The Exiled

by William Meikle

  “If we’re not back in an hour, go home. Live your lives. Rot in the hell you’ve made for yourselves.”

  James looked like he might weep, but Jonas only gave them a cold stare.

  “We will not meet again,” he said.

  “We’ll see about that,” Alan replied.

  He pointed up the hill and spoke to Sandy.

  “The door is over there,” he said, and brought the image to mind. The hillside wavered. He heard the two old men start up a wordless chant behind them—the same rhythm used by Ferguson, back in the ritual at the lockup. A heavy wooden door appeared in the hillside.

  “Ready to go down the rabbit hole?” Sandy said.

  Alan lifted the crossbow and pointed it ahead of him. He nodded.

  They stepped forward.

  * * *

  Alan pushed the door open with his free hand, having to put his full weight on it so that when it started to swing, he almost overbalanced and stumbled.

  It was dim and dark inside the ruin—not quite full night yet, but getting there fast. Shadows ran among the tumbled stones and the wind whistled an eerie note of despair in the rafters. Alan moved forward, but Sandy pulled him back.

  “Careful,” she whispered.

  Together they walked up the aisle. Alan only broke away into a run when he saw the bound figure draped on the altar.

  “John?”

  “I’m here, wee brother,” John answered in a croaky rasp. “But so is Galloway. Watch yourself—he’s got bigger.”

  Alan was just able to see John’s face, gray and drawn, his eyes sunk deep in dark sockets. Alan put the bow down and took out his knife from its sheath.

  “We’ll get you out of here in no time,” he said, and bent to John’s left. It was only after he went to cut the first rope that he saw what had happened to John’s shoulder, and he had to brush away tears as he sawed through the bonds.

  “We’ll get that bastard,” he said. “You and me together. We’ll get him.”

  Sandy stood guard over them as he worked.

  “I don’t think Galloway’s here,” she said.

  John needed help in sitting up, and he groaned, a fresh grimace of pain, as he pushed off the altar and stood.

  “He’s here all right. He got another wee lassie…”

  “We know,” Alan said. “Let’s just make sure he doesn’t make it to the sixth.”

  Sandy walked farther into the ruin. John took a step, then his legs gave way and he had to lean on Alan’s shoulder, gasping for breath.

  “He could be in the nave,” John said to Alan. “Come on—she’ll need all the help she can get if he’s there.”

  Alan put the knife in its sheath, hefted John with his left arm around him and John’s good arm—his only arm, he thought with a sob—around Alan’s waist. With the crossbow raised in front they staggered up the aisle after Sandy like two drunks in a three-legged race.

  They found Sandy standing in the entrance to the nave, staring straight ahead, tears coursing down her face.

  “You shouldn’t look,” John said, but it was too late—Alan finally saw the grotesque blasphemy that Galloway had wrought on the missing girls. They hung, all five, swaying in the breeze in a parody of a dance while watery moonlight lit and shaded them in the colors of the stained glass window.

  Alan looked beyond the dead girls, unwilling to see any more, and the huge dark swan depicted in the window caught his gaze, the moonlight giving it a semblance of movement.

  “Are you ready to go home, big brother?” Alan asked.

  The answer surprised him.

  “I’m going nowhere,” John said, and pushed himself away from Alan to stand on his own. The tattered remnants of his leather tunic hung on his shoulders. The shirt beneath was dark in patches where blood had spilled, and the wound on the shoulder looked greasy and swollen, traced through with many jet-black stitches.

  “You’re in no fit state for a fight,” Alan said.

  “When has that ever stopped me before?” John replied. “If Galloway’s not here, then he’s off taking another wee lassie—the last one he needs. And if that’s the case, I’m going to be here when he gets back.”

  He put his good hand into the pocket of his trousers and came out with a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

  “You ready to trade a smoke for that story?” he said to Sandy.

