The Exiled (22 page)

“We don’t need his help—according to him, we three are the special ones. Let’s just see if that’s really the case, shall we?”

John led them into the armory, and went straight to the ranks of rusted weaponry. He turned to Sandy.

“I need something I can use—something that will keep me out of Galloway’s reach but still do damage. Any suggestions?”

She walked over to his side.

“A sword is no use—you’d be off balance too quickly. And a lance would be too unwieldy and too easily broken. Try this.”

She handed John a chain mace—a foot-long grip wrapped with leather, attached to an eighteen-inch metal chain with a large spiked ball at the end—eight sharp points, any one of which looked lethal.

“It’s a five-pound ball,” Sandy said. “They come heavier, but this one is good for speed if you’re planning on a lot of ducking and dodging.”

John took the mace, swung it twice around his head, and struck at the knife cabinet. The ball hit the door—inch-thick oak—and caved it in with a deafening crash. The remains fell to the floor in a heap of splinters and broken sticks.

“That’ll do nicely,” John said.

“So that’s your plan,” Alan said dryly. “Hit Galloway over the head until he gives in?”

John grinned.

“That’s part of it. Don’t worry—there’s plenty of excitement for the pair of you too. But first, I need a new set of leathers—and see if there’s any purses, gloves or hats around, would you?”

* * *

They were back on the balcony with a pile of drawstring purses, gloves and leather hats in front of them before John outlined the plan. He had Sandy and Alan empty their pockets of flares and lay them out on the table. Then he did a count of the quarrels they had left for Sandy’s bow—it came to twenty-three quarrels and ten flares.

“I need you to fetch that oil, Sandy,” he said. “And any glass bottles you can find would be a bonus.”

“I’m beginning to see,” Alan said, picking up John’s cigarette lighter and flicking it on and off. “You’re planning to warm things up, aren’t you?”

John laughed, took the lighter from Alan and lit up a fresh smoke, leaving the flame burning and staring into it.

“We’re going to see how the bird likes getting its feathers singed.”

Sandy returned, rolling a small oil drum ahead of her and carrying a plastic bag that clinked as she walked.

“Bottles, wadding, and string? Did I forget anything?”

They spent the next hour crafting makeshift bombs—some in bottles, some little more than sodden bags of material soaked in a mixture of cooking oil and liquid soap.

John had Alan tie flares to quarrels.

“I won’t be able to handle a bow—but you or Sandy can. Hold on to the string with one hand, fire with the other, and the lit flare should go near where you want it to—if you can get close enough. Get it to open its mouth and put one down its throat—that should do the trick.”

John looked at the array of weaponry on the table, then out over the balcony to the moonlit scene beyond.

“We should wait for morning,” Alan said.

“Why bother?” John replied.

Alan didn’t have a ready answer.

Five minutes later the three were out on the path that led to the plain and the ruin on the cliffs in the distance. There was no sign of Simon.

“He’ll watch the girl,” John said. “He’d better, if he knows what’s good for him.” He swung the mace in a wide arc and seemed happy with the weight of it in his hand. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

* * *

Alan let John take the lead. He was somewhat in awe of this new brother—a taller, leaner man who might be missing an arm but seemed to gaining in composure and assuredness with every passing minute. He recognized the drive, the need to take down the bad guy—that side of John had always been there. But there was something else now, and it was a minute or so before he could put a word to it—leadership. He was glad to follow.

He was also glad there was to be no crawling in the grass and bogs—it would have been impossible anyway. Alan was assigned the donkey job of carrying the makeshift bombs, spare flares and as much oil as they could pour into a wineskin Sandy found in a corner of a small scullery. It was all packed into an over-the-shoulder sack that had already started to rub and chafe at his neck.

They walked in silence. John showed no ill effects at all from his recent ordeals, and that alone gave Alan plenty of pause for thought. There was indeed power here, lending John both healing and strength in a rapid change.

And if it can do that for John—what might it have done already for Galloway?

It wasn’t going to be too long before they found out—the ruined building came into view on their next bend in the track, silhouetted against the shimmering moonlit sea beyond. There was no sign of the Cobbe, but something stood just outside the doorway—Galloway, or whatever it was he had now become, was waiting for them.

29

Grainger felt the weight of the mace tug at his arm as it swung there—a not unpleasant feeling. Every fiber of his being wanted to break into a run, straight for Galloway, swing the weapon at his head and cave it in like he had the cabinet door. But that was an urge he couldn’t give in to—they needed the Cobbe to be here; the plan was for naught without it.

He brought the others to a stop a hundred yards from where Galloway stood. Even at this distance it was obvious that he was scarcely a man anymore—eight feet high and more, and broad with it, on legs too short and stocky for his frame.

“You’re still planning to dance with that?” Sandy said as Alan came up alongside them.

Grainger nodded.

“But we’ll keep him waiting for a bit. Light me a smoke, would you? It might be the last one I get for a while.”

Sandy lit up two cigarettes and put one between his lips.

“I could get used to that,” Grainger said, smiling, then ruined the effect by wincing as smoke got in his eye.

He didn’t get a reply, for Galloway chose that moment to start taunting them.

“Come on, copper,” he shouted, his gravelly rumbling voice carrying clearly in the night air. “I owe you some comeback for that last cheap shot of yours. I’m going to enjoy this.”

“Not as much as I will,” Grainger muttered, and swung the mace like a pendulum, testing its weight again.

Somewhere in the distance beyond the cliffs the Cobbe barked.

Grainger looked at Alan.

