Authors: Simon Morden
The crow stretched its wings out again, and flapped them hard. It rose into the air, and glided back into place. It looked at her again, its bright eye shining. She could see her reflection, strange and inhuman.
For a third time, the crow flapped and rose, fell and folded.
It was trying to teach her how to fly, and she still didn’t have the muscles or the motive. All she had was wings, that were surely insufficient to carry her aloft.
She stepped up on to the stonework, and spread her arms wide.
She wanted to do it. She wanted to leap out into the sky and not hit the ground. She knew she mustn’t. That it was a dangerous, lethal delusion, brought about by Down’s magic. It was going to kill her if she jumped, because there was no way she’d survive the impact with the unforgiving pavement below.
The crow looked at her, daring her. They were both birds. With a flap of her wings, she’d be away, rising over the darkening land, wheeling and calling with all the others. How simple and straightforward that would be.
She wavered between flying and falling, caught between what she knew to be true and what her dreams told her to believe. The wind whirled around her bare legs, her exposed midriff, her outstretched arms. Her hair, still damp in its depths, quivered with anticipation.
How could she contemplate this? This was craziness, drug-fuelled, bad trip psychosis. She wasn’t going anywhere but back, on to the wooden beams and down the stairs and collect her meal that was steaming merrily away over its bed of brightly glowing coals.
But despite everything, she knew that if she missed this opportunity, that she’d wake in the morning and the gift would be gone. Down gave, and Down would take away. There was no guarantee that she’d ever find this road again.
Tricked by the wolfman, abandoned by Crows, alone in two worlds, and only Down had stepped in to save her when death had seemed certain, each and every time, hiding her in the folds of its land and rising up to drive off the dragon.
She steadied herself, gripped harder with her toes, and shouted out over the tops of the trees to the lake and sea beyond.
‘You seem to be helping me. I don’t know why. I can live small, and regret it for however long I’ve got, or I can risk everything now to live large. And I’m tired of living small.’
She leaned forward, over the parapet, over the pavement, and stretched her whole body out towards the sky.
There was no fight. Not that day, and not the next.
Stanislav was the one who became like a caged beast, prowling and snapping, being forced to wait and finding that waiting impossible to endure. Dalip was calmer than he thought he’d be: he had the prospect of a fight to the death, yet he’d come to some measure of acceptance that the older man had not. He’d accepted the plan they’d devised, and it was now Stanislav who wanted to change it, strike pre-emptively while the geomancer was incapacitated.
The guards bore the brunt of his bad temper, and it was a constant surprise to Dalip that they wore it as well as they did. They were the guards, they were in charge, and they should have had no qualms about putting him back in his place. But they understood. Perhaps they were waiting for something too.
The day’s work had ended, and the slaves were being herded chaotically back to their cells. They were, briefly, all together. Mama, as usual, waited to be pushed across the threshold.
Then Stanislav turned around and said he had had enough.
Pigface pushed past the other guard. ‘We don’t want any trouble, Slav. Just do as your told.’
‘No. Now is as good a time as we will get. Dalip? Take his knife.’
Dalip stepped around Stanislav. He reached out, got his hand slapped away, but in that narrow corridor, it was easy enough for him to immediately bring his other hand across and pull the knife free of its scabbard. He held it high, and Stanislav reached up to take it from him.
‘Hey. Give that back.’ Pigface tried to find the space to wrestle with Stanislav, but there was none.
‘You want it back?’ Stanislav slipped his arm under Dalip’s and stabbed Pigface. Not once, but repeatedly, the blade going in and out into the man’s stomach like a sewing-machine needle. Both the other guard and Dalip watched the sudden series of impacts with shock, as if it was happening to someone else, somewhere else.
Then Pigface folded, leaning against Dalip before sliding wetly to the floor.
The remaining guard stared and stared, then tried to run for it.
‘Stop him.’
Dalip, used to obeying that voice, and that tone of voice, leapt after him, brought him down and tangled his fingers in his hair. Then he jabbed his wrist forward, and the man’s forehead connected with the stone flags. His captive went limp.
‘Did you have to?’ Dalip said, getting to his feet.
Stanislav rolled Pigface flat to search him for anything else useful. Pigface wasn’t dead yet, but would be very soon, and as he was turned, he made a sort of wet, gurgling noise that elicited quiet moans of dismay from the others.
‘He is the enemy. He is complicit in our slavery. You want to show him mercy?’ He slid the bloody blade over to Dalip. ‘Then do so. It will be more than he would have done for any of us.’
Dalip wasn’t going to stab a dying man. And neither was he going to have the other guard stabbed either. He dragged him into his own cell, pulled the door closed and started to lower the bar across it.
‘You have not finished him.’
‘No. I’m not going to either.’
Stanislav scooped up the knife with an exasperated sigh. ‘This is weakness. This will get us all killed.’
‘We can just leave him there.’
