Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot (39 page)

‘Death to the Nornir!’
Hlökk chanted and the other malignant creatures joined it, croaking and rasping as their grisly goal drew near.

Past the spot where Neil Chapman lay, Edie and the old woman were marched and their forbidding destination shimmered in the shadows.

With its tip pointing to the sky, the spearhead they had gone through so much to find, shone coldly and the captives were driven unerringly towards it.

The Valkyries were beside themselves with excited, rapturous zeal. Woden would be pleased with them. Even without Thought's cunning to lead them, they had discovered a way of killing the reviled enemy and Hlökk crowed with rejoicing glee.

‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’
the nightmare shrieked.

Like an enveloping cloud of darkness and despair, the atrocities whipped each other into a greater frenzy than ever before and their claws smashed into the prisoners, knocking them off balance.

‘Veronica!’ Edie cried when the old woman staggered under a vicious, battering blow.

Miss Veronica tried to steady herself, but the Valkyries pushed her again and she lurched precariously over the upraised spear.

‘No!’ Edie bawled, rushing forward to save her from falling.

The old woman regained her balance at the last moment, but the spectral horrors around them were furious. Hlökk tore its way through, lowering its plumed head and with a ferocious, trumpeting shriek rammed the girl in the chest.

Screaming, Edie was thrown backward and fell sprawling towards the waiting, glistening blade.

An horrendous chorus erupted from the assembled Valkyries as Nornir flesh was punctured and sacred blood went seeping into the mud. But their jubilant cackles were swiftly curtailed, for at that moment the entire Tor shook. They tore their repulsive, gloating heads away to gaze fearfully up the pathway as a deep, rumbling quake vibrated through the ground and an almighty, bellowing roar boomed out across the earth.

Upon the grassy slopes, where Biter and Screamer caroused in the tramp's stringy flesh, the two raven women were suddenly catapulted into the air and a tremendous rush of searing flame boiled heavenward.

Into the darkness the brilliant pinnacle of light went shooting and from the ground a vast, billowing cloud blossomed and swelled. It burgeoned up into the night, rearing above the great, green hill and flaring with dazzling colour as fierce jags of lightning burst from its heart.

A ravishing, blazing splendour, like the noonday sun, blasted out across the whole of Glastonbury and the surrounding countryside was flooded with blinding radiance.

Higher the gargantuan cloud expanded, and within its fulminous vapour a colossal, cataclysmic vision rapidly took shape.

Inside the mushrooming mist, three stupendous, serpentine silhouettes snaked and coiled and, from the haze, one of the golden, horn-crowned heads exploded.

High over the tower of Saint Michael the staggering revelation reared and the Tor was dwarfed by its soaring dimensions as a pair of hook-clawed wings unfurled with a sound like rolling thunder.

As slivers of the sun the fiery eyes burned in that mammoth, dragon-like head. The burnished scales scintillated and flashed as, from the gaping lips, torrents of destroying flame cascaded over the ploughed fields, scorching the soil and kindling the hedges.

So was the angel that had descended to the mortal world in 1915 finally released from the trammelling flesh of the corporeal form it had assumed, and in which it had been locked ever since.

Over Glastonbury the celestial, shining being was revealed in all its apocalyptic, dream-like glory and the living plane shuddered at the violence of its reawakening.

Writhing from the crackling cloud, the three gigantic heads twisted upon the winding, arching necks and a mighty, gold-armoured tail wrapped itself about the summit of the Tor as the angel's searing eyes glowered down.

Flung clear of the divine flame, Screamer and Biter were stricken with terror, thrashing their tattered wings to flee the awful sight which towered above them. But from the celestial being there was no escape. From one set of fiery jaws there hailed a tempest of flame and the two Valkyries were utterly swallowed in a mesh of light.

Out of the sky the human hosts dropped and the controlling dolls squealed shrilly as they were devoured by the hallowed fires.

From the track, the remaining raven women burst through the trees, fiercely beating their dark wings and rocketing out over the town, dismayed and defeated by this unforeseen catastrophe.

Yet terrible though they were, Woden's grotesque servants were no match for this one marooned member of the heavenly host.

Tearing through the bewildering, lustrous night, shooting past its screeching sisters and leaving them behind, Hlökk heard the ominous rumbling roar reverberate from the Tor and the sky was filled with flame as the Valkyries withered and were consumed.

But Hlökk rampaged ever faster, hurtling out across Wearyall Hill and over the levels beyond. Shrieker would not be consigned to ashes, her malevolent spirit would never return to the dark recesses of the infinite void.

Throwing back its monstrous head, Hlökk, last of the Valkyries, crowed joyously, but that screech was its last. Down streamed a jet of flame and Shrieker's malignance was wholly obliterated.

Wreathed in the scorching, devouring heats, Hlökk fell like a stone. Down to the bare fields it plummeted, the agonised screams echoing over the land as its spite-filled, seditious spirit was sent back to the furthest reaches of the abyss.

With a shattering crunch, the hideous shape crashed on to the ground, then melted and the plump figure of Lauren Humphries lay insensible across the furrows, with shredded ribbons of burned and smouldering cloth fluttering in her carrot-coloured hair.

The Twelve were conquered at last. Above the Tor the wondrous vision of the angel lifted its heads to unleash a tremendous bellowing roar and, silhouetted before its golden magnificence, a tiny black speck dared the dripping flames and spiralled upward to sing and squawk in gladness.

Unafraid of the lethal resplendence which blazed all around him, a one-eyed, scraggy-looking raven, quacked a song of victory and basked in delicious splendour as he dived in and out of the glimmering gigantic cloud.

‘Merrie meetings!’ Quoth crowed. “Tis better to be happy than wise! Zooks-hurrah! Zooks-hurroosh!’

