The Exiled
Page 17
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?” Grainger said, stepped below a swinging arm and thudded the mace down, hard, on Galloway’s right foot. The big man bellowed in pain and danced back.
Somewhere behind him the Cobbe barked loudly but Grainger couldn’t afford the time to glance round. He had to trust that the others would get their job done—at the moment he was too busy trying to hold up his end of the bargain.
The door to the ruined cathedral lay open behind Galloway. Grainger took the first chance he got to circle round and slip inside in an attempt to limit Galloway’s movements in a more cramped environment. It also gave him a chance to look beyond the doorway and out across the cliff tops. All he saw was the looming wings spread wide, the outline of the Cobbe against the sea and sky beyond—there were no flares, no flames.
Have we lost already?
Then there was no more time for reflection—Galloway was onto him again and Grainger had to fight for his life.
The big man smiled, but had a noticeable limp from the most recent blow to the foot. Flames flared out on the cliff behind the hulking body, and Grainger allowed himself a smile of his own.
We’re still in the game.
Emboldened, he swung the mace around his head in a fast circle and leapt forward, hurling a hefty blow into Galloway’s left side. The spiked ball hit ribs and kept going. Bone splintered and poked through the flesh, and Galloway howled.
Grainger yelped in triumph, but he’d celebrated too early, for when he tried to pull the mace back, the spiked ball stayed lodged in the wound. Galloway grabbed the chain and tugged, pulling the handle from Grainger’s hand and, with another roar of pain, tore the spiked ball from his side. He threw the mace away up the cathedral aisle where it clattered hard against something in the darkness.
Everything fell quiet, save for the drip of blood from the new wound.
Galloway smiled.
“Let’s see how you do without your wee tickling stick,” he said.
Grainger did the only thing he could think of—he retreated, moving quickly away into the deep shadows along the left wall.
“Fee, fie, fo, fum,” Galloway chanted. “I smell the blood of a cowardly man.”
Grainger moved deeper inside. He had a clear run to the doorway.
But I’m here to fight.
He made for the approximate spot where he’d heard the mace clatter to a stop. Galloway stood in the center of the aisle, raised his face to the open rafters, and laughed.
“Now tell me, copper? Is this not more fun than that shitehole we came from?”
Grainger knew better than to answer. He sidled along the wall. A cloud slid over the moon, casting the ruin in even deeper darkness. Red flame flickered and danced outside, and the Cobbe barked loudly, almost a screech.
“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Galloway sang, and laughed again.
32
Sandy retreated as she tried to reload the crossbow. Alan followed her. The Cobbe raised its head high. It barked loudly and slowly flapped the huge wings, the resulting turbulence sending Alan and Sandy staggering, almost knocking them off their feet.
“I think we’ve annoyed it,” Sandy said.
“Good,” Alan replied. “It’s nice to see we’re getting somewhere.”
Sandy looked at the bird’s feet, and the thin wisps of smoke that still rose from where the flames had been, then looked back at Alan.
“Actually, I think we are getting somewhere. I’ve got an idea. Put the bag down.”
“But it’s got all that we’ve got in it…”
“Exactly my point. Just put it down, about here, and back away.”
Alan shrugged the sack off his shoulder, feeling the contents swish and swirl as he laid it down.
“Now get over here,” Sandy said. They backed away nearly twenty yards before she handed him the crossbow with a quarrel and flare already loaded.
“We’ve got one shot at this—a direct hit should send the whole lot up.”
“You should do it,” Alan said. “You’ve got the knack and…”
She slapped him on the shoulder.
“You’ll be fine. I’m going to be busy. I’m the decoy this time.”
She took two flares from her flak jacket, turned away, and ran along the clifftop.
“Over here!” she shouted, and lit both flares, waving them above her head. “Come and get me.”
The Cobbe turned and moved toward her.
33
Grainger couldn’t find the mace. The cathedral was just too big, with too many nooks, crannies and dark corners for him to search everywhere.
And Galloway was getting closer, seemingly possessed of a preternatural knack of guessing Grainger’s approximate location.
The Cobbe barked again outside. It was only a matter of time before Alan needed his help. Grainger moved quickly round the rear of the building, crouched and peering, trying to find a path where he would make the least sound. He hefted a length of wood, testing its effectiveness as a weapon but immediately dismissed it—one blow from Galloway would turn it straight to kindling.
“I can hear you,” Galloway sang, and moved closer. He was only ten yards away now—Grainger smelled the hot sweat and blood that seemed to ooze from him, and the man’s rage was almost palpable. He tried to move farther into darkness, but was immediately foiled as the cloud shifted. Shimmering moonlight set the dust motes dancing. Something caught Grainger’s eye, a reflection and a shadow outlining something he almost recognized. He put his hand out—and touched the chain of the mace. Saying a silent “thanks” he lifted it, then cursed as the spiked ball disentangled from where it had fallen with a clatter and tumble of wood and broken seats.
“There you are,” Galloway laughed. “Time to go bye-byes.”
The ogre moved in for the kill.
Grainger rose, ducked under Galloway’s reach and swung the mace wildly, giving him enough space to make Galloway wary and back off. He circled the big man in a crouching run and turned into the nave.
Moonlight washed across the altar, rainbow patterns dancing where they came through the glass window above. He looked up to see the image of the swan flare red as flames rose outside. Air shifted, and the hanging girls danced for him in the breeze. For the last time he promised them they’d get their justice.
Two things happened at once; Galloway strode into the nave, blocking the exit—and a ghostly figure firmed into view near the altar. Simon stood there. He held something in his arms, and Grainger almost cried out when he recognized the same red dress worn by the girl they had saved.
