by G. P. Taylor
‘Don’t hang about; I don’t want to be here all night.’ Kate gestured for them to get going. She drew the pistol from the belt and cocked the hammer.
Thomas replied, ‘Keep your powder dry and the muzzle trained and shoot anyone that tries to come in after us.’
He was beginning to feel that this was no longer a game; it was real. This was life or death.
Raphah and Thomas set off into the dark of the tunnel. They could hear the water dripping from the roof. With each step the air got colder and colder; the light from the lamp shone only a few feet and cast eerie shadows on the wall. Thomas listened to each noise fearing the creature from the wood, or finding the secret hiding place of a hob or boggle.
‘Do you know the way, little fish?’ Raphah spoke in a whisper.
‘We keep to the left-hand tunnel. That is where we always put Demurral’s money. There’s an empty stone jar by an iron door. When we find that, we find the way into the cellar of the Vicarage and then our problems begin.’
Raphah was quick to whisper his reply. ‘Be sure of this: the wicked will not go unpunished, but those who are righteous will go free.’ The words, though spoken in a whisper, echoed through the tunnel. They walked through the biting cold for ten minutes. The dark smell of dankness grew stronger and stronger. Thomas’s feet crunched through the rubble on the tunnel floor. He looked down and realized he was walking on the bones of a dead deer. Its head and antlers fell to one side of the floor.
‘It must have got lost. There are miles of caves and tunnels down here. That’s why the smugglers use them; once in here, if you know your way you will never be caught.’
‘Ah yes, but if you don’t know your way then you may become as dead as the deer.’ Raphah spoke, hoping that his words would never come true. He felt the weight of the task firmly on his shoulders. It was he who was responsible for Thomas and now Kate. They had been brought into his life to help him. He had to keep them safe.
*
High above, in the Vicarage, Obadiah Demurral sat at the large oak desk of his study surrounded by dusty books. Across the front of the desk was the acacia pole, wrapped in bands of pure gold. To the right was the winged figure of the stolen Keruvim. In the gentle candlelight of the room, the jet hand began to glow. At first it glowed softly and was hardly noticeable, but with each second it pulsed brighter and brighter.
There was a knock at the door. Demurral awoke from his snoozing. ‘Yes, come in.’
Beadle entered carrying a tray of neatly cut pieces of meat, the end of a loaf of bread, and an exceedingly large chalice of red wine. ‘Your supper, Master.’
‘On the table over there, then go.’ He spat the reply at Beadle.
‘Master?’ whined Beadle.
‘Go, Beadle, now!’ he shouted.
‘Master … it’s the hand.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my hand. Get out, before I slam it on the back of your head.’ He picked up the bread loaf and launched it at Beadle, hitting him in the left eye, sending crumbs across the room.
Undeterred Beadle tried again, but this time put both arms over his head for fear of wine, or cheese, or both being launched at him. ‘Master, the … black … hand … is … glowing.’
‘What!’ cried Demurral as he launched the wine into the air above his head. He turned to see the hand now burning, now almost white hot.
He ran to Beadle and hugged him into his waist, rubbing the wart on Beadle’s nose into his belt buckle. ‘Quickly, let us prepare a welcome for our guest. I knew it didn’t go down with the ship and now it has come here. Blessing be to Pyratheon, dark god of the universe.’
‘What shall I do, Master?’ Beadle scurried around the room picking up pieces of the shattered loaf and using them to mop up the wine.
‘Go to the cellar and bring me the Hand of Glory. Quickly – we haven’t got much time.’ Demurral could not wait and they both raced to the cellar. From a large oak chest Beadle removed the hand, wrapped in a black silk cloth. It was the severed hand of a hanged murderer dipped in wax so that each finger could be lit like a candle. Once it had been lit, anyone in the house would be put into a deep sleep until the candle was blown out. All were affected except the one who carried the hand. Demurral took it and lit the little finger. ‘Leave, Beadle, or you too will fall under the spell.’
