The Exiled

by William Meikle

  “I thought you might believe me easier if I pretended to be what I looked like, rather than who I was…”

  “Which is?” Grainger said.

  “You might find this hard to take in…” Simon started.

  Both Grainger and Alan laughed at the same time.

  “You think so?” Grainger replied. “Just try us.”

  Simon sighed.

  “My full name is Simon Seton. I’m from Perth originally, and I first came over from Loch Leven in the nineteen twenties. I’m a hundred and eleven years old, and I’m the only human being, apart from you three and Galloway, currently on this side of the gate.”

  That proved to be a conversation stopper, and Grainger didn’t reply for a time as he mulled over the implications.

  “So, who built the fortress and the cathedral?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And what is the Cobbe?”

  “As far as I know—and this is only what some of the exiles told me—the story I told you earlier is the truth.”

  “And the exiles? Are there really thousands of them?”

  “I don’t know. I was told there were many, but I myself have met maybe twenty.”

  “And why are the three of us special?”

  “Again, I don’t know.”

  Grainger’s cop instincts were telling him the man was telling the truth. That didn’t make it any easier to take.

  “You don’t know very much, do you? Why did you stay? Why not go into exile with the others?”

  “I didn’t want to surrender this place to the Cobbe without a fight. So I stayed, and for a while there was a certain balance—people came and went through the gateway and I was able to stop any of those who might try to use the Cobbe—people like Galloway. But Galloway is a bit like you three—he is special, in a different way. I don’t understand it, but I believe that the exiles have been taking magic over your side, and somehow it has leeched into you four.”

  “It’s a theory, at least,” Grainger said. “So you’re some kind of copper? Just trying to keep the peace—is that your story?”

  “In a way, yes.”

  “Then, tell me,” Grainger said softly. “Why did you abandon me when I needed your help?”

  “Fear. Pure and simple,” Simon said without hesitation. “You haven’t been here as long as I have—the Cobbe would—”

  Grainger cut him off.

  “It’s just a fucking big bird. I’m more worried about what Galloway’s becoming. We’re going to need better weapons.”

  Simon looked like he wanted to reply, but Grainger was in no mood to listen, and by the look on the tall man’s face, it showed.

  “We can only use what’s over here,” Sandy said quietly. “Galloway and the bird control our access—they’re too strong to push through.”

  “Maybe not,” Grainger said. “You had four on your side when you came over—you two and the two brothers—and we have four here now.”

  Simon shook his head.

  “But if we send someone over, we won’t be strong enough to get them back.”

  “Jonas and James?” Sandy started.

  Simon waved her away.

  “They’ll be back in their hideaway by now. As I said—we have to make do with what’s here.”

  “So what is that then?” Grainger said.

  “What we have in the armory—you’ve seen that. Beyond that, there’s only what we have in the larder, and I don’t think throwing tins of soup and stale bread is going to get us very far.”

  Alan spoke—he’d been silent for so long that Grainger worried he had retreated into a shell, but his question showed he was still thinking in the right direction.

  “When you’re cooking…what do you use for fuel?”

  “We have a woodstove,” Sandy replied. “And I see what you’re thinking—we’ve also got about ten gallons of oil.”

  Simon again looked like he wanted to speak, but Grainger could see that he had cowed the man—he wasn’t the first to be intimidated by a copper’s stare-down. Grainger raised an eyebrow, signaling that the tall man could talk, at the same time coming to a growing realization. The balance of power had shifted.

  I’m in charge here now.

  28

  Alan also saw that his older brother had now become the man in control. Simon looked more timid—and a lot older—than the man they had talked to the previous day on this same balcony. And his fear was showing.

  “The Cobbe is more than just a big bird,” he said. “It is a power—you would be wise not to underestimate it.”

  “And you would be wise not to underestimate my big brother,” Alan said. John acknowledged that with a grin, lighting up a fresh smoke as Simon continued.

  “You’ve all seen it—Galloway and the Cobbe are intertwined, and together they have control of the gateway. Without that, we are stuck here—and this place will not sustain us for long. There is precious little to eat but berries—there’s fish in the sea, but the Cobbe controls the cliffs. Whatever your plan, you’d best do it soon, for we will only get weaker as they get stronger.”

  “I’ve seen Galloway’s idea of strength,” John said, angrily stubbing his cigarette out on the surface of the table. “If killing kids is its source, then I call it a weakness. And it’s one I’m going to exploit. I might never get him back to the other side—but that doesn’t mean we can’t see that he gets the justice he deserves. The only way to do that is to take the fight to him. At heart he’s a coward—he has no stomach for a real fight. I intend to show him that and rub it in his face. Are you with me?”

  Alan wasted no time in replying.

  “Wherever you go, I go, you know that.”

  Sandy nodded.

  “All for one and one for all, right?”

  Simon stood and backed away from the table.

  “I’ll see to the girl.”

  “Aye,” John replied, not bothering to conceal his contempt. “You do that.”

  The tall man left. John watched him go, then turned back to Alan and Sandy.

  “This might get hairy,” he said. “I have a plan. But it’s risky.”

