The White Fox (4 page)

Sighing, Jack slumped onto his bed. It sagged under his weight. It wasn’t even evening, but there was nothing else to do here.

Wind twisted down the street as the light faded. A gang with matching tracksuits and haircuts skulked down the concrete in a pack. There was no one else around. No cars passed. A few loose bits of litter and fallen leaves swirled aimlessly around, scraping along the tarmac before being caught in the updraft once more.

The boys moved to the corner, where a lamppost was pasted with barely legible adverts for a few different clubs and parties. Across the road, they saw a figure gazing up and down the street. He was clothed in a black cloak and boots, and a hood extended over his head so that his features were completely obscured. Deciding they could get some fun out of this, one of the boys crossed the road, and his companions followed.

The man did not heed their arrival. The boys began jeering at him, and he still took no notice. He seemed to be fixed on another plane, something which they could not see. Only when one of the boys hit him on the shoulder did he pay attention. He turned his head slowly to look at the offender.

The boy felt himself shake slightly. The blackness of the hood was hypnotic. It seemed to numb everything—the noise of the wind, the light from the swiftly escaping day, and the ground beneath his trainers.

Another of the boys whipped out a short knife and grabbed the man’s arm. He instantly regretted it. His shadow seemed to congeal around his feet, anchoring him to the ground. With a start, all the boys realized they could not move. They struggled, but the air was becoming heavier, sapping their strength, their lungs protesting against the slowly encroaching pressure. Time seemed to thicken, clotting from water to rancid syrup.

The man removed his arm from the boy’s grip and snapped his fingers. The shadows leapt.

A minute later the man walked up the street, his spectral cloak rippling around him. In an alley, near to where he had been standing, the last of the bodies slumped to the ground. The shadow turned and slunk back into the gloom.

“… but then George is really funny, so I’m not sure,” Lucy finished breathlessly.

“Have you thought about which one’s actually the nicest person?” Jack replied teasingly.

“You girl.” She laughed, pushing him playfully on the shoulder.

He grinned.

“How’s your love life, then?”

“Nothing at the moment, no,” he said resignedly.

“I was pretty sure you thought Karris was fit.”

“She’s
fit
definitely, but she’s in with all the rugby players. I’ve barely spoken to her.”

“That’s no excuse. You just need to talk to her. Attract her attention. Come on. Once she knows you, she can’t say no.”

Jack shrugged and looked away in embarrassment.

It was Saturday morning, and the two of them were sitting in comfortable armchairs in Costa’s, overlooking the shopping center. A large section of the first floor was cut out, so that the overcast sky pressed on the glass ceiling and down onto the tiled pattern and escalators on the ground floor. An ornate, Victorian-style clock hung from the glass ceiling a few feet away from them, its many spikes making it look like an overgrown spider. Beyond the clock, on the other side of the first floor, was the train station, and galleries of shops ran down the north and south malls to the left and right. This time on a Saturday, the whole place was bursting with shoppers.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the world drift by. The train times flicked across the electronic board above the ticket offices. People milled around, talking and carrying shopping bags. A group of teenagers they recognized from school hung around the JD on BMXs, a couple on guard for security officers. An exhausted-looking mother passed with a pushchair, her two children shrieking about the lack of chocolate currently present in their lives. A man in an Abercrombie & Fitch jumper marched past, his Doberman imprinting the tiles with perfectly formed muddy paw prints, which themselves seemed to ooze of high society. He was swiftly followed by a woman stooped with a threadbare mop, scouring the floor for something else to have the privilege of dirtying it.

Jack found it incredible sometimes that people could pass in the street and walk on by, never to see each other again. Every single person had their own life, their own problems and aspirations, and yet you looked at someone in passing as just another obstacle on your way to the bank. He kept this feeling to himself. The last time he’d tried to explain it to Lucy they had ended up in an argument about stalkers.

He gazed absently at the other side of the upper level. A moment later he registered something on the edge of his vision. “You see that?” He pointed, determined not to be misunderstood again.

Lucy followed his gesture to the platform exit.

People were queuing in front of the ticket office. A newspaper vendor was selling
The Birchford Chronicler
. His sandwich board declared Youths Killed in Mysterious Twilight Murder on one side and Excavation Begins for Roman Remains on the other. Nearby someone was standing, surveying the ground floor below.

“Yeah,” Lucy said. “You know, those guys are popping up everywhere.”

“Really? She looks a bit strange.” The figure, a woman judging by her stature, was dressed from head to foot in a hooded black cloak. Her hands were clad in shiny dark gloves, her feet in similar boots, and her face was indiscernible. She could have been a Halloween costume enthusiast, but there was something in the way she held herself that was more professional. She was looking down, but as Jack and Lucy watched she looked up at them. They quickly averted their eyes.

“Yeah. There was one down my road last night leaning against a signpost. Then there was another one—a man—sitting on a park bench. They don’t seem to do anything. Just hang around.”

“So there’s more than one?”

“Yep.”