“Don’t get dead, wee brother. I might be ‘armless but I’d still kick your arse if you did anything stupid.”

Alan smiled—Grainger saw the effort it had cost the younger man; there were tears just ready to flow from his eyes.

“We’ll have a couple of pints of eighty shillings in Bert’s Bar tomorrow night and laugh about all of this,” Grainger said.

Black wing beats came closer.

“Come on, you pussy,” Galloway shouted. “I’m waiting.”

“So am I,” Grainger said softly.

They felt the Cobbe before they saw it; the air around them swirled and buffeted at their clothing as it passed overhead. A darker shadow moved and with a soft thud the swan came to rest in front of the ruin.

“The gang’s all here,” Galloway shouted.

Grainger nodded to Alan and Sandy, and walked towards the doorway.

* * *

The side of Galloway’s face where the flare had burned was a ravaged ruin—but not as bad as Grainger had hoped. The eye was gone, that was for sure, but the flesh around it seemed to be healing and hardening, and when Galloway smiled, there was no sign of pain.

“Doesn’t matter how pretty I look over here, copper,” he said. “There’s nobody but you to look at me, and you’ll be gone soon enough.” He laughed when he saw the mace dangling in Grainger’s hand. “Are we going to fight, or are you going to tickle me?”

“Give me a kiss and I’ll maybe do both,” Grainger said, at the same time bringing the mace up and around on Galloway’s blind side. The spiked ball was at the full extent of the chain, as high as Grainger could reach—and it wasn’t quite enough to reach the eye socket he’d aimed for. He felt a jar in his arm as the blow hit. Galloway’s left cheek fell inwards and the hard flesh split, leaving a gaping wound. There was no blood.

Galloway smiled. The wound gaped, even as he spat out three gray teeth on the ground at Grainger’s feet.

“Tickling it is, then,” he said, and came forward.

30

The Cobbe loomed over Alan and Sandy. The wings rose like a black cape against the stars and folded in front of the head—they’d seen this move before; it meant to enclose them in a hood. Sandy wasn’t about to give it the opportunity. She loaded a quarrel with a flare attached, held the string and fired. The weight of the flare dragged the quarrel into a spiraling flight on a downward path—it blazed into light underneath the main body of the Cobbe, lighting the scene. For an instant they were almost enclosed in a flickering red cave where the walls were coated in black feathers. The wings opened and the Cobbe barked, loud as a gunshot.

They had its full attention.

Sandy struggled to reload the crossbow as the huge head bent towards them.

“Now!” she shouted.

Alan lit the wadding on a Molotov, and counted to three before throwing it. He was hoping it would break and spread their makeshift napalm, but it hit a soft patch of ground and lay there, only a flicker of flame showing in the darkness.

“Again!” Sandy shouted. She had the bow reloaded, just in time as the huge head loomed above. Alan lit and threw a second bottle. This time it did smash in a yellow explosion of heat and noise that also set the first off in accompaniment. The Cobbe barked and reared away. Sandy took the opportunity to try to send a quarrel down its gullet but again the weight of the flare itself pulled her aim off. The lit flare arced high in the air and fell away over the cliff and out of sight.

The bird stomped its feet, twice, on the burning oil from the Molotovs, snuffing the fire out as quickly as it had started.

31

Grainger wasn’t going to be able to stay out of Galloway’s reach forever. He danced to his right, trying to keep on the blind side while wielding the mace in huge swings, most of which met only thin air. The one hit he got in was a glancing blow to Galloway’s left knee, but the resulting limp only lasted for seconds.

“I’m too strong for you, wee man,” Galloway rumbled. “And when we’re done here, I’ll go over to yon wee castle, find my girl, and finish the ritual. Then we’ll see something really special.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?” Grainger said, stepped below a swinging arm and thudded the mace down, hard, on Galloway’s right foot. The big man bellowed in pain and danced back.

Somewhere behind him the Cobbe barked loudly but Grainger couldn’t afford the time to glance round. He had to trust that the others would get their job done—at the moment he was too busy trying to hold up his end of the bargain.

The door to the ruined cathedral lay open behind Galloway. Grainger took the first chance he got to circle round and slip inside in an attempt to limit Galloway’s movements in a more cramped environment. It also gave him a chance to look beyond the doorway and out across the cliff tops. All he saw was the looming wings spread wide, the outline of the Cobbe against the sea and sky beyond—there were no flares, no flames.

Have we lost already?

Then there was no more time for reflection—Galloway was onto him again and Grainger had to fight for his life.

The big man smiled, but had a noticeable limp from the most recent blow to the foot. Flames flared out on the cliff behind the hulking body, and Grainger allowed himself a smile of his own.

We’re still in the game.

Emboldened, he swung the mace around his head in a fast circle and leapt forward, hurling a hefty blow into Galloway’s left side. The spiked ball hit ribs and kept going. Bone splintered and poked through the flesh, and Galloway howled.

Grainger yelped in triumph, but he’d celebrated too early, for when he tried to pull the mace back, the spiked ball stayed lodged in the wound. Galloway grabbed the chain and tugged, pulling the handle from Grainger’s hand and, with another roar of pain, tore the spiked ball from his side. He threw the mace away up the cathedral aisle where it clattered hard against something in the darkness.

Everything fell quiet, save for the drip of blood from the new wound.

Galloway smiled.

“Let’s see how you do without your wee tickling stick,” he said.

Grainger did the only thing he could think of—he retreated, moving quickly away into the deep shadows along the left wall.

“Fee, fie, fo, fum,” Galloway chanted. “I smell the blood of a cowardly man.”