Warbling in delight, he fanned out his feathers and twirled deliriously. Then he saw it, the scene upon the ground far below—and the raven's celebrations ended.

*

Neil Chapman groaned and sucked the air through his teeth as the dull pain in his head throbbed and pounded. Groggily, he opened his eyes but closed them straight away as the blazing light from the angel upon the Tor blinded him.

Lying in the mud, he waited until he was ready and, shielding his eyes, gazed up at the momentous being rearing above the hillside.

Then the boy wrenched his attention away, for a desolate, soul-rending sob came to his ears and he looked down the path to where Edie Dorkins was crouched upon the ground.

Great tears were tumbling from the child's almond eyes as she knelt in the soft earth and her entire body shook with her weeping.

‘Edie?’ Neil murmured, a dreadful fear coming over him. ‘What's wrong?’

The girl did not answer and as the boy drew near he understood why. Miss Veronica Webster's frail figure lay motionless upon the path. Edie had lifted her wizened head on to her lap and was sobbing uncontrollably over her, stroking the old woman's long, dyed tresses with her small, trembling fingers.

‘She... she pushed me...’ the child wept bleakly. ‘When... when those things threw me down, she... she pushed me out of the way.’

Neil gazed down at Miss Veronica and closed his eyes at the sight of the spear blade which was sticking up through the flimsy white robe that was now stained with her royal blood.

‘She... she slipped,’ Edie cried. ‘Slipped and fell on it instead. Oh, help me, I can't lift her off it. Please, we might save her.’

Gravely, Neil slid his hands under the old woman's shoulders and gently raised her from the ground as Edie pulled the spear from Miss Veronica's back.

‘There now,’ the child sniffed, dragging the pixie-hood from her head and dabbing it on the wound in the vain hope it would staunch the blood and heal her.

‘You'll be well,’ she said huskily. ‘You're a Webster, you'll mend and get better. I know you will. Please, Veronica—you have to.’

As she bent over her, Quoth flitted down to join them and the raven hung his head in sorrow.

A faint, expiring breath floated from Miss Veronica's wrinkled lips and the webbed eyes fluttered open.

‘Edith,’ she uttered in a barely audible whisper, ‘the spear has done its work.’

‘No,’ the girl denied. ‘I won't let you!’

The fingers of the old woman's hand twitched feebly and Edie clasped it in her own.

‘Tell her,’ Miss Veronica breathed with difficulty. ‘Tell Ursula. I'm sorry—I forgive her. Poor Celandine, who will watch her dance now?’

‘We both will!’ the child insisted.

The pale eyelids slid shut. ‘No more,’ the hoarse, vanishing voice whispered. ‘No jam and pancakes.’

‘Don't go!’ Edie wept.

But the wizened woman eased into death and with her final breath murmured. ‘I love all my family, the youngest not leas...’

‘VERONICA!’ the girl bawled, squeezing her hand and brushing the hair away from the aged face. ‘VERONICA!’

Thus the youngest and once most beautiful of the three Fates of the ancient world perished. Edie Dorkins pressed her face next to that of Miss Veronica and whined piteously.

Wiping his eyes, Neil staggered away as a fierce rush of wind tore about the lower slopes as the shining vision upon the Tor was enveloped in a searing flash of light.

Greater the gale grew, ripping through the trees, and the ground shuddered. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the angel was gone and darkness reclaimed the night.

Stumbling down the path, Neil Chapman heard the blare of sirens as fire engines and police cars finally arrived in the street below. Feeling utterly lost and alone, the boy gazed back at the young girl grieving over Miss Veronica's body and knew that an ending that should never have occurred had come to pass.

Nothing would ever be the same again. The structured order of things beyond his understanding was broken and he looked up at the solitary tower of Saint Michael. But the Tor was lost in profound shadow and, as Neil lowered his eyes, a feathered head gently rested against his cheek.

Deep beneath the ancient, brooding building, within the Chamber of Nirinel, the lone figure of Miss Ursula Webster stood still and silent.

Her gaunt features turned towards the mighty, withered root which arched above her, she waited for the moment which she knew must come—an expression of dread and suffering etched upon her face.

Then it happened.

A hideous pain ripped through her breast, at precisely the same moment as the spear blade stabbed into Miss Veronica far away in Glastonbury.

Crying out, Miss Ursula fell to the ground, gasping and weeping as she experienced her sister's dying moments.

Above her the last root of Yggdrasill trembled ominously and a deep, resonant groan reverberated throughout the chamber.

‘It's done...’ the old woman howled, ‘The Cessation has begun!’

Slumped upon the earthen floor, Miss Ursula Webster sobbed uncontrollably and the torchlight dimmed about her—plunging the cavern into a deep, despairing darkness.

Outside, in the hollow night, Miss Celandine's hysterical screams rang from their small apartment until a tremendous splitting of stone and metal abruptly drowned out her dismal wails.

The grand Victorian entrance to The Wyrd Museum was shuddering and one of the bronze figures which flanked the oaken door suddenly toppled from its plinth and went crashing to the ground, where it shattered and exploded.

A deathly calm descended as Miss Celandine's insane screeching gradually faded and into the alleyway a dark, grey mist swiftly flowed.

Through the curling fog a hooded figure came, the profound shadows beneath its cowl fixed intently upon the broken fragments of sculpture and a faint sigh hissed from his unseen lips.

‘Verdandi is no more,’ the sepulchral voice murmured. ‘The Witches of the Loom are divided at last. Soon Skuld and the mighty Urdr herself will fall victim. Such is the will of Woden.’

Turning, the sinister figure stepped back through the spectral mist and melted into the consuming gloom.