Deathscent

by Robin Jarvis

  Elizabeth of Englandia was too afraid to utter a sound. The gleam of the bright knives threw her into a panic and her eyes rolled pitifully in her ashen face.

  A woeful hush had fallen in the great room and no one dared move.

  “Give me the device,” Brindle’s repulsive voice repeated. “Or your Sovereign goes the way of Herrick.”

  Adam wavered but Walsingham hissed in impotent wrath, “Obey him. Do whatever he says.”

  “You must,” Lord Richard urged.

  Adam took a pace forward but Brindle barked for him to stay where he was. “Slide it along the floor to me,” he snapped, edging towards the wall.

  The apprentice lowered the mirror to the ground, then sent it skimming towards the Iribian’s feet.

  Brindle stepped on it, and dragged the shew stone with him as he drew the Queen over to one of the banqueting house’s many large windows.

  “You’ll never escape,” Walsingham spoke up. “You won’t leave this palace alive. Let Her Majesty go, unharmed, and we will be merciful.”

  A guttural laugh crowed from Brindle’s mouth and he brandished the reaping hook menacingly in front of the Queen’s face. “Oh, I shall get out of here,” he vowed, the blood vessels pulsing in his temples. “Never doubt that. You cannot hurt me, not now.”

  The twin blades swung back. Elizabeth saw them poised to come slicing down and she steeled herself to meet Death as had her mother before her.

  “Don’t!” Henry yelled.

  The knives sang through the air but the sight of the apprentice’s tortured face stayed the Iribian’s hand. Raging, he spared the Queen’s life. Shrieking insanely, he threw her from him, snatched up the black mirror then flung himself through the glass window.

  As the panes shattered and crashed, Walsingham and the others rushed to Elizabeth’s aid. “Leave Me!” she bellowed, spurning their hands and rising in thunderous wrath. “Get after that creature. Get after it and bring Me its ugly head!”

  Through the grounds Brindle ran, his long legs carrying him swiftly towards the palace gates. The unearthly light still shone in his flesh and when the alarm was sounded the guards who came running could see him glimmering like a phantom in the darkness.

  Mortally afraid, they were driven to pursue him by their captains but each one was slaughtered by the Iribian and his strength increased. By the time he reached the Holbein Gate he had killed five men and the four sentries guarding the way to the King’s Street were cruelly cut down. Pausing only to inhale the last of them, he left the palace of Whitehall behind him.

  Along that shadowy road Brindle bolted, the shew stone in one hand and the reaping hook in the other. He was terrible to behold. As some harrowing apparition loosed from the underworld he rampaged, bolting by the Charing Cross and the royal mews, his great leaping strides taking him into the Strand.

  In the distance, at the edge of the isle of London, the vast effigy of Gog reared above the spires and rooftops. The massive silhouette of the barbarian’s statue found a resonance deep inside the Iribian and he rushed up the wide, dirty road, keeping the towering figure in his sights.

  Behind him the sound of a warning bell began to toll across the sprawling estate of the palace and he knew that soon the entire city would be roused. Throwing back his head, he let out a grim, demented laugh and the folk who dwelt in the nearby houses came running to their windows. Screams and shouts cut the air when they saw him but the spectre was away before they could hasten to bolt their doors. Over the Fleet Bridge he sprang, then down towards Thames Street, and the few people abroad that night fled before that grotesque, shimmering nightmare.

  Without any trace of fatigue, Brindle headed for London Bridge. He could smell the distance he had put between him and his pursuers and was pleased. At Whitehall the Queen’s men were all astir and the mechanical horses were brought from the mews as they prepared to hunt the deranged monster down. The reeking cloud of their fear made his tainted mind rejoice and he reached the north gate of the old bridge with an obscene grin twisting his flickering features.

  “Hey there!” A stern voice called as a portly nightwatchman caught sight of his loping figure. “Where might you be …?”

  The question was left unasked. All at once the man saw the luminous glare of the Iribian’s skin and the gouts of blood glistening on the knives he wielded in his hand.

  “Save us!” the nightwatchman yowled, and he ran for his life. “The graves are emptying. The dead are waking! Lanky corpses are here to drink our blood!”

