Authors: Alan Campbell
Scar Night
CONTENTS
For my dad, who might occasionally have scratched his head at my dreams and ambitions, but has never failed to do everything he could to help me achieve them
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Sincere thanks and appreciation to Simon Kavanagh, Peter Lavery, and Juliet Ulman, three people who possess such a formidable wealth of talent that I wonder how there can be any left in the gene pool for the rest of us.
To Susi Quinn for the exhaustive crits and the zillions of printer cartridges she used up (I’ll get you some new ones, honest), and to Justin Chisholm, Barnaby Dellar, and Jocelyn Ramsay, three more good friends who gave up oodles of their time and ink to offer advice.
A huge thanks to my writers’ group: Gavin Inglis, who helped me nail the start of the story, and Martin Page for his knowledge of old weaponry and those quirky verbs, which I nicked—also to Stefan Pearson, Andrew J. Wilson, Hannu Rajaniemi, Charlie Stross, Andrew C. Ferguson, Jack Deighton, Jane McKie, and Guthrie Stewart, all of whom gave encouragement and feedback.
My gratitude to the kind folks at Macmillan for all their hard work—Rebecca Saunders, Liz Cowen, and Jon Mitchell among many others. If I haven’t mentioned you, it’s only because I was feeling euphoric when we met.
Cheers to Oliver Chetham and Dagmar Tatarczytk for the cool video, and to Bret, owner of the Welsh Nun Pub in Koh Chang, for the chats and the dental work.
And love to Caragh. Without your support this page and the ones after it would probably be blank.
PROLOGUE
C
HAINS SNARLED THE
courtyard behind the derelict cannon foundry in Applecross: spears of chain radiating at every angle, secured into walls with rusted hooks and pins, and knitted together like a madwoman’s puzzle. In the centre, Barraby’s watchtower stood ensnared. Smoke unfurled from its ruined summit and blew west across the city under a million winter stars.
Huffing and gasping, Presbyter Scrimlock climbed through the chains. His lantern swung, knocked against links and welds and God knows what, threw shadows like lattices of cracks across the gleaming cobbles. When he looked up, he saw squares and triangles full of stars. His sandals slipped as though on melted glass. The chains, where he touched them, were wet. And when he finally reached the Spine Adept waiting by the watchtower door he saw why.
“Blood,” the Presbyter whispered, horrified. He rubbed feverishly at his cassock, but the gore would not shift.
The Spine Adept, skin stretched so tight over his muscles he seemed cadaverous, turned lifeless eyes on the priest. “From the dead,” he explained. “She ejects them from the tower. Will not suffer them there inside with her.” He tilted his head to one side.
Below the chains numerous Spine bodies lay in a shapeless mound, their leather armour glistening like venom.
“Ulcis have mercy,” Scrimlock said. “How many has she killed?”
“Eleven.”
Scrimlock drew a breath. The night tasted dank and rusty, like the air in a dungeon. “You’re making it worse,” he complained. “Can’t you see that? You’re
feeding
her fury.”
“We have injured her,” the Adept said. His expression remained unreadable, but he pressed a pale hand against the watchtower door brace, as if to reinforce it.
“What?” The Presbyter’s heart leapt. “You’ve
injured
her? That’s…How could you possibly…”
“She heals quickly.” The Adept looked up. “Now we must hurry.”
Scrimlock followed the man’s gaze, and for a moment wondered what he was looking at. Then he spotted them: silhouettes against the glittering night, lean figures scaling the chains, moving quickly and silently to the watchtower’s single window. More Spine than Scrimlock had ever seen together. There had to be fifty, sixty. How was it possible he’d failed to notice them before?
“Every single Adept answered the summons.”
“All of them?” Scrimlock hissed, lowering his voice. “Insanity! If she escapes…” He wrung his hands. The Church could not afford to lose so many of its assassins.
“She cannot escape. The window is too narrow for her wings; the roof is sealed, the door barricaded.”
Scrimlock glanced at the watchtower door. The iron brace looked solid enough to thwart an army. That still did not give him peace of mind. He looked for reassurance in the Adept’s eyes, but of course there was nothing there: only a profound emptiness the priest felt in his marrow.
Could
they have injured her? And what would be the cost to the Church? What revenge would she seek? God help him, this was too much.
“I will not sanction this,” he protested. He waved a hand at the heap of dead bodies, at the blood still leaking onto the cobbles. “Ulcis will not accept these opened corpses; every one of them is damned.”
“We have reinforcements.”
“And they will die too!” the Presbyter snapped. Yet he recognized a lack of conviction in his own voice.
They’ve managed to hurt her
. In a thousand years, no one had accomplished as much.
“Sacrifice is inevitable.”
“
Sacrifice?
Look at this blood! Look at it!” Scrimlock stepped back and lifted his cassock clear of the blood pooling around his ankles. “Hell will come for this blood, for these spilled souls. This courtyard is cursed! Evil will linger here for centuries. A hundred priests could not lift Iril’s shadow from these cobbles. Nothing can be saved here.
Nothing
.”
The Presbyter could not decide which horrified him more: the thought that their Lord Ulcis, the god of chains, would be denied the souls of so many of his Church’s best assassins, or that hell might be lurking somewhere close by. The Maze was said to open doors into this world to take the souls from spilled blood. Scrimlock searched the gloom around him frantically. Perhaps hell was already here? Were these souls passing even now through some shadowy portal into Iril’s endless corridors? If so, what might come through the
other
way? What might
escape
?
