The Feast of Ravens

by Andrew Beasley

  Hearing Ben’s approach, Moon gave him a grin as he tugged on his shirt. “Grab a seat, son, I’ve got some porridge on the go.” He passed Ben a tin plate and a spoon. “I reckon we’re going to need a good start today.”

  Ben ate with the enthusiasm and elegance of a stray dog. He was licking up the last morsels when Molly ran over.

  “Mother Shepherd wants both of you,” she said. “She’s waiting for you there.” Molly pointed to the spire of St Bride’s church, rising up out of the clouds of fog like a tower of hatboxes stacked on top of each other.

  “Any word on Nathaniel?” Ben asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Molly. “Mother Shepherd just said that she needs to see you now.”

  With a sense of urgency Ben and Jago Moon sprinted across the rooftops, using the ladders and planks that the Watchers had secreted all over the city heights. Ben had a cold hard feeling in his stomach. Then he heard Josiah and he braced himself for the worst.

  The mighty angel who lived alongside them had earned the name the Weeping Man for good reason; he wept over the things that wounded the heart of his God, the Uncreated One. Josiah was crying now, a harrowing lament for a city being swallowed by evil.

  As they reached the church tower, they saw that Mother Shepherd and the Weeping Man were waiting patiently for them. So too were Lucy Lambert, Ghost and a dozen or so other Watchers who Ben recognized as leaders of the other eyries scattered across London.

  “We don’t know where this monstrous fog has come from, but we can be certain that the Legion are at work,” Mother Shepherd announced. “A report has come in from our spy that Legionnaires are using the fog like a cloak while they terrorize London street by street, doing their utmost to drive the city into a state of pandemonium.”

  “And with their network of tunnels, the Legion is free to strike and then slink back into their holes like the rats they are,” Moon growled.

  “Send word to every Watcher in London,” said Mother Shepherd, a steel edge to her voice. “The people of London are in distress like never before; it is up to us to help them in any way that we can. We have to go down into that foul fog and bring as many as we can up onto the safety of the roofs. And if the Legion try to stop us…then we will resist them. By whatever means necessary.”

  “We could use the Liberator,” said Ben. “We could use a dozen Liberators!”

  “And if we had them, we would,” Mother Shepherd agreed, “but we didn’t know that it would be needed so soon. It just isn’t ready…” There was a moment’s silence and Ben wondered quite how costly the delay might prove to be.

  “However,” Mother Shepherd went on, “your father and his team of engineers have been working flat out since dawn and we have scavengers searching for the remaining materials he needs.”

  Ben smiled. That was typical of his pa. But his smile soon dropped away as worry for his brother resurfaced. From across the city, screams and cries echoed. A thousand tongues calling out in fear. Breaking glass. Shrill police whistles. Running battles. Sounds of violence and conflict.

  And somewhere in all that danger was Nathaniel. His father had a role which only he could fulfil, leading the Watcher engineers as they worked on the Liberator – it was up to Ben, then, to find his brother and bring him home.

  “Nathaniel…” The word escaped Ben’s lips, and Mother Shepherd took a step closer, reaching out to place her hand on his shoulder.

  “Ben,” she said, with a note of caution.

  “I know,” said Ben, “I’m not ready, but I have to find my brother—”

  Mother Shepherd stopped him. “None of us is ever truly prepared for what our futures hold, Benjamin, but ready or not, this is your time to act. Go. Help anyone you can. And find Nathaniel.”

  In spite of everything, Ben felt a sudden surge of joy. Action at last!

  And, he thought, flexing the fingers of his right hand, a chance to see if his victory at Tower Bridge had been a fluke.

  “Let’s get to work,” he said.

  Silently, the small party of Legionnaires surfaced from a manhole cover; just one of a thousand secret entrances into the world of the Under. Careful so as not to let the heavy metal scrape and give the game away, they climbed out into the street. Mickelwhite and Bedlam were followed by the rest of their brigade: Jimmy Dips, his weasel face testing the air, and the broad-shouldered Hans Schulman. Bringing up the rear was Ruby, moving with feline stealth.

  They emerged from their black tunnel into a landscape painted white.