  The woman still hadn’t taken her eyes off the dead girls—there were no tears there now, just anger and steel. She walked over and took an offered smoke, getting her own lighter out from somewhere deep in the flak jacket.

  “We need to go,” Alan said.

  Both of the others shook their heads.

  “We’re waiting,” John replied. “I came here for Galloway. I’m not leaving without him.”

  “But your arm…”

  John managed a thin smile.

  “It hurts less now than it did when it was still attached,” he said. “Poke my eye out and call me Nelson if I’m lying.”

  That simple joke did much to release the tension that Alan had felt ever since leaving the SUV in the bird sanctuary car park. He laughed, and the sound echoed around them. It also seemed to set the swinging girls dancing again.

  “All right,” Alan said. “We stay—but please, not in here.”

  All three were in agreement with that. They went back out into the main body of the building. John leaned against the altar on which he’d recently been bound.

  “We should stay together,” he said. “Galloway’s a sneaky bugger—we don’t want to get bushwhacked again.”

  They stood there in silence as John and Sandy smoked. John spoke first.

  “I thought I was a goner, wee brother,” he said softly. And with that he told them how Galloway had made his sacrifice, and of Simon, turning his back in refusal to help. “We’re on our own,” he finished.

  “Maybe not,” Alan replied, and quickly brought John up to speed on their trip back.

  “There’s thousands of these exiles?” John asked.

  Alan nodded.

  “So they say. I get the feeling they’re just waiting for us to do something. Old Jonas made a little too much fuss about how comfortable they were over there—and James would have been here with us, if he hadn’t decided to side with his brother.”

  “Then let’s hope they hurry the fuck up. We could do with the cavalry riding in at the last minute.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” a gravelly voice boomed loudly from the nave. Galloway walked into view just as a moonbeam crossed the floor, lighting him up and showing, all too clearly, the limp form of a young girl cradled in his left arm.

  * * *

  Sandy reacted quickest of the three of them. She wasted no time in talking, just lifted her crossbow and fired, straight at Galloway’s head. The quarrel bounced off and clattered away into the shadows.

  Galloway laughed.

  “This is going to be fun.” He put the girl down, gently, against the corner where the aisle led into the nave. He turned back to glare at them. “Who’s first?”

  Alan followed Sandy’s lead and fired. He too aimed for the head, hoping to hit an eye, but luck—and lack of talent—was against him. His quarrel missed the target completely and disappeared off into the darkness at the rear of the building.

  Sandy tried to reload her crossbow, fumbling her first attempt and having to get a second quarrel in place after dropping the first. Alan saw that she would be too late—Galloway was already pounding towards them. Likewise he had no time to get his own weapon ready. He pulled out two flares, intending to try to distract the attacking ogre. He was just about to pull the string to light the first when John tugged it from his hand.

  “Get the girl,” the older brother said and before Alan could react ran forward—or rather stumbled, in a half-run, half-shuffle, lighting the flare as he and Galloway met. John feinted left, went right, an old boxing trick Alan remembered being taught years before, but done fast enough to fool the big man. John st
uck the burning flare in Galloway’s left eye, even as a huge arm caught him heavily across the chest and sent him flying to crash against a wall five yards away.

  Galloway howled in what could have been rage or pain—probably both.

  “Get the girl!” Sandy shouted. Alan couldn’t take his eyes off Galloway—stomping and cursing and screaming even as the flare burned like a red star in his eye socket. Acrid smoke and the smell of burning flesh filled the room. Sandy pushed Alan in the back, hard.

  “Get the fucking girl.”

  Finally Alan moved, taking a wide route to avoid Galloway’s reach, trying not to look at where John lay, unmoving, against the opposite wall.

  Sandy stepped in front of Galloway and pressed the crossbow tight to his chest over his heart. Without a word she fired. The bolt went in—around three inches of it penetrating the thickened, stony flesh. But it didn’t slow the big man any. He plucked the flare from his eye socket and threw it away, still sputtering and hissing. It arced up and outward through the open roof and disappeared beyond into the night.