“Maybe it’s something to do with religion,” Jack suggested, stealing another glance at the strange figure in black. She was still staring at them.

“Maybe,” Lucy said thoughtfully, “like some of those Wicca groups?”

“Could be,” Jack admitted. There was something else about the figure that his brain was telling him he didn’t want to see. It was slightly unnerving. He checked his watch. “We’d better go. The train’s leaving any minute.”

Lucy nodded, and, taking their coffees with them, they left.

The sky was showered with stars, a thick ribbon of smoke wound its way to the east with the wind. Its source was a crude fire—a few dried logs and loose pieces of coal—glimmering like a greedy firefly in the middle of the small plateau. Buffeted by the wind, its glow flickered off the rock faces, dancing in between the shadows of the many watchers. Humanoid shaped but shorter than humans, skinny and bowlegged. Their heads more like lizards or trouts than mammals, with the same aquatic-reptilian sheen, they clustered around the affair with mingled fear and fascination.

The chief goblin dropped to the ground, breathing heavily. Sweat rolled excruciatingly over every inch of his body. His armor suffocated him, even in the freezing night breeze. He lifted his arms and removed his helmet, an effort in itself. He now had a better view of the scene before him. His elven adversary stood above, the remnants of their battle swirling around him. Two scepter-like lances were held in his hands, the rest of him covered completely in spectral black. The only bit of skin visible was his face, mostly obscured by a mane of wind-ruffled, feral hair. His emerald-green eyes shone with an evil triumph, the scar that disfigured his features twisted slightly with a smile.

Surrounding them were the rest of the goblin’s tribe, holding on to any armor they could lay their claws on. Several banners depicting his many totem spiked symbols fluttered feebly in the wind, yet none of their bearers stepped forward to assist him. Beyond them, the mountains rose up, pitch black against the deep blue sky. A sea of stars blinked down at him, and the moon’s wide grin seemed to mock his defeat.

“You see, he is a weak leader.” The adversary spoke slowly in the local dialect, more scratchy hissing than actual syllables. “All he has to offer you is the pillaging of a couple of villages, a few captives, some pathetic, gristly meat. Admittedly, he was the best you could muster. But you now have the opportunity to
really
sink your teeth into something.”

The reflection of the flames danced in the bulbous eyes of the assembled goblins, all fully attentive and listening with the unmistakable scrutiny of a crowd that knows it is about to get a better deal.

“As we speak, my associates are being accepted as envoys to the other tribes. You, as a race, have been wronged. Supplanted in your homes by those considering themselves better than you, you have been driven out of the west into these wastelands. Your very cultural heritage is one of shame and denial. The legacy of your ancestry is for you all to be condemned as nomads. We offer you the chance to change that. If you are brave enough to undo your forefathers’ mistakes, then we shall meet again in the valley of Sitzung in one week’s time. If not, then you will remain hungry whilst your fellow tribes gorge themselves on the lion’s share of the winnings.”

There was silence for a long moment. Then a few mutterings.

“But, my lord,” ventured one of the goblins in his high, scratchy voice, “our army ain’t big enough. Even with all the tribes in the Wastelands we still can’t stand against them.”

“We will swell your armies with some military acquisitions of our own. You need not worry about that. Furthermore, there will, of course, be alchemy involved.”

Instantly, the crowd erupted, jumping and cheering their approval. One overzealous goblin leapt and accidentally speared another’s ear. In a flash, the second was on him, beating his pointed face to a pulp, and the cheering euphoria dissolved into a punch-up.

Rolling his eyes slightly, the stranger let his lance hover for a moment as he raised his right hand. He clenched his fist, and it burst into sickly emerald flame. He made a punching motion to the side. With a small boom, the fireball burst from his forearm and clouted a nearby goblin in the chest. He shrieked, and a moment later the metal parts of his armor clattered to the ground, the ash that was once scaly flesh slipping away on the wind.

Silence fell immediately. The chieftain was still kneeling, his head raised. The adversary lowered his weapon, so that the two prongs arched around either side of his neck, the shorter central one making a slight indent into his throat.

The goblin decided to speak. “You filthy, traitorous bunch of—”

The spear was thrust forward. Dark blood spurted everywhere, and the goblin’s head rolled onto the ground, coming to rest somewhere behind the body. The corpse flopped backwards pathetically, loosing its crimson bounty to the rocks.

The elf knelt down. It was common tradition amongst these tribes to take a prize from the loser of a challenge. He slid the spiked gauntlets off the ex-chieftain’s arms and onto his own. They were far too elegant weapons for a greenskin.

He stood up and turned, stepping around the campfire. As he passed, he kicked the dismembered head into the hearth. The flames intensified, gorging themselves on the newest meal. He marched away from the fire, the harshly highlighted folds of his cloak fading into shadow. The ranks of empowered goblins parted to let him through. He slid his hood over his face and smiled to himself. These imbecilic creatures willingly lent themselves to use as raw tools. Not for one moment had it occurred to them what
he
would get out of this arrangement. Everything was going as planned.