  “Blimey,” said Bedlam, “Mr. Sweet wasn’t joking when he said it would be foggy out.”

  “Keep your voice down,” hissed Mickelwhite.

  “Why?” said Ruby Johnson. “I can barely see you and I’m standing next to you.”

  “She’s got a point, Captain,” sniffed Jimmy Dips, but all his comment earned him was a swift backhand from Mickelwhite.

  “If I want your opinion I will ask for it,” he snorted. Although he had to admit that Jimmy was right.

  For a moment they stood there, bewildered by the fog-entombed world. The clouds flowed around their feet as they moved. Mickelwhite had the sensation that he was in the clutches of a living wetness that licked and probed at his skin. The air was sticky with coal dust and the poisonous fumes of industry. It reeked of fish and the privy.

  As they listened to London staggering blindly around them, Mickelwhite began to smile; a spiteful slash of pink in his marble white face. He could hear the sounds of terror.

  “Is that you, Charlie?” called a woman’s voice. “I can’t see you, love. Who’s there?”

  “Where am I?” said an elderly man. “Is this Houndsditch? Can anyone help me get to Houndsditch?”

  “Billy!” Another female voice, higher this time and edging towards hysteria. “Where are you, Billy? I told you not to wander off.”

  Then came a symphony of breaking glass.

  “Oi! Mind out! What do you think you’re playing at?”

  A scuffle. The sounds of fists and feet.

  “Come back here!”

  “It’s time to follow orders,” hissed Mickelwhite.

  With that, the boys checked their knuckledusters and drew leather coshes from their belts.

  “What are you waiting for, Miss Johnson?” said Mickelwhite.

  “I’m a thief,” Ruby replied. “Let me do what I do best.” And without waiting for permission, she padded away.

  “Leave her,” said Mickelwhite. “This is a job for the boys anyway. Remember our mission, gentlemen. Let panic rule and the Watchers fall!”

  Ben could feel the excitement coursing through his veins as he dropped a rope ladder over the side of the building and watched it disappear into the mist. This was his chance to put some of his training into practice, at last. Of course, he thought with a grin as Lucy Lambert joined him, good company never went amiss either.

  Lucy tucked her crossbow-pistol snugly into its shoulder holster and made a quick count of the weighted bolts strapped round her waist. “Ready?” she said.

  Ben tapped the expandable quarterstaff clipped to his own belt. “Always,” he replied, and together they began to climb down into the gloom.

  Although there wasn’t a breath of wind to stir it, the fog swirled around Ben. It was probably his mind playing tricks on him, but he sensed that there was ghostly movement in the mist itself – figures that were present one moment only to vanish the next. With each step downwards the fog grew thicker and Ben could feel his exhilaration being leached away. It was as if dread had seeped into the very bones of the city, carried by the strange fog.

  Perhaps that was why he could hear sounds of panic from every direction.

  A child crying for its mother. A shout from a bedroom window, the words a tangled mess of terror and confusion. A window breaking. Noises of violence and fear.

  When they were both on the ground, Ben and Lucy exchanged a glance and Ben saw his own feelings mirrored on Lucy’s soft face. “Stick close,” h
e said. “I’ll look after you.”

  Lucy smiled and lowered her goggles. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  Jago Moon clambered down the ladder behind them, his cane held at the ready. Ben knew the sword that it hid and the skill with which Moon could wield it.

  Through the shifting mist, Ben quickly saw the source of the latest sound of broken glass – the shopfront opposite had just been smashed. It was a pawnbroker’s, one of a hundred such establishments where the poor exchanged their meagre valuables for less than half their worth, along with the empty hope that they might one day be reunited with them. They all heard the sounds of a scuffle from within and the three Watchers turned as one, pulling up their scarves to cover their faces.

  It wasn’t possible, Ben knew, but it felt as if the vapour was trying to stop him, clawing at his jacket and tangling his legs with every step. Just for a second, out of the corner of his eye, Ben thought he spotted a figure, standing motionless and watching him struggle through the mist. It looked as if they were wearing a velvet jacket and had the most incredible emerald eyes. Then he blinked and they were gone.