  Somewhere in the distance a swan barked, and huge wings beat.

  Sandy danced away out of Galloway’s reach and started to reload the crossbow as Alan reached the nave. The young girl lay so still that he thought she was already dead, but her chest rose and fell in slow, deep breaths, even though her eyes were open, staring sightlessly up to the rafters. Alan had to drop his crossbow to lift her.

  Sandy fired another close-range bolt into Galloway’s chest. The big man still wouldn’t go down.

  The swan barked again, closer this time.

  Sandy moved to stand over John’s body.

  “Get over here,” she shouted at Alan. “Right now.”

  He did as he was told—having to leave his crossbow on the ground where he’d dropped it as the girl was too big to carry one-handed. He cradled her in both arms and sidled around the wall towards the others.

  Galloway loomed over Sandy. One side of his face was a ravaged, burned ruin, black and red and weeping down his chest to where the two quarrels stuck out like half-embedded nails in wood. He smiled.

  “Nowhere to go, little lass,” he said.

  “Simon!” Sandy shouted. “We need you. Right now.” She looked at Alan.

  “The balcony is over there,” she said, pointing. Alan nodded.

  “And the table is off to that side there.” He motioned with his head. The walls shimmered and faded, showing different stone beyond. A shadowy image resolved itself into Simon’s tall figure, looking back at them.

  Galloway screamed again. Sandy took out a fresh flare and waved it in his face.

  “Do you want more of this?”

  She pulled the string and threw the flare at him. It bounced off his chest even as it burst into light and heat.

  Galloway backed off.

  “Simon—bring us through. Right now,” she shouted.

  Simon was more solid now, almost real, but showed no signs of helping them. He looked hesitant—afraid.

  Galloway kicked at the flare, sending it scuttling away in the dark, a streak of light and smoke until it came to rest against a wall where it quickly burnt itself out.

  Alan hadn’t taken his eyes off Simon. The tall man saw Alan looking and shook his head. He started to fade.

  “No,” Alan shouted. “Look. Just look. You’ll have this one on your conscience if you don’t.” He held the girl up in front of him. “Bring us through, or by God, I’ll see you burn in hell.”

  Simon came to a decision. He stretched out a hand. Sandy reached forward and took it, just as a darker shadow fell over the ruin and the bark of the swan almost deafened them. Galloway screamed in time, a formless yell that this time was definitely more rage than pain. The ogre reached for the girl, but the huge gray arm passed straight through her.

  “Welcome back,” Simon said as Alan fell to his knees on the stone floor of the fortress balcony.

  27

  Grainger groaned, tried to stand but couldn’t force his aching muscles to respond at first. Simon leaned down and offered a hand. Grainger swatted it away.

  “I’m fine. No thanks to you.”

  He pushed himself to his knees with his good hand even as fresh pain shot across his back and through the injured shoulder.

  Simon and Sandy were near the balcony edge, bent over the still body of the young girl.

  “Is she alive?” Grainger asked.

  “She’s doing better than you, big brother,” Alan replied. “But she’s out cold.”

  Grainger stood, groggy and pained…

  But far better off than I should be, given the battering I had.

  Alan was looking at him strangely. The younger brother left Sandy’s side, came over and looked John in the face before turning to Simon.

  “What’s happening to him?”

  Simon smiled sadly.

  “What will happen to you all if you stay here.”

  “What do you mean?” Grainger asked.

  “Over there—look for yourself,” Simon said, pointing.

  Grainger turned and saw a tall mirror in the corner. It was only as he walked towards it that he saw what the others meant—and a possible explanation for his relative well-being.

  He was taller—thinner too, although some of that might be attributed to his recent ordeals. What couldn’t be explained away was the new slant to his eyes giving them the same extended oval look as Simon’s—and the small, but definite, signs of pointing at the tips of his ears.

  He turned. Simon smiled sadly again.