Demurral turned and went towards the metal door that led to the tunnel. From a lamp on the wall he lit the thumb and the remaining fingers. They hissed and spat as the spell began to charm the darkness. He pulled open the stiff metal door and the light from the Hand broke through the blackness. Demurral stepped into the tunnel.
‘Welcome, my friends, welcome to my home. Come, eat with me and we will share the wonders of this night.’
Thomas and Raphah pressed themselves to the side of the tunnel walls and tried to merge with the dampness.
Demurral spoke again. ‘Come, come, now, don’t be so shy, I know you are near. I will never harm you.’ He gave a one-sided smile and raised his eyebrow to cover the lie. From their hiding place they tried not to breathe for fear he would hear them.
‘If I can’t find you …’ he paused and thought. ‘Then maybe a thulak will prise you from your hole.’
In the cold of the tunnel, beads of sweat dripped across Thomas’s forehead. Raphah sensed his fear and reached across to hold his hand. He looked down and noticed that the lamps were beginning to fade. Soon they would be plunged into darkness.
The Oak King
KATE Coglan was hidden in the holly bush waiting for them at the entrance to the tunnel, surrounded by the darkness. She always said that she feared nothing. She didn’t believe in ghosts, creatures of the night, or God himself. Her father had beaten all her belief from her. To her father she had to be the nearest thing to a son. The son who had died two years before Kate was born. It was a death that was never spoken of and only marked by a small stone high in the clifftop graveyard, mother and son together in death as in life.
Kate always wore thick knee breeches, long boots, and a heavy jacket, topped with a tricorne hat. Her long hair was tied back in a ponytail, but her wide blue eyes and glowing skin gave away the fact she was a girl.
As for ghosts, well, Kate was convinced they didn’t exist. In her fourteen years she had never seen a single one and what she had never seen could never hurt her. Why fear the invisible when all the hurt and pain in her life was caused by those around her? She had often asked her father about life and death. This had been ignored, either by silence or the back of his hand. He had told her over and over, that all that you can see in life is all there is. When she was a young child he would shake and shake her if she asked about her mother. He would shout drunkenly that she was dead and that was it, never to be seen again, covered by the sod of earth and left to the worms. He would scream: ‘If there was a God why would he take my son, then my wife? Loving God … God of the imagination …Crutch for the weak …’
Kate would cover her head and curl up in the corner of the room as in his anger he threw what furniture they had around the house. He would then sob and sob and hold on to Kate in his grief, but she could never cry. All the crying was locked away, buried deep in her soul like the distant and faded memories of her mother. Kate had set her face like flint. She would allow nothing and no one to harm her, and now with a pistol in her hand she wanted to take on the whole world.
Looking out from behind the holly bush she aimed the cocked pistol into the darkness. She could hear the echoing, muffled shouts of Demurral cascading through the murky blackness and out of the mouth of the tunnel. She knew his voice well. In her hiding place she thought of Thomas and Raphah and with each shout from high inside the labyrinth she grew more concerned.
In the gloom of the forest her eyes began to make strange shapes out of everything she looked at. A tree appeared to change into a giant’s head, a cloud looked like a swan fixed against a star, and a small tuft of grass took on the shape of a hedge pig that seemed to crawl through
the wood. Kate stared into the night. Then froze. The night was staring back at her!
There in the glade, just several feet away from her, five pairs of bright red eyes were gazing towards the holly bush. Kate felt the palms of her hand begin to sweat as sudden panic gripped her tightly. She dared not move for fear that they would see her. She dared not swallow for fear that they would hear her. Even at such close a distance, she could not make out any shape of the creatures, just red staring eyes. If they were smugglers, then this was the best disguise she had ever seen. She had certainly not heard their arrival; they had simply appeared.
