a hole dirt deep through the tarmac of the nearby T junction. More shelling followed, the explosives landing deeper in the village. He heard people screaming and the terrified whickering of the stabled cavalry mounts. The bombardment did not peter out as it had the day before. As if they’d been saving ordnance for a moment like this, the Ward now laid down a heavy barrage, dispelling the quiet and dark of the early hours with screeching hellfire. Green Men ran confused in the darkness and brightness, searching for their comrades in arms or a safe place to rally. They found nothing but destruction.
Dempsey, knowing what would come next, began to crawl the periphery looking for survivors and gathering them into a force. It took valuable time but he managed it. Once he’d formed a substantial group of fit fighters, he sent out others to do the same. His simple order was for all remaining troops to meet beside the canal bridge at the eastern limit of Yelvertoft. If they made it that far, there was a chance they’d live to take a few more Wardsmen down.
Because it was mostly populated by commanders and sub-commanders, Dempsey knew the sudden loss of Yelvertoft probably signalled the end for the Green Men. What would their fighters do with no one to lead them? The Ward had known this was where most of the Green Men’s top brass were encamped. Even after today’s victory, there were those who still believed in the Ward enough to spy for them.
Dempsey cowered by reeking canal with his tiny troop of survivors and held his head in his hands. They’d been too cautious the previous afternoon. They could have pursued the Ward into the village of Crick and ended the fight right there while they had the advantage. Now the cunning Ward officers had mounted their devastating counter-manoeuvre. Whether these attacking troops were Ward reinforcements or men held in reserve for exactly this purpose, Dempsey d
idn’t know. But he had to face the facts; they’d been outsmarted and outplayed.
Jerome and Denise crept out of Yelvertoft as soon as the Green Men’s victorious fighters had fallen into an exhausted sleep. They didn’t have long to wait.
Jerome had found ways to keep his sub-command out of trouble for most of the battle, only sending them into a full charge when the Ward appeared to be routed at the end of the day. He’d been among the first to return to Yelvertoft, where Denise was waiting in the cottage they’d picked out that morning.
A couple of hours before the mortar attack began, he took Denise and their two horses and led her through the village of slumbering troops to a small, densely overhung country lane. This byway would take them the three miles to the Ward stronghold in Crick quicker than going across country. The wild hedge growth had created a low tunnel. Instead of riding, they had to lead their horses all the way and the tangle of rampant vegetation made for slow going; this was one part of the landscape that remained full of life.
Jerome had known all along that, no matter what happened on the first day of the battle, no matter how good things might have looked for the Green Men, the victory would always go to the Ward. They were well organised and had better training and equipment. They had planned for this event longer and more carefully, and they weren’t starving to death. They also had greater numbers of troops and had managed to keep that one piece of intelligence secret long enough for it to make a difference. He knew he’d made a sensible and well-informed choice about who to serve. It had resulted not only in his survival thus far, it had also netted him Denise.
Last night, knowing she too had made her choices and had to abide by them, Denise had finally given him what he wanted. It was better than he could have imagined. He’d had some grubby fumblings with the leftovers of humanity’s womenfolk but none of them compared to Denise. And she’d shown him how much more there was to come. For the moment, for as long as he could claim her as his, Denise would remain at his side.
They entered Crick through a small checkpoint and Jerome had to wait while a young Wardsman ran to an officer to verify his story. A few minutes later, they let him through the barrier. Jerome installed Denise in the vicarage, placing a small ring of guards outside, not to protect her but to keep her from running off. He knew she was wild and alert to every whiff of opportunity. If he was able, he wanted to hang onto her just a little longer.
Around that time, a force of fresh-looking Wardsmen, horses and carts set out across the fields to take up their positions around Yelvertoft, ready for the predawn bombardment. Jerome didn’t give them a second glance. Once they’d entered the vicarage, he took Denise to the bedroom and continued from where they had left off, the distant thud of mortar shells unnoticed.
61
At some point in the afternoon, Gordon began to tire. By then the Green Men had all the forward momentum and the Ward were in a controlled retreat towards Crick.
His knife, held so tight for so long, was fused in his right hand. The feathers of his right sleeve were blood-soaked from cuff to armpit. He was wounded on his shoulders and torso where blows he’d only partially evaded had opened his skin. Much of his body was bruised – when the fighting had become so close quarters that enemy and friend alike were crushed against each other, knees and elbows and heads had become weapons of desperation.
Wherever Gordon found himself on the battlefield, the Green Men around him became his temporary units. His life had been saved by the swift reactions of strangers on more occasions than he could count. Why the troops cleaved to him with such faithfulness he didn’t know but he was deeply grateful; more Green Men than he could count had died keeping him alive.
The spirit of the Crowman had been with him throughout the battle, giving power to his right hand and making him swift and strong, but Gordon had not seen the dark figure since their encounter in the oak wood. Now, with his strength waning and his limbs becoming leaden, Gordon began to doubt the Crowman again.