  “This place gives us strength—but it also molds us into what it wants us to be,” he said. “You saw what it was doing to Galloway?”

  “I thought that was a result of his ritual—something to do with the dead kids?”

  “Only in part—the Cobbe is giving Galloway more than the land is giving you. But if you stay, you will all change, in time.” Simon paused, as if wondering how much to say. “As I did when I came over.”

  * * *

  “I can see there’s more stories that need to be told,” Grainger said, and spat on the floor in front of the mirror. “I could do with a decent smoke—and a drink.”

  “I can help with that,” Simon said. “But let’s get the girl seen to first.”

  Grainger held back a sarcastic remark. He wasn’t finished with Simon—the man still had to answer for his earlier refusal to help—but for now, he agreed that the girl must be priority.

  “I’ll put her in my room,” Sandy said. “That way we’ll hear her if she wakes up.”

  Simon and Sandy both left, Simon carrying the girl, who showed no signs of waking, her eyes still open, staring sightlessly straight at Grainger as Simon took her through the door and out of sight.

  Grainger heard the two talking, not far off down the hallway. He turned to see Alan still staring at him.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” Alan said. He had fresh tears in his eyes. “First when we ended up back in the farmhouse without you, then again when you tried your John Wayne shite with the flare.”

  He strode over and the brothers embraced, somewhat awkwardly, both trying to protect Grainger’s wounds. Grainger gently pushed the younger man away.

  “You don’t get rid of me that easily,” he said, and walked to the parapet so that Alan wouldn’t see his own tears. The view over the plain below washed away any sentimentality that might have been welling in him.

  The Cobbe sat on the tallest spire of the ruined cathedral, clearly visible in the moonlight, a darker black against the shimmering sea beyond. Its constant barking carried in the wind, like a drum beating a martial rhythm. Below it, in the doorway, a figure stood. At first Grainger thought he might still be dazed and lacking depth perception, but no matter how he squinted, it was perfectly clear—Galloway had grown again, now almost as tall as the doorway itself, and nearly as broad.

  “We didn’t kill him, then?” Alan said at his side.

  “I think we just made h
im angry. I’m guessing we won’t like him when he’s angry.”

  Simon spoke at Grainger’s shoulder, having returned so quietly that they hadn’t noticed his approach.

  “Alexandra told me what happened,” he said. “He will need some time to heal. Then he will come for the girl. We must get her back to the other side—straightaway.”

  “Won’t he just find another?” Grainger asked.

  “No. There is a pattern to these things—he has chosen this one. He needs this one.”

  “Then, if we take her home, he’ll just go after her again, won’t he?”

  Simon didn’t reply.

  “We need to make a stand,” Grainger continued. “Either here, or there, it makes no never mind to me. But it seems to me that we have a defensible position here. You’ve managed to keep the Cobbe at bay so far, haven’t you?”

  Once again Simon looked like a badly scared man.

  “The Cobbe is afraid of the fortress,” he replied. “I doubt that Galloway shares its fears.”

  “That’s something we’ll have to wait and see,” Grainger said. He had one last look at the Cobbe, then turned away. “But first, you owe us a story—and a smoke. I’ll take the smoke first.”

  * * *

  They sat around the table. Simon had gone for twenty minutes and returned with a plate of cold meats, cheeses and breads, and beer in a pitcher.

  “This,” Simon said, waving a hand over what he’d returned with, “all came from Safeways in Cumbernauld—Alexandra’s been bringing it over since Galloway blocked the gate from me.”

  Grainger poured himself a beer—it tasted of caramel and malt and was instantly recognizable as Caledonian Eighty, brewed in Edinburgh. Simon pushed a packet of twenty Embassy cigarettes and an old-style petrol lighter across the table to Grainger.

  “So, this stuff about your people being old before our side was young? That was just bullshit, was it?” Grainger said as he lit up and sucked a most welcome drag of smoke.