The Book Of Secrets Part 35

Nick hung in the air. He raised the broadsword over his head, then brought it down in a hammer blow on the black knight's helm. The force of the impact threw Nick back up, giving him time for another hacking swing at the knight's neck before he dropped to the ground. The knight reeled.

Nick's eyes flicked to the bottom corner of the screen where a colour-coded bar displayed his enemy's life force. He swore. He'd barely scratched him.

'Watch out for the horse!' Urthred shouted.

Nick sprang to his left and rolled away, just in time. A curtain of fire pursued him along the ground, so vivid he could almost feel the heat on his cheek. It raced up behind him; in a second he would be swallowed.

With a flash of blue light, he rolled inside the umbrella of Urthred's s.h.i.+eld. The flames beat against it like waves but could not get through.

'You need to get him away from here,' said Randall. 'I can't hold the s.h.i.+eld much longer. It's draining my power.'

'I can't get to him while he's on that horse.'

'Remember the dragonsteed at the Tower of Charn?'

'Uh, kind of.' With all that was happening, Nick found he could still feel embarra.s.sed at having this sort of conversation in front of Emily. It was almost impossible to reconcile the stark room, the strip lighting and metal chairs, with the desperate fantasy battle on screen. But each was real enough in its way.

The Wanderer scrambled to his feet. He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out an iron s.h.i.+eld almost as large as he was. He raised it and crouched to spring. Urthred staggered and swayed behind him, jerked like a puppet on the end of the beam of light flowing from his staff. He was losing control, exhausted by the effort. The black knight saw his weakness and wheeled around to charge again. Smoke flared from the horse's nostrils; sparks drooled from its mouth.

Urthred spun around, lost control and fell. His staff clattered to the ground beside him. The knight charged. All that stood in his way was Nick. Dust flew up under the horse's iron-clad hooves. The earth seemed to shake. In seconds he'd be trampled, or impaled on the end of the knight's black lance.

He raised his sword towards the onrus.h.i.+ng horse. The knight saw him; Nick could have sworn he heard him laugh. Against the bulk of the horse and the length of the lance, his blade was little better than a needle.

Tingling, Nick's fingers danced over the keyboard, tapping out an intricate pattern. The sword in the Wanderer's hand began to glow molten red, then white hot. A shaft of light sprang from the tip of the blade; it pulsed, then hardened to steel in an instant. The sword had become a spear. The Wanderer dug the b.u.t.t into the ground and angled it up.

It impaled the onrus.h.i.+ng horse, sinking deep in its chest. The constraints of the game made it an incongruously bloodless wound. The horse's momentum carried it into the Wanderer's s.h.i.+eld and bowled him over; he flew back across the ground.

With a ghastly scream, the horse sank to its knees. The black knight leaped down from the saddle. He'd dropped his lance in the collision; in its place he now wielded an enormous mace.

The Wanderer had been thrown so far back he was now beyond Urthred, who still lay in a heap. The black knight advanced; the mace made eerie noises as he whirled it over his head. Nick reached for his spear, but it was still embedded in the horse.

And suddenly Urthred was on his feet, lightning crackling from his fingertips. The knight leaped back, but too slow. Urthred's spell caught him clean on the chest and blasted him away, almost to the edge of the clearing.

Urthred took a step after him as Nick got up and ran to retrieve his sword-spear. 'He's not so tough.'

The bar in the corner of Nick's screen had dropped by about half, and now showed orange. The black knight had taken a hit, but he wasn't beaten.

'How much more time do you need?' Randall asked.

Nick didn't answer. A sound was rising out of the forest, like a swarm of insects accelerated to a blood-curdling scream. The woods quivered with movement within.

The Wanderer picked up his sword and rolled it in his wrists. He knew that sound. He dropped into a crouch, as the vanguard of a goblin army poured out of the trees.