As she looked on, Kate saw a silver outline begin to appear around each figure, like millions of tiny sparks jumping in a fire. Brighter and brighter they glowed. Then all the sparks began to draw closer together. They rolled around each other as if propelled by some unseen wind blasting the embers of a fire. As they burnt brighter they changed from silver, to red, to green, to blue. Finally, and as quickly as they appeared, they vanished. Kate stared fearfully into the night. Her gaze was transfixed by what was before her.
There, standing in the glade were five tall figures dressed from head to foot in metal armour. Each wore a burnished helmet in the shape of a snake’s head, with glistening eyes that shone like diamonds. Two large ivory fangs stabbed down to the front of each helmet like the sabre teeth of some long-extinct creature.
The breastplates of the armour outlined every muscle, a long metal spine ran to the elbow of each arm where it was joined to a thick leather gauntlet. In between each piece of metal, Kate could see the skin of the creatures. Dark green and lifeless, it had an eerie glow that almost merged with the night. Around each waist hung a thick black leather belt, on to which was strapped what looked like a short sword with a black leather grip. The smallest of the creatures carried a round shield studded with silver, inset with glowing red jewels.
From her hiding place she could not make out the features of their faces. She could see only the bright red eyes still staring towards her. Kate aimed the pistol directly at the head of the largest creature. She took in a slow and silent breath. She was terrified. A voice inside her head screamed, Pull the trigger! She was unable to move, rigid with fear, petrified as a statue.
The voice screamed at her again. Pull the trigger!
Again she could not move. The weight of the gun began to tug against her hand as if it was being pulled from her grip. All Kate wanted to do was run and scream. She knew she would get only five paces before being caught. She knew that if she moved her hand or lowered the pistol the creatures would hear her. Kate summoned every ounce of strength to hold the pistol in front of her. She could feel the muscles in her arm begin to ache, the pain reaching from the tips of her fingers to her shoulders. She wanted to cry, she wanted to go home. Again the voice cried in her head.
Pull the trigger … Pull the trigger.
Now trembling with fear, Kate tried to squeeze the trigger, but her finger wouldn’t move. A numbing coldness began to claw its way up her arm, as if she was being slowly turned to stone.
The creatures gathered together and began to mutter and chant in a language she could not understand. They snorted and grunted to each other, drawing closer to form a circle.
She knew that she had only moments before she would drop the pistol. Suddenly from within the depths of the tunnel came an ear-splitting scream. Kate knew that this must be Thomas. The scream was quickly followed by the sound of someone running frantically down the walkway back to the entrance.
As he ran, Kate could hear his echoing screams. ‘No, No, No!’ They were the shrieks of someone in fear of his life, of someone running from the presence of evil. They were getting closer by the second.
Kate was not the only one to hear the screams coming towards them. The creatures turned and faced the entrance to the tunnel, their eyes glowing even brighter than before, with gusts of green steam vaporizing in the cold night air as they blew out each expectant breath through their nostrils. Without any word of command they drew their swords at the same time. Then, they silently melted away and hid in the thick cover around the glade, their piercing red eyes shining like large fireflies in the undergrowth.
Kate could hear Thomas shouting for help as he ran towards her. The shrill echoes of his cries billowed out of the tunnel like the sound of some sleeping monster awoken from its sleep. There was no way of warning him of what lay in wait. Kate felt that he was escaping one nightmare to be captured by another.
Thomas fell out of the mouth of the tunnel and into the cold grass of the glade. He rolled over, then stood up panting and shouted out urgently.
‘Kate, come out, Demurral is coming. He’s chanting some kind of magic. Come on.’ Thomas called into the night. Kate did not reply. From where she was she could see the eyes of the creatures looking at Thomas from their hiding places. She wanted to speak but an even stronger fear gripped her throat like some dark cold hand.
Paralysed, she looked at Thomas only a few feet away. He was her friend whom she had known since she was a young child. They had grown up together, played together, fought together. She was closer to him than any living thing. Beyond, she could see the creatures waiting for their moment to strike.
‘Come on, Kate, stop your meddling. I know you’re hiding,’ Thomas said. ‘We’ve got to be quick, Demurral isn’t far behind. Come out, Kate,’ Thomas shouted desperately.