As the Green Men pushed the Ward to the outskirts of Crick, Gordon glanced to the east and saw a hill which rose from behind the nearby tree-lined horizon. The hill was grassless and pale in the late afternoon light. A single gnarled tree sprouted near the hill’s highest point. Gordon’s heart lurched as he recognised it from his dreams.
To the west, and much nearer, as he pushed forward in pursuit of the Ward’s last stragglers, he could see enormous, squat buildings – warehouses or logistic units perhaps – now long abandoned and beginning to collapse. Towering over the crumpling structures were two wind turbines. No longer marking time in lazy spirals, they had rusted to a stop. He’d seen all of this before in his scrapbook but from another angle.
If he was finally here, in the place that had been the subject of so many prophecies, why hadn’t the Crowman done as he’d promised and fought with them?
Have I done something wrong? He said he’d be here. He swore it.
For a moment everything stopped. Gordon came to a halt and those that still followed him stopped too. He glanced again towards the barren hill.
In front of the scorched, twisted tree stood a figure Gordon could recognise even from half a mile away. The figure, all in black, was as still as a monument. It held its arms outstretched to either side, as though to encompass the world. Gordon’s strength returned. The power of the land flowed once more into his limbs. With his left hand he felt the shape of the Crowspar beneath his clothing and the Black Light pulsed there as though it were a living organ, a black heart.
Gordon pointed so those Green Men around him would see; so that they too would be lifted by the sight of their dark messiah.
“The Crowman!” he shouted.
As if in response to his words, the Ward’s retreat became frantic. They turned their backs on the Green Men and ran for the shelter of the village. The Green Men seemed uncertain what to do. Even the commanders and sub-commanders hesitated as their enemy fled the field.
“He’s giving us the victory,” shouted Gordon. “Let’s finish it.”
He ran after the routed Wardsmen. Those nearest ran with him, still caught in his influence. After a hundred yards, his entourage began to fall away. When he looked back he saw scattered Green Men standing, panting and spent. Behind these strays, the main body of the army was turning away under the orders of their commanders. Why didn’t they follow him? This was the people’s moment; everything they’d struggled for, everything they’d died for, they could claim right now if only they would fight on.
When he looked back at the enemy, most of them had made it to Crick. The rest were scrambling to leave the open fields that had formed the day’s battleground. He ran on alone a little farther, the urge to end the war making his legs move even though he knew full well that nothing more could be done.
Behind him, the distance between him and the triumphant Green Men seemed suddenly very great; they were pulling back and wheeling to the east. By comparison, the space remaining between Gordon and the outskirts of Crick was tiny. Perhaps only a hundred yards now. Anyone with ammunition left in their rifle could drop him in a heartbeat. Even an artfully aimed crossbow bolt might do it. Regaining his sanity, he turned away.
There was a shout from the road skirting the village.
Gordon stopped and looked back. A horse and carriage emerged from the hedges. The driver trotted the carriage a short way into the field. There were three occupants and he recognised them all. Two grey-coated figures disembarked. The first was unnaturally tall and moved with a pronounced limp. The second was almost as wide as the first was high; he oozed from the carriage like a slug.
The third figure, a starveling, was pulled roughly from her seat. Her hands were bound behind her and her dirty hair fell across her face as they yanked her into the field. Her clothes were little more than rags and she was barefoot. Even so, Gordon could see her eyes peeping through her filthy, thinning locks; the same eyes that had once stared out at him from the crack between a garden wall and a
broken old green door. These eyes were different, though; educated by brutality. All this time they’d had her. All this time he’d been so certain she was dead.
A tiny light shone now in those beaten-down eyes. The spark of hope fulfilled, the brief flicker of joy.
“I propose a simple trade-off,” shouted Skelton in girlish tones.
There wasn’t much that needed to be considered, as far as Gordon was concerned. He already owed Jude his life; she was the one that had ensured his escape the day the Ward took his family away. His life in return for her freedom? There was nothing to contest. Even if she hadn’t given him his freedom that day, he’d gladly give his life for hers. He loved her. It was as simple as that. He glanced up at the hill for guidance, for a last burst of strength, but the Crowman was gone. Maybe he’d never been there.
Jude tried to run then but Skelton’s plump fingers caught her frail, fleshless arm and held her easily.
“We could have done this years ago, if only you’d come to us. What you’ve put her through, Gordon…” Skelton chuckled to himself. “Well, it’s despicable.”
Skelton’s taunting aroused a tidal wave of self-doubt in Gordon. He should have been angry but he was too tired. The search had gone on too long. What had he been doing all this time other than chasing a phantom? He should have gone back. He should have got Jude out and saved her from whatever the Ward had done. He was strong enough, smart enough. If only he’d known he could have done it.
And yet, his parents had been adamant, hadn’t they? He still had their letters to prove it. Since their separation everything he’d felt, from his deepest core and from his connection with the land and all its miraculous life, everything had told him the Crowman was real. A real man. Flesh and blood. Not just an ideal. What would Sophie and Louis Black do if they were here? What would they do if they had to choose between a daughter and a son?
The Book of the Crowman Page 33