The Armagnaken rushed out of the forest like a battlefield giving up its dead. Half naked, streaked with mud, clad in an outlandish array of mismatched armour and carrying stolen swords, spears, bows and rusting farm implements. They fell upon the pilgrims with howls of glee. The fat priest died pinned to a barn wall with a spear through his belly. One of his companions tried to defend himself with his staff but was beaten down. The Armagnak chopped of his head like a chicken's, held it aloft by the hair, then kicked it down the street after a group of fleeing women. It struck one on the back of the leg. She stumbled, tripped and fell. Before she could get up the Armagnaken were ripping into her.

It had happened so fast. The second rider, who a moment ago had been beside me, had vanished. All I saw was a flash of armour disappearing into the forest, pursued by half a dozen Armagnaken hurling curses and stones. Near my feet the first guard's horse flailed in a froth of blood and mud. The dying hooves still had enough power that there could be no thought of rescuing the rider trapped under the mount. We probably could not save ourselves.

With a final whimper, the horse rolled over and lay still. I darted forward. Ignoring the guard's pleas, I grabbed the sword he had dropped and ran back. I had never wielded one before: I had no idea it could be so heavy. I dragged it along the ground like a plough and offered it to Kaspar.

'Don't waste your time.' He pulled a dagger from a fold of his cloak and threw the scabbard away. 'Have you got a knife?'

'Only a penknife.' In all the hours patiently tr.i.m.m.i.n.g reeds and quills with that knife, I had never imagined my life might depend on it.

Many of the pilgrims already lay dead, but a few had managed to form a line across a narrow gap between two houses. They jabbed the Armagnaken back with their staffs: one had managed to find a billhook, which he swung with lethal effect. It only served to draw more of the wild men onto him.

'The mill,' I said. 'It's stone: they can't burn it. Maybe we can find a storeroom to hide in.'

'We'll be trapped against the river.'

I remembered Kaspar's fear of water. But we would not get far in the dark forest. Before Kaspar could argue, I started across the square.

The fighting was desperate. Nick sat hunched over the keyboard, firing off sequences of b.u.t.tons that launched the Wanderer in a blizzard of dizzying lunges and parries. He hadn't played the game in months, but somehow the commands had written themselves into his subconscious. Hordes of goblins pressed all around him, while the black knight paced in the background, directing the battle.

The Wanderer tripped one goblin and stabbed him through the back, blocked an incoming sword and leapfrogged his next opponent's spear thrust. He landed behind, spun round and sliced off the goblin's head with a single cut. To his right, he saw Urthred wheeling and leaping like a dancer as he fended off the enemies who pressed around him. The tip of his staff smouldered with magic fire: any goblin who touched it reeled back with a burning scar seared into him.

'Keep close to the tree.' Randall's voice was calm and concentrated. On screen, he somersaulted into the air and swept his staff around full circle. A shock wave of green fire rippled out around him, throwing back a whole cohort of the goblins who ringed him. The bodies lay there for a second, then faded away. But more rushed in to take their places almost immediately, pressing hard to drive him back from the oak tree.

Nick tried to advance. Goblins hemmed him in, jabbing and stabbing from all sides. Their computer-generated attacks never tired, while fatigue was beginning to take its toll on Nick. A goblin charged; Nick moved to duck and come up under his guard but nothing happened. The Wanderer just stood there, unnaturally still, utterly vulnerable.

He must have pressed the wrong key. He stabbed at the keyboard to get it right, but too late. The goblin's spear struck the Wanderer clean in the stomach. He staggered back, arms flailing; Nick tried to bring up his sword in defence but the game wouldn't respond to his desperate commands. His health status flashed red. The goblin raised the spear over his shoulder for the killing blow.

A bolt of lightning crackled across the clearing from the end of Urthred's staff; it lifted the goblin off the ground and sent him spinning into oblivion. The Wanderer jumped back, stabbed the next attacker and turned to thank- 'Urthred!'

Seeing his chance, the black knight had waded back into the battle. The goblin army were like dogs at his feet. He towered over Urthred, whirling his mace over his head. Urthred turned; he flung out his staff and shouted an incantation.