  Growling, Brindle let the stupid human go. On to the great bridge he stepped, passing between the shops and dwellings which lined it. From the spikes set high above the gates, the reek of the rotting human limbs impaled there stung his nostrils and his malformed face sneered. These barbarous creatures were no better than his own kind – worse perhaps, for they slew each other with a revolting readiness.

  Approaching the southern bank, he hastened across the bridge and paused at one of the gaps between the buildings. In front of the old drawbridge gate, he strode over to the railings and lifted his eyes to the colossal figure of Gog which straddled the Thames.

  The effigy’s momentous axe was lowered halfway, but there was enough clearance beneath it for a night boat to escape through the massive aperture in that vaulted firmament. Glancing down at the black waters of the Thames, Brindle saw many vessels just waiting to be taken and he thrilled to think of the crews he could butcher in capturing one.

  In the distance he heard the clattering hooves of mechanical horses and behind them the uproar of running foot soldiers. Yet there was still time to accomplish his most important task.

  Removing the torc from around his neck, Brindle unfastened one of the entwining pieces of decoration, revealing a cavity filled with connected filaments and gleaming strands. From this he pulled out a slender rod of yellow metal, tipped with a tiny round gem set within a domed surround. Then he examined the shew stone and, with a deft twist of his fingers, detached a small, tadpole-shaped segment of its frame.

  Clasping the collar about his throat once more and laying the black mirror against the railings, the Iribian held up the two pieces between his fingers and murmured softly to himself. The power to destroy this absurd collection of islands was now his to wield. Once the two elements were joined, a compelling plea for deliverance would commence the journey through the Outer Darkness to Iribia.

  “Come, my kindred,” he whispered, half closing his eyes to savour the critical, doom-laden moment. “Follow my beacon. This forsaken realm wherein the delicious deathscent flourishes will be hidden from our sphere no longer.”

  It was the work of an instant to slot the jewelled rod into the side of the larger piece. At once the gem began to crackle with an inner light and a greater stone set in the other segment flickered with a regular, winking radiance.

  “So, ’tis done,” Brindle remarked without a trace of remorse – he was beyond that now. “The call goes forth, reaching beyond the firmament. They will come and I will greet them from across a sea of slain.”

  Staring at the device a little longer, he slipped it into a velvet pouch fastened to his belt, then moved away from the railing. A group of men were approaching. His senses detected their sordid, unwashed garments and their unclean bodies. Yet at the forefront of that gang was, a fragrant personage who smelled strongly of sweet wine.

  They were not a part of the force storming through the city in his pursuit; this foetid gang were advancing from the Southwarke side of the bridge. Gripping his reaping hook firmly, the Iribian turned to face the shadows which smothered the southern shore, then heard a gleeful laugh drift out from the murk.

  “Most happy luck I is having this night,” a voice chuckled. “Is seeking two naughty runaway youths, only to be finding their very own precious angel. Oh yes, Mistress Fortune she smile down on top of me. Don Gomez, he full of the joy at this unlooked meeting. Thanking you, Our Blessed Lady.”

  Out of the gloom and on to th
e bridge stepped the elegant, saturnine figure of the Spanish ambassador. Prowling behind, drawing their swords and daggers, came thirty-seven of the vicious cut-throats in his service.

  “You is travelling with us this night,” the Count de Feria beamed. “To Spain.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The Breath of Innocence

  Brindle’s keen glance alighted upon each of the villainous brutes in the ambassador’s employ. They were all desperate, cruel-looking men with coarse, scarred faces and were undaunted by his unearthly, glowing appearance. “I go where I will,” he snorted, “and my path lies not with you.”

  The Count de Feria tutted at this foolish obstinacy. “His Highness, King Philip, He most eager to make acquaintance,” he said. “Is most rude to decline His Majesty, indeed I cannot be allowing this. Have night boat ready, is moored close by to take us from this uncouthing city.”

  “You’ll need better persuasion than that,” the Iribian jeered and he brandished his reaping hook threateningly.

  The ambassador sighed, then clicked his fingers. At once the rough gang surged forward, yelling and shouting. Brindle merely laughed at them and leaped into the centre of the thoroughfare to give his arm room to swing, unhampered by the bordering walls.