“End this hunt now,” he said. “Let her escape. It’s too dangerous.”
“You wish her to survive?” the Adept said.
“No, I…” The Presbyter’s shoulders nudged against something, and he wheeled round in alarm. A chain. “I only wish to preserve the Spine,” he said, clutching his chest. “Pull your men back before it’s too late.”
A howl of laughter came from above.
“Reinforcements have reached the window,” the Adept said.
Scrimlock looked up. Smoke leaked from the jagged watchtower roof and spread like grease over the stars. The stone falcons and battlements had crumbled inwards, exactly as the sappers had promised, blocking access to the roof and thus blocking escape. The sulphurous smell of blackcake lingered. Halfway up the tower, the assassin nearest to them squeezed through the window.
A sword clashed loudly.
Scrimlock moistened dry lips. “She’s armed,” he said. “God help us, she’s defending herself with steel.”
“No,” the Adept replied. “Barraby’s stairwells and passages are narrow. Combat in such confines is treacherous. You merely heard a Spine blade strike stone. She remains unarmed.”
“I don’t understand.” The priest cast another glance over the corpses piled to one side. “There must be abandoned weapons in there. You cannot have removed them. Why does she not arm herself?”
A scream—followed by terrible laughter. Scrimlock felt nauseous. Both scream and laughter had seemed to issue from the same throat.
“We believe,” the assassin said, “she wishes to be defeated.”
“But that makes no sense. She—”
A noise from above distracted the Presbyter and he looked up in time to see a body being forced through the narrow watchtower window. Bones snapped, and then the body fell till it struck a chain. Arms and legs twisted around the massive links, and for a heartbeat it hung there, limp as a straw doll. Then it slipped free, bucked, and snagged on the chains further below, until it crumpled to the ground. Spans of iron tensed and shivered. Four more Spine had clustered around the outside of the tower window. They clung to bolts and hooks in the walls whereby the chains gripped stone. Others were climbing closer, from below. The assassin nearest to the window, a lean man, eased himself inside, after his sword.
He called down: “She’s cut, she’s—”
A wail, half torment, half rage, pierced Scrimlock’s heart. There were sounds of sobbing, like those of a frightened child, followed by a hellish cry. The assassin’s broken, bloodied body reappeared at the window and dropped a dozen feet before its neck snagged on one of the tower’s protruding bolts.
A third Spine peered in through the window. “She’s coming down.”
“What?” Presbyter Scrimlock retreated from the watchtower door. “We must get away from here. Now, quickly, we—”
“She cannot break through this door,” the Adept said. “Nothing can break through this.”
Scrimlock’s sandals slipped on blood-soaked cobbles. His lantern shook, dimmed, then brightened. Shadows clenched and flickered around him. Above them, Spine were climbing, one after another, through the window: three, six, eight of them.
“She will die now,” the Adept said flatly.
Boom.
Something struck the watchtower door from within, with the force of a battering ram. Dust shuddered free from its thick beams, and the Spine Adept pushed against the door brace.
“Get away,” Scrimlock said. “Leave her now, I beg you. This is
her
night.”
“Her
last
night,” the Adept said.
Boom.
The brace jumped. Wood cracked, splintered. The Adept pitched backwards, then lunged forward again and threw all of his weight against the door. Scrimlock looked around, searching for the best way to escape. “It won’t hold,” he gasped. “She’ll—”
Steel rang inside the tower: sharp, furious strikes, like an expert butcher hacking meat. The assassins had descended to the other side of the door. Then another scream. More rapid concussions as blades struck stone. Scrimlock pressed his fists over his ears, sank to his knees. His limbs were trembling. He began to pray.
“Lord Ulcis, end this, I beg you. Let your servants prevail.”
Let this door hold
. “Spare these souls from the Maze, spare us all, spare me, spare me.”
Silence.
“It’s over.” The Adept shifted his weight from the door brace.
Boom.
The watchtower door exploded outwards, its timbers shattered like rotten boards. The brace crashed to one side. The Adept was thrown clear, colliding with a chain, but Scrimlock was astonished to see the man’s sword was already out; he was already rising to his feet.
Then the Presbyter looked at the gaping hole where the watchtower door had been.
Something stood there, darker than the surrounding shadows.
“She’s here,” he hissed.
The angel stepped out into the lane, small and lithe and dressed in ancient leathers mottled with mould. Her wings shimmered darkly, like smoke dragged behind her. Her face was a scrawl of scars: more scars than could have been caused by the current battle with the Spine, more scars than a thousand battles could have caused. Blood spattered her similarly scarred arms and hands, and her eyes were the colour of storm clouds. She wore flowers and ribbons in her lank, tangled hair. She had tried to make herself look pretty.
She was unarmed.
Scrimlock, still on his knees, said, “Please.”
One corner of the angel’s scarred lips twitched.
“Run,” she whispered.
The Presbyter scrambled to his feet and bolted. Fast as his leaden limbs could carry him, he stumbled and weaved though the chains. Spine were slipping soundlessly to the ground all around him, pale faces expressionless, swords white with starlight. They converged on the angel.
Scrimlock didn’t stay to witness the slaughter. Clear of the tangles of iron, he ran and ran; away from the crash of battle, away from the howls of pain and anguish; away from the unholy laughter. And away from the Spine, who never made a sound as they died.
2,000 YEARS LATER