He saw a dark shape in a small clump of grass, close to the edge of the glade. He could see the outline of a shoulder and the side of an arm. In the bright starlight he could vaguely see the glinting of polished metal.
‘Got you this time. Put the pistol away. I know it’s you.’
The figure did not reply or move. He took a step closer and kicked at the clump.
‘Get up, you vagrant, we’ve got to be going – sharpish. He’s only a couple of minutes behind. We’ve got to climb up to the Vicarage.’
Thomas, wanting to get Kate to follow quickly, kicked at the clump again.
A pair of bright red eyes flashed upon him, lighting up his face in a dim glow. The armoured figure began to rise up, higher and higher. Thomas followed the eyes, transfixed, as the creature began to tower above him until it reached eight feet in height. He heard the sound of the other creatures as they stepped from their hiding places in the wood and moved in the crisp grass towards him. He saw that the glinting metal was a short sword. The spectre quickly raised the sword above its head and gave a loud, shuddering roar. Thomas could feel himself being pushed to his knees by an unseen force as he dropped to the wet grass. He waited for the sword to come crashing down.
The forest fell silent, a strange peace descended upon him. All around was still. In his heart there was no fear. Thomas no longer wanted to run or to struggle. He bowed his head and awaited the blow. The moment lasted a lifetime. He never thought that this would be the place where he would die. He had always believed that he would be given to the sea, like his father before and so many of his family. To die at sea was an expectation. He had worn a caul from an early age, given to him by his mother. It was a sign of great luck and a protection from drowning. It was the only thing of value that Thomas had. Worth six guineas and not a penny less. But how could a dried-out membrane of his birth mask, kept in a silver locket, have any power over swords?
He could hear the short breaths of the creature and he was surrounded by the cold mist that fell from its nostrils. With each of its breaths, like the ticking of a clock, he waited for the sword to fall and take his life.
He felt that they were waiting for the perfect moment for his execution, as if in the silence someone would issue the command and the blade would fall. Thomas waited. The presence of the beast brought with it a chilling grip and the slow paralysis of numbing cold. All around he could see the dew-covered grass turning to thick hoarfrost. Each leaf and blade of grass was being outlined in white ice crystals, as the creatures breathed the icy mist into the glade.
The cold grew so inte
nse that Thomas could hardly breathe as he felt the moisture in his throat turning to ice. He crumpled forward and fell at the feet of the beast, his hands taking hold of the twisted metal of the bronzed leg armour. Here, at the moment he touched the creature, he could see into its world. In a few brief seconds it was as if his mind had been opened by some unseen key.
Thomas suddenly knew their name and their purpose. These were the Varrigal! In his mind’s eye Thomas could see the cold barren land that they were from. It was a place of darkness and storm, blizzard and thunder. A grey, formless world of waiting. They were neither dead nor truly alive, but just being, awaiting the control of some unknown master. The Varrigal were a race of warriors, bound in time and charm to the awaker of the dead. Bound to him who knew the forgotten incantations.
A sudden explosion shook Thomas from his trance. Its thunder went on for an eternity, blowing heat across the back of his neck and filling the glade with brilliant light. He heard the loud and sudden thud of lead against metal and felt a tremor that shook the Varrigal from head to foot. The short sword dropped to the ground missing his head by an inch, landing crisply into the now frozen ground, cutting through it with ease. The creature buckled at the knees and began to fall forward.
‘Thomas, run!’ Kate shouted from her hiding place in the holly bush.
The Varrigal crashed to the ground as Thomas quickly rolled away, grabbing the sword from the earth with numbed fingers, as he got to his feet, pulling himself from the cold earth. He lashed out into the darkness with the sword, landing a blow to the back of the beast that had stepped towards the place where Kate was hiding. The sword cut through the armour like a hot knife through butter. The Varrigal fell to the ground howling and hissing. The other spectres turned to Thomas, raising their swords to strike at him.