‘When he begins to scream and shout, others will come and free him. Then we will have to kill them to escape.’ Stanislav jabbed his finger hard against Dalip’s temple. ‘You are not thinking.’
‘We cannot kill an unconscious man.’
‘You want to wait until he wakes up?’
‘We can’t.’ Then: ‘I won’t let you. You might not have any scruples, but I do.’
Stanislav made to lift the bar, and Dalip slammed his hand on top of it, holding it in place.
‘We don’t have time for an argument,’ he said.
Pigface coughed, his whole frame shaking, and Stanislav broke the stand-off. ‘The pit, then. Mama, go to the guard room and bar the outside door. Elena, Luiza, bring the table there through into the pit, and a chair.’
The women stood the other side of the dying man, the other side of the thick lake of blood that was welling up and out of him, across the floor, up to the walls.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Mama, ‘Sweet merciful Jesus. Look what you did, Stanislav. Look what you did to this man.’
Elena shrank back behind her, using her bulk to shield the ruination from sight, but Luiza grabbed hold of her cousin, and started barking at her in Romanian. Stanislav was already down the corridor, at the junction. His face was set hard, and he shouted one word: ‘Hurry!’
Dalip took a deep breath. ‘Mama, we don’t have a choice now. We can’t go back. But we can get out of here: just come with me.’
Reluctantly, Mama took hold of Dalip’s proffered hand and she jumped over Pigface’s body. The man was no longer moving, breath no longer rasping, fingers no longer twitching.
‘Go. The door. Do what Stanislav told you.’ Dalip eased her past him and away.
Luiza all but threw Elena at him, and leapt the obstruction herself. Dalip muttered his apologies as they squeezed by, but Luiza merely tutted her frustration and shoved Elena hard in the back to speed her up.
They diverged at the end of the corridor. The women went into the guard room, Dalip into the pit. It was completely dark, something that neither he nor Stanislav had bargained for.
‘We need a light,’ the older man growled, and hurried out, coming back with a lantern from the guard room.
The glow it gave was feeble, and Dalip could barely see the edge of the parapet. Even though he’d jumped up to it several times now, groping around in the dark wasn’t going to make it any easier.
Stanislav put the lantern on the floor and judged his position. Dalip trotted over to the far wall and braced his back against it.
‘Ready?’ he called.
‘Yes.’ The shadow was so deep that it was almost impossible to tell. They’d just have to trust that they’d trained enough.
‘Okay. Three, two, one.’
Dalip ran, half-blind, hoping that Stanislav could see him better than he could see Stanislav. He raised his foot and stamped it down at the undifferentiated mass of darkness, and then he was flying. He remembered in time to raise his leg, turn his body, reach out in case he hadn’t risen quite far enough.
The landing was brutal. He’d overcompensated and so had Stanislav. He slammed, sight unseen, on to the balcony, having cleared the parapet completely, crashing into the throne and shoving it across the floor until it wedged against the wall. Parts of him were tangled with the legs of the chair, and not for the first time, he could taste blood in his mouth.
He’d also made enough noise to wake the dead. If there was anyone within earshot, they’d be busy raising the alarm and arming themselves. A slave uprising always had to be a possibility for a slaver: even though there were only five of them, and calling it an uprising was nothing more than a bad joke.
He staggered to his feet, spitting, and leaned back out over the pit.
‘The knife. Throw me the knife.’
The lantern was there, but Stanislav wasn’t. The confusion at the door was Luiza shouting at Elena, trying to get the table through the gap. They tried repeatedly, and only succeeded in blocking it for Mama.
Dalip spat on the ground again, wiped his mouth, and realised that if anyone came through the door behind him, he’d have to deal with them himself. His only weapon was the throne, too solid to break up, too heavy to wield. He could still drag the chair against the door until they were ready, so he did, and went back to the parapet.
They’d finally negotiated the doorway and were carrying the table in.
‘Here, just here,’ he called. They looked up, changed their path, and placed the table against the wall below him. Mama stacked the chair on top of it, and Luiza climbed up straight away.
When she stretched up her hand, Dalip could reach down and clasp her wrist.
‘Okay?’ he asked, and he could make out her nodding.
He thought that it’d be a strain, an effort, something he’d struggle with. It turned out that either she was very light, or he was now very strong. When he could, he used both hands, and was even able to ease her over the top, rather than dump her like a sack of rice on the floor.
‘Still okay?’
‘Yes … yes.’
‘Go and stand by that door. Listen out for anyone coming.’ He pointed, and she nodded again, brushing her hair back from her ear in readiness.
Elena was next, and again, despite all her weight being on one arm, he could lift her and hold her until she was able to swing herself over the edge of the parapet.
Mama was next. A more substantial challenge, and there was still no Stanislav.
‘Mama, get on the table, then on to the chair.’
She was surprisingly limber despite her rolling curves.