  In spite of the phantoms, and the clinging fog, Ben was determined to reach the shop. He ploughed forwards, grabbed the handle and flung the door open. In here the mist was thinner. Like most pawnshops, it was crammed to the rafters with a random assortment of forlorn treasures. Shelves heaved with the sheer weight of ornaments, candlesticks, crockery and knick-knacks. There were fur coats and hats on stands and hangers; a glass-topped counter beneath which lay watches and rings and hatpins and long-lost silver spoons; and it was all presided over by a rather moth-eaten stuffed bear, standing silently in the corner.

  The shopkeeper was a short man with the most enormous pair of mutton chop whiskers. He was certainly no match for the bullies who had him backed up against the wall. There were four of them – all much bigger and older than Ben.

  In the past Ben had always relied on his mouth to talk his way out of trouble – or more often into trouble, if he was honest. However, now that he was a Watcher, Ben had a few more tricks up his sleeve. He extended his quarterstaff with a flicking motion. It was a tasty weapon if you knew how to use it, and thanks to Jago Moon, Ben did.

  “Come on then!” Ben yelled and charged straight for the bullies. He span his quarterstaff round his head and managed to bring a hatstand crashing to the floor. One of the robbers turned and laughed. Ben didn’t recognize his face, but the black cowl he wore was enough to identify him as one of the Legion.

  Ben tried a swift jabbing motion with his staff, and caught the Legionnaire in the stomach, winding him…and enraging him. With a roar, the Legionnaire leaped on Ben, swinging at him with a leather cosh. Ben blocked the first blow, ducked the second, and caught the third square on the jaw. His head spun and he thought that he might actually black out. He looked behind him for Lucy and Moon, expecting them to be striding into the fray, but he could hear the sounds of fighting outside the shop now and knew that help wasn’t coming yet.

  Ben raised his quarterstaff again even as his legs gave way beneath him and he collapsed to the ground. With a snort of contempt, the Legionnaire left him there and returned his attentions to the pawnbroker, who was still being menaced by the other three looters.

  As Ben watched the Legionnaire walk away, he flexed the fingers of his right hand and felt a telltale pins-and-needles throbbing. This was how it always started: a stabbing sensation which intensified until Ben was no longer able to contain it. It was the reason why the Watchers were convinced he was their long-awaited leader, the one who would “bring the Legion tumbling down”, to quote the prophecy.

  Right, thought Ben, his head still woozy. Here’s someone who deserves a tumble.

  He closed his eyes and raised his right hand, rolling his fingers into a tight fist. Ben could feel the pressure growing inside him, feel the furious crackling of supernatural electricity as it filled his right hand with strength that was not his own.

  He needed this to work. Not just for the sake of poor old mutton chops, but for himself. For the Watchers. Ben had to know that the battle of Tower Bridge had not been a coincidence.

  Inside the shop the pawnbroker’s cries of anguish were growing louder. Outside the shop the fighting was getting worse…

  Just as Moon had taught him, Ben listened, he stayed focused…

  Now! Ben willed the full force of the Uncreated One to be unleashed.

  He opened one eye a slit, just to see if there had been any effect and saw…the pawnbroker slumped on the floor while the ruffians helped themselves, tipping trays of medals and jewellery into hessian sacks. At that instant the remainder of the front window exploded inwards and Ben felt a shower of broken glass raining down upon him. More Legion hands reached in through the jagged hole and snatched what they could. Ben could hear coarse laughter followed by running feet. What he could not hear was Moon or Lucy.

  Ben struggled up onto his knees and raised his right hand again, aiming it at the thug who had struck him down even though any sensation of power had long since passed. With a cruel sneer, the yob turned and raised his billystick again. “So you fancy seconds, do you?”

  The blow never fell.

  Jago Moon lashed out with his cane and intercepted the strike, stopping the cosh inches from Ben’s head. Then, with lightning speed, Moon cracked his cane across the looter’s wrist, making him drop the cosh with a yelp. For good measure, Moon delivered an uppercut to the lad’s chin that clacked his teeth together.

  “Best run home to your mother,” Moon snarled.