  “As long as it doesn’t cost an arm and a leg,” Alan said, deadpan. Sandy looked shocked but John’s face lit up in a wide grin.

  “That’s what’ll get us through this, wee brother,” he said. “Together we’re stronger than any nutcase with a big pet bird.”

  “So what’s this plan then?” Alan replied. “Just no more Cowboys and Indians shite—that didn’t work so well last time, remember?”

  John smiled—there was little humor in it.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of blowing shite up this time,” he said. “But first we need to visit that armory again to see if any of what I’d like to do is feasible.”

  * * *

  On the way to the armory they walked past the room where the girl lay, unconscious and staring. Simon stood in the doorway, refusing to look any of them in the eye as they passed.

  “He might be able to help with some local knowledge?” Alan said after they were out of hearing range. But John refused to countenance it.

  “We don’t need his help—according to him, we three are the special ones. Let’s just see if that’s really the case, shall we?”

  John led them into the armory, and went straight to the ranks of rusted weaponry. He turned to Sandy.

  “I need something I can use—something that will keep me out of Galloway’s reach but still do damage. Any suggestions?”

  She walked over to his side.

  “A sword is no use—you’d be off balance too quickly. And a lance would be too unwieldy and too easily broken. Try this.”

  She handed John a chain mace—a foot-long grip wrapped with leather, attached to an eighteen-inch metal chain with a large spiked ball at the end—eight sharp points, any one of which looked lethal.

  “It’s a five-pound ball,” Sandy said. “They come heavier, but this one is good for speed if you’re p
lanning on a lot of ducking and dodging.”

  John took the mace, swung it twice around his head, and struck at the knife cabinet. The ball hit the door—inch-thick oak—and caved it in with a deafening crash. The remains fell to the floor in a heap of splinters and broken sticks.

  “That’ll do nicely,” John said.

  “So that’s your plan,” Alan said dryly. “Hit Galloway over the head until he gives in?”

  John grinned.

  “That’s part of it. Don’t worry—there’s plenty of excitement for the pair of you too. But first, I need a new set of leathers—and see if there’s any purses, gloves or hats around, would you?”

  * * *

  They were back on the balcony with a pile of drawstring purses, gloves and leather hats in front of them before John outlined the plan. He had Sandy and Alan empty their pockets of flares and lay them out on the table. Then he did a count of the quarrels they had left for Sandy’s bow—it came to twenty-three quarrels and ten flares.

  “I need you to fetch that oil, Sandy,” he said. “And any glass bottles you can find would be a bonus.”

  “I’m beginning to see,” Alan said, picking up John’s cigarette lighter and flicking it on and off. “You’re planning to warm things up, aren’t you?”

  John laughed, took the lighter from Alan and lit up a fresh smoke, leaving the flame burning and staring into it.

  “We’re going to see how the bird likes getting its feathers singed.”

  Sandy returned, rolling a small oil drum ahead of her and carrying a plastic bag that clinked as she walked.

  “Bottles, wadding, and string? Did I forget anything?”

  They spent the next hour crafting makeshift bombs—some in bottles, some little more than sodden bags of material soaked in a mixture of cooking oil and liquid soap.

  John had Alan tie flares to quarrels.

  “I won’t be able to handle a bow—but you or Sandy can. Hold on to the string with one hand, fire with the other, and the lit flare should go near where you want it to—if you can get close enough. Get it to open its mouth and put one down its throat—that should do the trick.”

  John looked at the array of weaponry on the table, then out over the balcony to the moonlit scene beyond.

  “We should wait for morning,” Alan said.

  “Why bother?” John replied.

  Alan didn’t have a ready answer.

  Five minutes later the three were out on the path that led to the plain and the ruin on the cliffs in the distance. There was no sign of Simon.

  “He’ll watch the girl,” John said. “He’d better, if he knows what’s good for him.” He swung the mace in a wide arc and seemed happy with the weight of it in his hand. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  * * *

  Alan let John take the lead. He was somewhat in awe of this new brother—a taller, leaner man who might be missing an arm but seemed to gaining in composure and assuredness with every passing minute. He recognized the drive, the need to take down the bad guy—that side of John had always been there. But there was something else now, and it was a minute or so before he could put a word to it—leadership. He was glad to follow.

  He was also glad there was to be no crawling in the grass and bogs—it would have been impossible anyway. Alan was assigned the donkey job of carrying the makeshift bombs, spare flares and as much oil as they could pour into a wineskin Sandy found in a corner of a small scullery. It was all packed into an over-the-shoulder sack that had already started to rub and chafe at his neck.

  They walked in silence. John showed no ill effects at all from his recent ordeals, and that alone gave Alan plenty of pause for thought. There was indeed power here, lending John both healing and strength in a rapid change.

  And if it can do that for John—what might it have done already for Galloway?

  It wasn’t going to be too long before they found out—the ruined building came into view on their next bend in the track, silhouetted against the shimmering moonlit sea beyond. There was no sign of the Cobbe, but something stood just outside the doorway—Galloway, or whatever it was he had now become, was waiting for them.

