The Hounds of Avalon (Gollancz S.F.) (50 page)

‘Mallory?’

Caitlin rolled and sprang to her feet, attacking in a fluid movement so rapid she was almost a blur. The axe would have ripped open Mallory’s chest if he hadn’t bounded backwards, keeping his balance on the balls of his feet and plunging the sword past Caitlin’s defences. A shower of golden sparks burst where the
sword skidded off the axe-blade. It continued through, slicing into the top of Caitlin’s shoulder.

She didn’t cry out, didn’t register any pain on her face at all, even though a spurt of blood shot out from the wound and splattered on the ice. Cold and determined, Caitlin attacked Mallory again.

They battled back and forth that way for several minutes, two jungle cats sparring with grace and savagery, neither gaining an upper hand. Sophie realised how much Mallory had advanced since their first meeting, from a novice with a sword to someone who could keep a goddess like the Morrigan at bay.

While the Morrigan-powered Caitlin could attack with never-ending ferocity, it was Mallory’s human cunning that gave him his edge. Where Caitlin expected a thrust from Mallory’s sword, instead he jammed the blade between her knees and used it as a pivot as he threw his full weight at her. She slammed down on the ice, wide open for Mallory’s killing blow.

In that instant, Sophie saw clearly the Caitlin she had first met in the Court of Soul’s Ease: sad, broken, hopeful, decent. ‘Mallory! Don’t hurt her!’ she called out, pushing herself to her feet. Mallory stopped mid-blow, half-turned. But what surprised Sophie the most was the startled expression on Caitlin’s face: it was almost human.

The crack that came from beneath Sophie was like a gunshot. Radial lines shot out across the ice from her feet. She didn’t have time to think. A split second later she was falling into the bitterly cold water.

Mallory saw the ice break and Sophie plunge through the hole. He couldn’t react. Half his attention was on Caitlin, knowing that she would kill him from behind if he went to Sophie’s aid.

In the end, he couldn’t help himself. He ran as close to the edge of the fractured, fragile ice as he dared, but Sophie was already gone. Falling to his knees, he tore at the hoarfrost until the ice was as clear as glass. Framed in the white window, he saw the horrific image of Sophie’s pale face, her eyes wide, drifting slowly by, her cheeks inflated with her last breath, her hands scrabbling on the underside of the ice, unable to break through. Drowning. Freezing.

The blow to the side of his head made him see stars and he knew as he fell that Caitlin had recovered and attacked. But there was no blood. As he jumped to his feet, Caitlin had the axe over her head,
and then brought it down with such force that she was obscured by the eruption of ice.

Before Mallory could move, she was on her knees. She raised one fist and smashed it through the remnants of the ice furiously. Somehow she latched on to Sophie’s drifting hair, yanking her upwards, then hauled her through the hole she had made. Blood streamed down her wrist, spraying over Sophie’s face.

Mallory grabbed hold of Sophie and helped to haul her out. She was shaking violently, but still conscious. Quickly, Mallory pulled her away from the dangerous ice to the bank where Thackeray jumped in to help, his face white with desperation.

Mallory threw his cloak at Thackeray to wrap Sophie in, and then turned back to Caitlin. She was herself again. Hot tears burning down her cheeks, she bared her throat. ‘Kill me now!’ she ordered. ‘I can’t control her!’

Thackeray stepped in and grabbed Mallory’s sword hand. ‘Don’t hurt her!’ he pleaded, with so much desperate love in his voice that Caitlin’s eyes grew wide with realisation.

Mallory threw Thackeray off and swung his sword towards Caitlin, her eyes now closed, the long white line of her throat ready for the killing blow. Thackeray knew he would remember that image until his dying day: Caitlin looked like a saint preparing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the greater good.

Thackeray yanked his gaze away just as Mallory’s sword made contact. Hot tears welled up in his eyes. But when they had cleared, he saw Caitlin lying on the frozen river and no blood staining the ice. A raw lump marked her temple where Mallory had struck her with the pommel.

‘Pick her up,’ Mallory barked. ‘Let’s get her back before she wakes.’

Next to the blazing fire of Mrs Damask’s lounge, Mallory hunched over Sophie, rubbing her frozen hands gently. She looked like a little girl bundled in his thick cloak. Somewhere on the journey back she had lost consciousness and he feared the worst.

But as he watched intently for the slightest muscle tremor on her face, her eyes flickered open, dark and searching, and then a small smile crept to her lips.

‘You saved me,’ she said in a weak voice. ‘My big hero.’

Mallory fought back the lump in his throat. ‘I thought you were dead. I thought … I thought I’d never see you again.’

‘You can’t get rid of me that easily.’ She was racked with a coughing fit and when it passed, a shadow briefly crossed her face before her smile returned.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, concerned.

‘When I was in T’ir n’a n’Og, I gave up something very valuable to help Caitlin. I thought I’d regret it till my dying day.’

‘And?’

‘It wasn’t important after all.’ She gently touched his cheek as she searched his face. ‘This … here … is like meeting you for the first time all over again. How many couples get the chance to experience that same first moment again, with all its power?’

Mallory had no idea what she was talking about, but it wasn’t important: she was alive; they were together. A single tear filled the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek. Mallory wiped it away; he couldn’t believe how happy she looked.

‘It wasn’t a punishment at all,’ she said softly. ‘It was a blessing.’