But the lightning strike had drained the last of his magic. The spiked mace head struck the staff and splintered it in two. The surrounding goblins edged back obediently, forming a circle around the two combatants as Urthred wearily drew his sword.

'Get to the tree.'

On screen, Urthred was swaying like a drunkard, ducking and rolling to avoid the thundering sweeps of the mace. Through the speakers, Randall sounded close to exhaustion. Nick glanced at the oak. Above its tangled roots a glowing sphere had appeared, a ball of light hovering among the branches like forbidden fruit.

The black knight must have known what it was. With a roar of fury he swung the mace and struck Urthred on the side of his head. He crumpled to the ground. The goblins shrieked in triumph as they poured in to finish him.

'Randall?'

There was no answer. The black knight strode towards the tree, kicking goblins out of his way as he walked. Nick checked his health. His avatar was bruised and b.l.o.o.d.y, his robes torn. One more blow would finish him. There must be fifty goblins between him and the tree, and the black knight was almost there.

We slipped between two houses and crouched behind a wattle fence. Night had almost fallen: the battle had become a fog of blurred shapes and sharp sounds. Some of the Armagnaken had kindled torches, windows in the darkness revealing ghastly tableaux of savagery.

I heard footsteps to my left and ducked down. Through the gnarled weave of the fence I saw a woman run past, closely followed by two Armagnaken. One carried an enormous club which he swiped merrily as he pursued her. It looked too huge to wield, until I saw it was actually a lute held by its neck. He must have plundered it from one of the houses. He swung it again, missing the woman and smas.h.i.+ng into a post he had not seen in the dark. With a tw.a.n.g and a groan, the lute shattered. He tossed it aside and carried on.

The way was clear. We vaulted over the fence and sprinted over the open ground to the mill door. My foot snagged on something; I almost tripped, but fear drove me on. Grey clouds puffed up like spectres around our feet as we crossed the spilled flour. Then we were inside.

The mill smelled like a stable. Straw crackled underfoot, and dust in the air coated my tongue. I heard the toil of stone, the creak of axles, the rush of water under my feet. Oblivious to the horror outside, the mill grumbled on. I found it strangely comforting.

I put out my hand and steadied myself on Kaspar's shoulder. We felt our way forward through the cluttered room, careful lest we catch ourselves in some piece of the mechanism.

We reached a wall and edged along it. I felt a door, pulled it open. Cold air rushed over my face together with a blast of noise: the rattles, splashes and squeaks of the wheel turning in the mill race. Looking down, I could see silver foam where the paddles churned the water.

'Not that way,' I whispered. I left the door open to admit what light there was and carried on.

All of a sudden the room lit up like a lantern. I spun around, blinking. Two Armagnaken stood in the door. One was a hunched ogre of a man, with a hooked nose and bulging cheeks; he carried a burning brand in one hand and an axe in the other. His companion was very different: an angel, with soft fair hair gone gold in the torchlight, b.u.t.tery skin and slender shoulders. It was a strange beauty to behold in that awful moment.

They saw us at once. The ogre whooped with delight; the angel smiled. He lifted his arms into the light, and I saw they were drenched in blood up to the elbow. He carried a sickle.

The ogre went to his right, picking his way over the debris of fallen rafters and broken furniture that littered the floor. The angel stayed by the door, watching. The smile never left his face.

Kaspar raised his dagger and moved towards the ogre. He ducked under the shaft of the mill wheel, which was still spinning, and skirted the stone in the middle of the room. I should have gone to help but I held back, paralysed by terror. The knife in my hand felt feeble as a reed.

The ogre let Kaspar approach. He was in no hurry. The millers must have been making some repairs when the Armagnaken found them. A wide plank stood across two sawhorses, the saw blade still wedged into the cut it had begun. It formed a natural barricade between the two men. They eyed each other like two cats across a wall. Kaspar crouched. He looked quicker than his opponent, though doubtless the ogre was more practised.