  With one darting lunge he thrust the twin blades into the chest of the first man, then tore it free and drove the barb at his elbow through the throat of a second. Both men collapsed lifeless at his feet and his skin shone more brightly than ever as the hallowed aroma of their death roared through his nervous system.

  Invigorated, Brindle fought on, with a ferocious glare in his hellish eyes. Cursing, the Spanish ambassador’s thugs rushed around him, encompassing the Iribian with their slashing steel. But the balm merchant whirled in a tight circle, shearing the menacing swords in two with screeches of sparking metal, lopping the hand off one who dared press too close.

  “Don’t be harming him!” the Count de Feria called out behind them. “Is needed alive. No kill the angel.”

  But his men were too busy struggling to keep their own lives to pay any attention to his ludicrous commands. Six of their number now lay dead and their spectral opponent was crowing with every fresh kill.

  Agile and lithe, meeting their blows with lethal grace, Brindle moved with almost supernatural speed. Rapidly, the corpses mounted around him, impeding his attackers. A particularly repugnant member of that murderous crew, with rat-like eyes and a sewn-up nose, tripped over one of the fallen. When he came blundering forward, Brindle’s glittering knives sent his head spinning into the gutter. Out over the river the clamour of the battle went ringing and those who dwelt upon the bridge, above the many shops, were terrified when they peered out of their windows at the carnage below.

  As one possessed by a host of devils the Iribian fought. Lashing and cutting with unbridled zest, he jumped and struck, ducked and pounced and no one could withstand him. He was an unstoppable, inexhaustible force. Then, when he gulped down the eleventh glorious deathscent, a new noise was added to the turbulent sounds of combat.

  From the northern shore the mounted forces of the Queen came galloping and Brindle eyed them grimly. Even in his enraged state, his bestial mind doubted that he would be able to repel all of them and the contest with de Feria’s men doubled in savagery in an effort to cut a passage through them. Immediately, a twelfth villain had his arm scythed through at the shoulder before the legs were hewn from under him, then another was slain and the Iribian sprang on to a heap of carcasses to deal out two more bloody deaths.

  “Leave him!” the ambassador’s voice called when he too saw the horses charge on to the bridge. “Stop the riders; they must not capture the angel. Go – halt them!”

  The remaining survivors of his men were only too glad to flee from that berserking monster. Hollering, they streamed past him to confront the oncoming horsemen in that narrow stretch – leaving the Count de Feria unprotected, with no one between him and Brindle.

  Standing upon that island of corpses which rose from a scarlet sea, the fiend with the bitter, dripping blades turned his luminous face towards him and cackled malevolently. “Do you still wish me for a travelling companion?” he asked.

  The Count shook his head. “No,” he spluttered, backing slowly away. “You can be doing what you wish, go anywheres. Oh, what a tiring night. Is thinking I go lie down.”

  Brindle leaped from the heaped bodies of his victims and landed with a splash in the stream of their blood. “No need to leave for that,” he growled. “You can lie down here, amongst your friends.”

  “Pardonny!” the ambassador entreated, making a tiptoeing retreat. “Is very sorry. Was big mistaking.”

  The Iribian advanced and the petrified Spaniard fumbled at his side for the rapier he carried. But his hands were trembling and, before he could remove it from the scabbard, Brindle was standing over him. The harrowing spectacle of those pitiless knives, as they came close to his face, burned itself into the Count’s brain. Cowering, he closed his eyes and crossed himself.

  Brindle bared his teeth and tensed his arm for the kill. But, before he dealt the butchering blow, one of the Queen’s horses came storming through the human blockade. There was no time to linger and ingurgitate this cowardly Spaniard’s death. Spitting with defiance, the Iribian ran the remaining distance along the bridge to the Southwarke shore and went glimmering into the shadows.

  Still timidly waiting for the slaughtering stroke to fall, the Count heard the hooves thunder closer. Swallowing nervously, he ventured to open one eye. The heavenly messenger was nowhere to be seen and he cried out in relief, while checking his body frantically to make sure he had not been wounded.