“It’s time to end this,” Simon said, stepping forward into full solidity. “I have what you need.”
He held the bundle out towards Galloway.
Grainger smelled oil, and soap, and only really understood when Simon turned back to him and smiled sadly.
“We never did get to have that last smoke—but if you’ve got your lighter, I could do with a light?”
He turned, making sure Galloway was blindsided, and showed Grainger the bundle of rags in his arms, rolled up and covered with the red dress to look like a child. The cloth shimmered and glistened, rainbow colors drifting across the surface in the moonlight where the oil had soaked in.
Grainger nodded. He put the mace down on the altar—Galloway showed no sign of noticing—the big man’s eyes were fixed on the bundle in Simon’s arms. He dug his lighter from his pocket as Simon walked forward and held the bundle up to Galloway.
The big man reached for it.
Simon turned his head to speak to Grainger.
“I do this of my own free will,” he said.
Grainger flicked on the lighter and threw it, arcing though the air, to land softly in the bundle of rags.
The explosion was immediate.
34
The Cobbe turned toward where Sandy stood near the cliff edge. Alan took aim at the satchel on the ground, having to steady the bow with both hands to minimize the shak
ing as adrenaline and nerves kicked in.
The black wings began to close in around them, threatening to hood over Sandy. The body of the Cobbe was now almost over Alan’s head—but the feet were still yards away from where he needed to be. And even as he tensed himself to fire, the wings beat, twice, knocking him to the ground. The Cobbe took three quick paces and beat its wings again.
It’s taking flight!
The feet came off the ground and started to tuck up under the body.
Alan didn’t think—he rolled, aimed and, gripping the flare string, fired in one smooth movement. To his great surprise he hit the bag of makeshift bombs dead-on.
A ball of flame blew heat and chaos in his face and knocked him aside as it mushroomed up and engulfed the belly of the Cobbe even as the bird managed to achieve takeoff. It glided out over the cliff edge, rising higher. Napalm dripped in fiery blobs from its underbelly where the flames took hold, burning ever faster.
The sound of the Cobbe’s frenzied barks and squeals was music to Alan’s ears. It opened its wings out to their full extent and, for the merest second, hung, a flaming dragon in the sky, before, with one last bark it fell, plunging into the sea in a plume of hissing steam that was quickly dissipated.
By the time Alan reached the cliff top to join Sandy, there was no sign that the Cobbe had ever been there.
35
Galloway had no time to stand back, and even less so when Simon, already burning, stepped, almost calmly, forward and embraced the wide girth of the ogre, clasping the raging flame and the makeshift napalm between them. Galloway thrashed and raged but the burning rags were stuck tight and only flared more brightly at his efforts. Simon had already gone, nothing left of him but charred remains.
And still the napalm burned.
The big man fell to his knees. He put out a hand towards the hanging girls, as if in entreaty. Flame ran up his arm, across his fingers, and took hold in the girls’ black wings. The dead danced and fluttered one last time before their bonds burned and they fell to smother Galloway and join him in a final funeral pyre.
Grainger lifted the mace and stepped forward. Galloway—little more than a charred ruin—looked up from his good eye.
“Dave Galloway,” Grainger said, bringing the mace round and down onto the bridge of the nose, caving in the flat face. “You’re nicked.”
He left the mace embedded there as he turned and, without a look back, walked out of the nave.
36
Alan found the girl wandering the corridors of the fortress on their return an hour later.
They’d watched the ruins burn to leave only blackened stone behind, and stood looking out to sea for the length of several smoked cigarettes. The Cobbe didn’t return.
“So—time to go home?” Alan said.
They were back on the high balcony, looking out over the view. The young girl sat at the table, seemingly none the worse for her ordeal, eating her way through what was left of the bread and cheese.
“For you, aye,” John said. “You and Sandy take the girl back to her mum—at least we saved one wee lassie. But I’ll be staying here.”
John had that determined look on his face Alan knew of old—but this wasn’t the old John. He’d seen the leadership earlier—now that had been joined by something else—a commitment and strength Alan instinctively spotted would not be shifted.
“I’ll be back every couple of days with beers and smokes,” Alan said, fighting back new tears.
“And a fish supper,” John replied through tears of his own. “But I don’t think you’ll be gone too long, wee brother. We’re still wanted for murder over there, with no way to prove our innocence now that Galloway’s gone. And there’s another thing that’ll bring you back…”
He turned Alan so that they were looking in the tall mirror. Sandy came to stand beside them. All three were equally tall, and Alan’s new pointed ears looked most fetching.
“We’re the exiles now,” John said. “And we have a job to do. I’m still a copper—I’ll stay here and guard the gate against more like Galloway. And you, wee brother, you’re still a reporter. Go and find the exiles. Start with the two you met earlier. They’ll listen to you if Sandy is with you. Do what you do best and tell them a wee story—tell them they can come back if they want to.
“The Cobbe is dead.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William Meikle is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with twenty novels published in the genre press and over 300 short story credits in thirteen countries. His work has appeared in a number of professional anthologies and magazines. He lives in Newfoundland with whales, bald eagles and icebergs for company. When he’s not writing, he dreams of fortune and glory.
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
DarkFuse is a leading independent publisher of modern fiction in the horror, suspense and thriller genres. As an independent company, it is focused on bringing to the masses the highest quality dark fiction, published as collectible limited hardcover, paperback and eBook editions.
To discover more titles published by DarkFuse, please visit its official site at www.darkfuse.com.
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