But perhaps he had killed enough. With a look of disdain, he lowered his guard. Kaspar saw his chance and moved forward. At the same time, almost as if he was too weary to carry it, the ogre let his torch slip from his hands.

Everything after that was a nightmare of fire and horror. As Kaspar sprang forward, he kicked up a plume of sawdust from the floor. It swirled and caught the flame from the torch. In an instant, the dust exploded in a cloud of flame. Kaspar landed in the inferno with a scream, stumbled back, caught himself on the upraised plank and was knocked back into the flames. I ran to him.

But I had forgotten the other Armagnak. He came the moment he saw me move, dancing across the spinning stone wheel. Monstrous shadows swayed behind him. He swung his sickle at my head and I jerked back. Almost far enough. The back of the blade caught my cheek: it should have been blunt, but he had honed the tool so that both edges were razor sharp, tapering to a wicked point that could have flicked out my eye with a single p.r.i.c.k.

Blood streamed from my cheek. The angel advanced towards me. Silhouetted against the fire, he looked like Death himself. I scrambled back on my hands. To my left, Kaspar writhed in flames. Even above the roar of the fire I could hear his screams.

As I scuttled back, my palm pressed against something hard and thin on the wooden floor. A long nail, probably dropped by the carpenters. I balled it in my fist, the point just protruding between my knuckles, and struggled to my knees as the angel approached. He thought I was praying and laughed, delighted. His left hand made a blood-soaked sign of the cross, while his right raised the sickle for the sacrifice.

I toppled forward, stretching my arm towards his boot. Perhaps he thought I was beseeching him for mercy, for he hesitated with his blow. The nail sank in with all my weight behind it: it pierced his bare foot and went clean through into the floor.

He howled and swung the sickle wildly, but I had already rolled clear. He tried to follow but could not: for a moment he was nailed to the spot.

I ran to Kaspar. Half his clothes had burned away: beneath the charred cloth I could no longer tell what was skin, ash or bone. I turned him over to smother the flames, but each time I moved him they seemed to creep around to the other side.

The fire had spread across the middle of the room now an impenetrable rampart. The only way out was into the river. I picked up Kaspar in my arms and dragged him towards the high door. The moment I stood smoke rushed into my lungs. My head swam; dizzy with lack of air I almost fell on top of poor Kaspar. He was barely conscious.

I looked back. The angel was still there: he had ripped himself free, leaving a hunk of b.l.o.o.d.y flesh nailed to the floor. He came limping towards me through the smoke. The blade he held burned with reflected fire. Below me, through the open door, water spilled over the giant wheel.

I stood and confronted the angel, putting myself between him and Kaspar. I had dropped my knife in the fire and was defenceless. He swung his sickle at me and I retreated tripped on Kaspar's limp body and stumbled back. I spread my arms to catch myself on the wall.

All I felt was the emptiness of open s.p.a.ce, the awful horror of nothingness. I was falling. My arm struck the wheel with a sickening crack. I bounced off it like a stone and landed in the churning black water.

The screen dimmed. In the windowless office, Nick almost screamed in frustration. Had a goblin stabbed him? His health bar still showed life. He looked around. It wasn't the slow fade of death, but a giant shadow crossing the sky. As the sun returned he saw an enormous fish eagle swooping down towards the black knight. Its outstretched talons tore into his armour, carving deep rents in the steel.

The goblins abandoned Urthred's dissolving corpse and charged. A beat of the fish eagle's giant wings swept them off their feet and hurled them back, bowling over the ranks behind.

Nick saw his opening. With the goblins programmed to rally against the biggest threat, a way had opened to the tree. He ran forward, hurdling the few spears that still stabbed at him, knocking others out of the way before they could strike. At the corner of the screen, he saw the fish eagle batting its wings to fend off the goblins, who had at last managed to get within range. The black knight picked up his lance and aimed it like a javelin, right at the fish eagle's heart.