  “It’s the mad blind one!” the Legionnaire declared as he realized who they were tangling with. He cradled his jaw, relieved that it wasn’t dislocated, and began to make a break for the door at the back of the shop. Moon chuckled, delighted that his reputation went before him, as the looters stumbled over themselves to get away from his lashing cane. They got as far as the door and found their way blocked by a girl with an eyepatch, a quarterstaff and a look of grim determination.

  “It’s Scarface, too!” the Legionnaire declared as he recognized Lucy.

  “Not your lucky day, is it?” she said.

  Knowing when they’d met their match, the yobs grabbed their swag bags and escaped from the shop the only way that was left open to them – through the remains of the shattered front window.

  Jago Moon went to the pawnbroker’s side. “We’re friends,” he said, helping the man back up onto his feet. Lucy tugged down her scarf and shook her long hair loose, extending her hand for Ben.

  He refused it.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Fine,” Ben snapped. “I don’t need your help.”

  “That’s not what it looked like,” Lucy teased.

  “I don’t need anybody’s help,” said Ben and he stormed out into the road.

  The Hand hadn’t worked.

  Where does that leave me? thought Ben. Am I a failure or just a fake?

  He touched the Coin in his pocket, desperate for the comfort it gave him. A thrill of dark energy surged through his fingertips, and Ben relished the sense of power that came with it. The Coin made him feel strong again.

  Ben licked his lips like a fox in a hen house.

  Perhaps it wasn’t a question of success or failure? Perhaps he was playing for the wrong side?

  The Under was empty. Almost.

  Claw Carter swept through the tunnels, his long coat billowing behind him, driven hard by his furious rage.

  Many in the Legion were afraid of him, Carter knew that. Afraid of his intelligence. Afraid of the dinosaur claw he wore where his hand used to be. Millions of years before, a Megalosaurus had used this claw to rip the life from its prey. Claw Carter used it for much the same purpose. But now he’d lost much of the respect, the fear, that he’d so carefully garnered. And it was all because of Mr. Sweet.

  Mr. Sweet had made him a scapegoat for the Legion defeat at the battle of Tower Bridge. To add to that
indignity, Sweet had also commandeered the Nightmare Child. Carter felt the swell of resentment inside his chest, as hot and heavy as a cannonball. Sweet could never have summoned that abominable creature without his knowledge of the Dark Library, the Legion’s hidden vault of arcane and forbidden books.

  Carter arrived at the rendezvous to find his fellow conspirator waiting for him. Obviously they had been waiting a while, Carter deduced from the slaughtered calf that was sprawled, half eaten, on the flagstone floor. Carter didn’t give the unfortunate animal a second glance; he was no stranger to spilled blood.

  Carter watched dispassionately as his partner in crime finished his meal of raw beef. Red and dripping from his feast, his hands were strangely proportioned, with fingers that were too long and too sharp. His feet, too, were elongated and narrow, hooked at the heel like some great bird’s. His limbs were longer than those of a mortal man, the muscles thinner and more sinuous. Claw Carter had grown accustomed to this creature’s company and almost took for granted the wings which emerged from his shoulders; battered and scarred as they were, the feathers not white, but grey.

  However, even a man of Carter’s experience, a man who had dined with the headhunters of New Guinea, couldn’t help but be unnerved by his companion’s face.

  This was not an angel whose likeness would ever be found immortalized in stained glass. This was a fallen Seraphim, a being spoken of in whispers, having the form of a man but the head of a monstrous eagle. Grey Wing had once sung the praises of the Uncreated One, but now hated Him with such ferocity that it would rather dwell in the darkness and filth of the Under than ever have to beg forgiveness.

  While Grey Wing continued to gnaw on a huge bone, his beak seeking out the juicy marrow inside, Claw Carter spoke. He behaved as if this were all perfectly natural, nothing more than two gentlemen engaged in a conversation over dinner, although no one outside of that room would have been able to recognize the words which he uttered. He was the only man who had ever mastered the language of the Feathered Men. There was no beauty to their tongue, it was as harsh and brutal as the Feathered Men themselves, and yet it had served Claw Carter well to learn it. When raising an army, a general had to be able to communicate with his troops.