  Yet his plight was far from over. Even as he praised and thanked the Lord, his men were driven back by the mechanical horses and the ensuing rout came sweeping towards him. Before he could dash to safety, the Spanish ambassador found himself caught up in the thick of the fray.

  In that cramped space, the conflict was a confused scramble of pushing bodies and clanking forms. The metal chargers stamped and trounced as their riders struck out from the saddle with spear and sword. Heartened to be free of Brindle’s lethal knives, the Count’s men fought back with a new and determined ferocity. Horsemen were dragged from their mounts, a side section was prised off a stallion’s casing. As its bellows sent up a frightful, whinnying shriek, its internals were hacked and punched until the pendulums were torn free and the beast fell against one of the buildings, smashing through the shuttered windows.

  The discordant din was deafening. Hemmed in by this jostling, clanging skirmish, the beleaguered Spanish ambassador wheeled about, anxiously seeking an escape. One of his own men staggered into him and the Count was sent teetering deeper into the struggle, narrowly avoiding the downward thrust of a rider’s spear.

  Fearing for his life, he hopped back from a stumbling horse and shoved his way past another of his hired villains, only for the man to cry out and collapse, felled by a slicing sword. “Mother of God!” de Feria squealed, turning wildly in terror and despair.

  From the northern approach to the bridge the palace guards finally caught up with the Queen’s horsemen and the confusion trebled as they piled into the rear of the crowded thoroughfare. Trapped in the midst of that confined and heaving scuffle, the Spanish ambassador lurched from one peril to another as he wove clumsily through the riot, cringing from stabbing blades and crunching hooves. His sole thought was to reach one of the buildings. If he could gain the relative safety of one of those walls there was a chance he could batter his way in through a window or edge himself along until clear of this horrendous, deadly crush.

  Squeamishly stepping over a trampled corpse, he elbowed a meandering path towards the side. His goal was almost within reach when two riders and three of his men went lumbering in front of him, barring the way. Exasperated, he squawked in fury. Alarmed at that sudden shrill noise, one of the felons swung blindly around and smashed a hammering fist into de Feria’s jaw.

/>   Emitting a startled squeak, the ambassador was knocked to the ground, falling headlong across the body he had previously managed to avoid so daintily. Nauseated, he tried to stand, but at that moment one of the horses veered to the side and he found himself crouching beneath it, woefully afraid in case its hooves kicked or crushed him.

  “Holy Mother!” he whimpered, compelled to scurry along on his hands and knees like a cur as the mechanical plunged back into the mob. “Be saving me from this madness.”

  Into this chaos a breathless Adam and Henry came running. Disobeying Lord Richard’s orders to stay behind, they had pursued the Queen’s guards through the city. There was still a tension between them but the shock of Brindle’s foul deeds had brought about a temporary truce. Now they viewed the disordered tumult on the bridge and looked at one another fearfully.

  “Do you think Brindle’s in the middle of that?” Henry panted.

  Holding his cramped sides, Adam fought to regain his breath. “If … if he is,” he wheezed, “he’s done for, and good riddance.”

  “Stop it!” Henry cried fiercely. “It wasn’t his fault. Brindle couldn’t help it – you saw what happened.”

  “Oh, I saw,” the other boy retorted. “I saw him threaten the Queen and run off with Doctor Dee’s shew stone. Didn’t you hear them back at Whitehall? They said he’d murdered nine men getting to the gate.”

  Henry’s face scrunched with wretched creases and he hurried on to the bridge. “I heard them!” he shouted. “But that wasn’t our Brindle.”

  “Where are you going?” Adam yelled. “Get back here, you idiot!”

  “I can’t,” came the dismal response. “I have to know. I have to see him.”

  For an uncertain instant, Adam watched Henry Wattle hurry towards that brutal engagement. Then he groaned and sprang after him.

  To the rear of the pushing mass of guards Henry ran, yelling Brindle’s name at the top of his voice. But the clamour of the confrontation drowned out every other noise and he wished he could see what was happening in the centre of it all. “Wait!” Adam called, racing up and seizing hold of his arm in case he tried to shove his way into that lethal scrum. “You’re insane.”