The bird rose into the air, a couple of goblins screaming and writhing in its claws. The knight hurled the lance. The fish eagle twisted to avoid it, but its very size impeded it. The spear pierced its beating wing. It lurched, swooped and plunged back to the ground.

The black knight was already running, back to the tree and the prize floating in its branches. But the Wanderer was closer. He bounced over the tangled roots, leaped up and s.n.a.t.c.hed the ball of light. Branches rushed past his face, though they could not scratch him. With a cry of fury, the black knight whirled his mace and flung it like a hammer, straight at the Wanderer's head. At the bottom of the screen, a message in a Gothic font announced: File acquired Nick hit ESCAPE.

The river was strong, far stronger than my exhausted limbs. It took all my power just to keep my head afloat. I shouted to keep myself awake, to prove to the darkness I still lived. I shouted to my father and cursed him for bringing me into the world. I shouted to Kaspar. I told him I was sorry. I told him I loved him.

The current carried me far downriver until I came to a place where it eased into a broad bend. There, on the near sh.o.r.e, I saw the glow of lamplight. It was almost too late. I had sunk into a cold stupor: I might never have roused myself. But I owed it to Kaspar to stay alive. With the last of my strength I splashed to the sh.o.r.e and waded through the shallows until I found a place where cattle had trodden a ramp in the riverbank. I crawled up it and sprawled in the mud.

'Is there somewhere we can print this out?'

Nick's fingers felt arthritic, the sinews in his wrists knotted from the battle. He looked up from the computer. Sabine was standing in the door, breathing hard.

'Your machine's already connected to the printer in my office.'

Nick clicked the b.u.t.ton. He pushed back the chair, but Emily was already standing.

'I'll go.'

Sabine pointed to an office across the hall. She let Emily past and leaned against the door frame, her arms folded across her chest.

'Who was that guy the black knight?'

'You saw him?' Nick's head was pounding like a drum; the merest twitch of his eyes drew stabs of pain in his temples.

Sabine turned her body and lifted her right arm slightly. For the first time, Nick noticed the tattoo on her bare shoulder. A giant fish eagle, wings back and talons bared.

'Randall told me to look out for you.'

'Thanks.' He pushed his memory stick into the computer and copied the file across. He hadn't even looked at it yet. 'If you hadn't saved me we'd have lost everything. Whatever it is we got.'

'Nick?' Emily pushed past Sabine back into the room. She looked dazed. Her hand trembled as she put down the printout.

'I know what Gillian found.'

LVIII.

Near Stra.s.sburg

I knelt in the chapel and prayed. Candles burned in every alcove, flickering off the painted ranks of saints and prophets on the walls. In the dome of the apse, above the altar, Christ stared down at me clutching an enormous open book against his chest. I could not look at him without weeping.

Miracles had occurred that night, though more would be needed before dawn. The cattle who trod the path to the river belonged to a monastery whose light I had seen from the river. Somehow in the dark I had staggered across the field to the gates. At first they would not open them: they thought it was an Armagnak ruse and certainly I must have seemed a wretched, crazed creature to appear before them so late. At last my desperation convinced them. All their cells were full, so they brought me to the chapel.

Incense lingered in the air from the previous night's vespers. Soon it would be dawn and the monks would return for matins. For now, I was alone.

I prayed. I prayed as I had not prayed since I was a boy, when I still thought I had a soul worth saving. I prayed with every ounce of my being. I emptied my self and made it a vessel for G.o.d. I despised every sin I had ever committed. I begged forgiveness. I renounced all evil. Henceforth I would live a blameless life. If only G.o.d would rescue Kaspar.

But I was a feeble vessel, cracked and riddled with holes. As hard as I poured in my prayers they spilled out. In the stillness of the chapel, other thoughts seeped in. My past flowed through me.

A blind man in Paris. Do you know what the Stone really is? It is medicine, a tonic for all the diseased matter of this world.