Hal sat in an alley just off the High Street and watched one of the numerous patrols crawl slowly by. As the spotlight in the back of the truck washed across the walls, he flattened himself into a doorway as he had done several times already. Sometimes it was a truck, occasionally a jeep or even a lone rider on horseback. Every time he had finally screwed up the courage to move on, another patrol passed, locking him in place for more long minutes.

His fingers and toes were already numb, and the lack of feeling was creeping slowly along his limbs. More snow was falling, the gale howling over the rooftops, raising whirlwinds of white along the street. Hypothermia was a constant threat; freezing to death a distinct possibility.

But the risk of getting caught was too great. In the current climate of anger, fear and suspicion, it was more than likely that some overzealous guard would save everyone the trouble of a trial. A bullet in the back of the head. A foot on the windpipe. Or simply locking him up without food or water in an unheated room. In the looming crisis, who would even care? He would simply be one less thing to worry about.

Beneath the cold was a sickness of spirit born of incomprehension. How had he become the chief and – from the way Samantha had described it – sole suspect? He hadn’t done anything that
might have hinted at his involvement. That left only one other possibility: that he was being set up. It was obvious that the Government had been a hotbed of plotting and counter-plotting in recent weeks, but he would never have suspected that any conspirator would go to such lengths. Clearly it had all been running slow and deep and dark, like the waters beneath the frozen river.

A rush of self-loathing swept through him. Why was he always so naïve, so self-obsessed, so consumed by his own petty emotions and intellectual games that he never saw the big picture?

Shouts rose above the wind: a large disturbance nearby. Afraid that he had been discovered, Hal ran to the other end of the alley only to be confronted by an iron gate topped with razor wire. His heart thundering, he huddled down, staring at the gleaming snow at the end of the alley in anticipation of a silhouette, the shadow of a gun, a barked order.

His attention was caught by a trail of golden light high overhead, seen briefly and then lost in the swirling snow. Slowly, a figure descended from the dark and the snowstorm. It was Petronus, the boy who was not a boy, still wearing his floppy nightcap mask and his romper-suit outfit. His hands were clasped nonchalantly behind his back and his feet crossed as he floated down.

‘Brother of Dragons, why do you wait here in the cold and the dark?’ Petronus asked, curiously.

‘I’m hiding from the soldiers. Can you help me?’ Hal said.

Petronus held out his hands. ‘How can I refuse such a request after you saved the life of my companion? What do you require?’

‘A diversion. Can you swoop around the patrols so they’re distracted enough for me to slip by?’

Petronus nodded slowly, and under his mask Hal had the impression that he was smiling.

‘But you must run fast, Brother of Dragons,’ Petronus cautioned. ‘Battle is about to be joined. The city is surrounded and soon it will be overrun.’

The news came as a shock, but Hal could only deal with one obstacle at a time. Petronus bowed theatrically, then swooped to the end of the alley where he paused for a second before darting out. As soon as Hal heard the sound of gunfire, he sprinted out of the alley and across the street as fast as the snow would allow.
Keeping to the backstreets and alleys as much as he could, he arrived at Mrs Damask’s just as the sound of whinnying horses echoed across the approach route.

Hal dropped back to wait for the riders to pass, only to feel an almost overwhelming surge of relief when he saw that the first rider was Hunter. Behind him, a woman with pale skin slumped weakly in her saddle.

Hunter reined in his horse as Hal stepped out of the shadows, then jumped down in surprise to greet his friend raucously.

‘I thought you wouldn’t be coming back,’ Hal said.

‘Hal, this is me we’re talking about.’ Hunter held out his hands in a disbelieving gesture. ‘I am unstoppable.’

‘Unbearable, more like.’

‘What are you doing out in the cold at this time of night?’

Hal’s grin faded. ‘The PM’s been assassinated and they think I did it. Everyone’s looking for me.’

Laura slid from her saddle and walked up to them wearily. ‘Can we cut the male-bonding? I need to get inside to rest.’

‘I didn’t do it,’ Hal protested.

‘Course you didn’t,’ Hunter said. ‘Let’s face it, you’re the most unlikely suspect for a political assassin I can imagine.’ Hunter clapped a reassuring arm around Hal’s shoulders and nodded towards the unfamiliar woman. ‘She’s a bossy witch but she’s right – let’s get inside. Time’s running out and we’ve got a lot to do.’

As they walked to the door, Hal asked, ‘Who’s your friend?’

‘Some kind of plant. Haven’t quite decided the phylum, subphylum or class yet, but probably a distant relative of poison ivy.’

Hal gaped in incomprehension, while Laura eyed Hunter superciliously. Hunter smiled back at her. Then, as they passed through the door, Laura let it slam in Hunter’s face.

The atmosphere in Mrs Damask’s warm, fragrant lounge was subdued. Mallory, Shavi and Sophie talked intensely by the fire, while Lugh and Ceridwen pored over a map of the city at the table near the window. Sophie had already made a remarkable recovery.

When the new arrivals entered, Shavi strode quickly across the room and swept Laura into his arms with enthusiastic happiness.

‘It has been a long time, Laura,’ he said.

‘Feels like years.’ She put her head in close to his so that only he could hear. ‘I’ve missed you. I’ve missed all of us, together. We made a good team, didn’t we?’

‘We did.’

‘This new lot don’t know what they’ve got.’

‘Give them time. They need to draw closer to each other. Find their shared strengths. Overcome their weaknesses together.’

‘Time is one thing they haven’t got.’

Shavi ignored her last statement and looked to the door hopefully. ‘Where is Ruth?’

Laura shook her head gravely.