‘Oh, that poor man. That shouldn’t have happened,’ she said as she clambered up on to the tabletop.
‘Yes, Mama. I know. I … it’s wrong, but what else are we supposed to do? Ask them nicely to let us go?’
‘Oh, he was a bad man for sure, but kill him?’ She put both hands on the chair back and looked up. ‘Can’t you, I don’t know, keep Stanislav under control?’
‘You’re joking, right?’ He lowered his hand over the side. ‘Come on. Whatever happens next, we need to stay together.’
‘I don’t think I can climb, Dalip.’
‘Let me worry about that.’ He waved his fingers. ‘We have to hurry.’
She got her knees on to the chair, then one foot, then the other. Slowly, shakily, she stood, her arms out wide trying to hug the wall.
‘Reach up. Right up.’
She was shorter than both Luiza and Elena. They both stretched, and could just about touch.
‘Elena, hold my legs. Stop me going over.’
He leant right out, over the parapet with both hands, and with Elena gripping his knees, he was able to take hold of Mama’s wrists.
‘You ready?’
‘No,’ she whispered.
‘We’re not leaving without you,’ he said. He started to s
traighten up, taking all her weight through his arms and into his back. Her feet left the chair, knocking it over in the process.
It clattered to the pit floor, and she looked down at the sudden height. She started to wriggle in his grasp.
‘Don’t do that,’ he said.
‘It’s too far.’
He kept on pulling, and she was rising despite herself.
‘You want to get back home? You want to get back to your kids and grandkids?’ It hurt, from his elbows, through his shoulders to the small of his back. He was speaking through clenched teeth. ‘This is the only way.’
Luiza left her post at the door, leant herself over and took a handful of boilersuit at Mama’s side. She pulled as Dalip leant back, and that was enough to drag Mama up as far as the parapet, getting her on the wide stone wall and over the right side.
They lay together, in a heap.
‘You’re strong, Dalip,’ said Mama. ‘You’re a strong man now.’
‘Maybe.’ He didn’t feel strong at that moment: he was breathing hard, and everything felt over-stretched. But it seemed Stanislav had been right. He couldn’t have managed to pull any of them up, not even himself, before he came to Down. He heaved himself up and looked over the edge. The pit was empty, save for a table, tipped chair, and weakly burning lantern.
‘Where is he?’ asked Luiza, extricating herself from under Mama. ‘What better thing does he have to do than be here?’
‘I don’t know.’ He stared at the pit door, as if it’d make the man appear. ‘Stanislav? Stanislav!’
It was more a stage whisper than a shout, and even that seemed too loud.
‘What do we do, if he does not come?’
‘He’ll come. Go and listen at the door again.’
He didn’t know what to do. It seemed like an age before Stanislav trotted back into the pit, though it was probably no
longer than a minute. He was holding a hessian sack heavy with loot in one hand, and Pigface’s knife in the other.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ hissed Dalip.
‘Taking care of business. Catch.’ He threw the bag up, and Dalip caught it neatly, setting down beside him. ‘Now the knife.’
That, he threw slightly to Dalip’s right, so that it landed ringing on the floor. Then he reset the chair on the table, put the lantern next to it and climbed deftly up. He held up the lantern for collection, then both hands.
‘Pull.’
Dalip didn’t. ‘When you said … You’ve killed him, haven’t you? The other guard.’
‘You are so squeamish. Have you never seen Spartacus?’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘When the slaves revolt, they kill their overseers. They have to. They are owned. This is the only way. Now pull me up.’
Dalip looked at Mama, at Elena. He didn’t want to be a slave, and he didn’t want them to be slaves, either. He warred with himself, balking at killing, railing against what he’d already been forced to do. Of course Stanislav was right. He was squeamish. He’d never thought of himself as someone who’d kill even in a just cause. Southall wasn’t like that.
Clearly, wherever Stanislav had lived had been exactly like that. He was uncomfortably comfortable with violence. And they needed that. They all needed that. Without it, they were as good as back in their cells.
No matter what the others thought, then. He reached down and Stanislav clamped both his hands on Dalip’s wrist. He pulled him up, more difficult than Elena, easier than Mama. Once he could reach the parapet himself, Stanislav could haul himself over.
While he did that, Dalip collected the knife, and hung on to it. The bag contained Pigface’s club, and smaller knives from the kitchen, which he distributed. They were all armed now. Just how dangerous they collectively were was doubtful, despite the two corpses they were leaving behind.
‘Any sounds?’ Dalip asked Luiza.
‘No, nothing.’
‘Then we have to go. Find the bridge to the geomancer’s tower. Cross it without being seen. Then we find her, and—’
‘Take her hostage. Knock her out, tie her up. We need her to get past the dragon.’ Stanislav heaved the throne out of the way and raised Pigface’s – his, now – club. ‘If she tries to use magic on us, we might have to kill her anyway. Any one of us who has the chance.’