  29

  Grainger felt the weight of the mace tug at his arm as it swung there—a not unpleasant feeling. Every fiber of his being wanted to break into a run, straight for Galloway, swing the weapon at his head and cave it in like he had the cabinet door. But that was an urge he couldn’t give in to—they needed the Cobbe to be here; the plan was for naught without it.

  He brought the others to a stop a hundred yards from where Galloway stood. Even at this distance it was obvious that he was scarcely a man anymore—eight feet high and more, and broad with it, on legs too short and stocky for his frame.

  “You’re still planning to dance with that?” Sandy said as Alan came up alongside them.

  Grainger nodded.

  “But we’ll keep him waiting for a bit. Light me a smoke, would you? It might be the last one I get for a while.”

  Sandy lit up two cigarettes and put one between his lips.

  “I could get used to that,” Grainger said, smiling, then ruined the effect by wincing as smoke got in his eye.

  He didn’t get a reply, for Galloway chose that moment to start taunting them.

  “Come on, copper,” he shouted, his gravelly rumbling voice carrying clearly in the night air. “I owe you some comeback for that last cheap shot of yours. I’m going to enjoy this.”

  “Not as much as I will,” Grainger muttered, and swung the mace like a pendulum, testing its weight again.

  Somewhere in the distance beyond the cliffs the Cobbe barked.

  Grainger looked at Alan.

  “Don’t get dead, wee brother. I might be ‘armless but I’d still kick your arse if you did anything stupid.”

  Alan smiled—Grainger saw the effort it had cost the younger man; there were tears just ready to flow from his eyes.

  “We’ll have a couple of pints of eighty shillings in Bert’s Bar tomorrow night and laugh about all of this,” Grainger said.

  Black wing beats came closer.

  “Come on, you pussy,” Galloway shouted. “I’m waiting.”

  “So am I,” Grainger said softly.

  They felt the Cobbe before they saw it; the air around them swirled and buffeted at their clothing as it passed overhead. A darker shadow moved and with a soft thud the swan came to rest in front of the ruin.

  “The gang’s all here,” Galloway shouted.

  Grainger nodded to Alan and Sandy, and walked towards the doorway.

  * * *

  The side of Galloway’s face where the flare had burned was a ravaged ruin—but not as bad as Grainger had hoped. The eye was gone, that was for sure, but the flesh around it seemed to be healing and hardening, and when Galloway smiled, there was no sign of pain.

  “Doesn’t matter how pretty I look over here, copper,” he said. “There’s nobody but you to look at me, and you’ll be gone soon enough.” He laughed when he saw the mace dangling in Grainger’s hand. “Are we going to fight, or are you going to tickle me?”

  “Give me a kiss and I’ll maybe do both,” Grainger said, at the same time bringing the mace up and around on Galloway’s blind side. The spiked ball was at the full extent of the chain, as high as Grainger could reach—and it wasn’t quite enough to reach the eye socket he’d aimed for. He felt a jar in his arm as the blow hit. Galloway’s left cheek fell inwards and the hard flesh split, leaving a gaping wound. There was no blood.

  Galloway smiled. The wound gaped, even as he spat out three gray teeth on the ground at Grainger’s feet.

  “Tickling it is, then,” he said, and came forward.

  30

  The Cobbe loomed over Alan and Sandy. The wings rose like a black cape against the stars and folded in front of the head—they’d seen this move before; it meant to enclose them in a hood. Sandy wasn’t about to give it the opportunity. She loaded a quarrel with a flare attached, held the s
tring and fired. The weight of the flare dragged the quarrel into a spiraling flight on a downward path—it blazed into light underneath the main body of the Cobbe, lighting the scene. For an instant they were almost enclosed in a flickering red cave where the walls were coated in black feathers. The wings opened and the Cobbe barked, loud as a gunshot.

  They had its full attention.

  Sandy struggled to reload the crossbow as the huge head bent towards them.

  “Now!” she shouted.

  Alan lit the wadding on a Molotov, and counted to three before throwing it. He was hoping it would break and spread their makeshift napalm, but it hit a soft patch of ground and lay there, only a flicker of flame showing in the darkness.

  “Again!” Sandy shouted. She had the bow reloaded, just in time as the huge head loomed above. Alan lit and threw a second bottle. This time it did smash in a yellow explosion of heat and noise that also set the first off in accompaniment. The Cobbe barked and reared away. Sandy took the opportunity to try to send a quarrel down its gullet but again the weight of the flare itself pulled her aim off. The lit flare arced high in the air and fell away over the cliff and out of sight.

  The bird stomped its feet, twice, on the burning oil from the Molotovs, snuffing the fire out as quickly as it had started.

  31

  Grainger wasn’t going to be able to stay out of Galloway’s reach forever. He danced to his right, trying to keep on the blind side while wielding the mace in huge swings, most of which met only thin air. The one hit he got in was a glancing blow to Galloway’s left knee, but the resulting limp only lasted for seconds.

  “I’m too strong for you, wee man,” Galloway rumbled. “And when we’re done here, I’ll go over to yon wee castle, find my girl, and finish the ritual. Then we’ll see something really special.”