The steady hoof-beats drew nearer. It was the sound of a rider taking his time, surveying the area. From around a sharp bend came a shape darker than the surrounding shadows. Church held his breath as it approached the first circle of torchlight.
The horse appeared first, a strong black stallion liveried in black leather, but with armour on its head and around its eyes, though much of it was crusted with brown rust. The rider too was swathed in black. A sodden cloak hung like bat-wings, and beneath it was a long black tunic, though it was so terribly tattered it appeared to have been stitched together from rags. Underneath that, Church could just glimpse dull flashes of armour, all of it rusted. The cowl of the cloak was pulled low over the rider’s head to keep off the driving rain.
Though he did not know why, Church buried himself in the depths of the porch next to Jerzy’s now-trembling body.
When the rider was just a few feet away, he reined in his mount so that both man and beast were stock still, listening, smelling, sensing.
He wants me, Church thought. He can feel the Pendragon Spirit in the same way I can feel whatever drives him.
And then the rider looked in Church’s direction and it felt as if the world was falling away.
It was Etain, her dead, mouldering face accusing him of betrayal. Her eyes burned across the gulf between them, and they spoke of a deep, abiding hatred that even the grave could not soothe.
Church stumbled away from that chilling gaze before she saw him, but she was already urging her horse gently towards the porch. From beneath her cloak she slowly drew a rusty sword that made a grinding noise as it rasped from the scabbard.
Church had no weapon with which to defend himself, but how could he oppose her anyway when deep down he believed she was right to hunt him for vengeance?
Thunder boomed and forked lightning threw the street into stark relief. Church’s heart jumped along with it. He might get a little way down the street before Etain ran him down and took off his head with that rusty sword. He might even get a little further, but he knew from what he saw in her face that she would never relent, however far or fast he ran. Sooner or later he would feel the cutting edge of her revenge.
Fear was mounting in Jerzy, too. His grin now looked sick and horrified beneath his terrified eyes, and he clutched Church’s shirt pleadingly. Looking around, Church’s gaze lighted on a possible escape route.
‘Follow me. Keep low,’ he whispered into Jerzy’s ear. Church saw the Mocker silently put all his trust in him, just as Etain and the others had done.
Church bounded into the pouring rain. The horse reacted with a feral hiss, raising its head and baring its teeth with a viciousness uncharacteristic in horses. Etain’s sword ripped fully from its scabbard and sliced through the air. Church ducked low and kept running as the sword whisked mere inches above his head. Behind him, Jerzy shrieked like a little girl.
Church had to fight to keep his footing on the wet, slippery cobbles. He splashed through a puddle almost as wide as the street and propelled himself upwards to grab a wrought-iron mounting supporting a creaking sign that read ‘Hardwick Chalmers, Candlemaker’. The mounting was ornate enough for Church to find a handhold and he pulled himself up using the wall for traction. In a second or two, he had hauled himself onto a small slate roof over the candlemaker’s main window. He could hear Jerzy whimpering and scratching below; he had failed to gain purchase. Church leaned down, grabbed his hand and dragged him up just as Etain spurred her steed towards them. Jerzy’s feet kicked the air just above her head. The roof groaned and threatened to collapse as he crashed onto it.
‘We can’t stay here!’ the Mocker cried.
‘No. We climb.’ Church indicated a path up using window ledge, shutter and a network of rooves on various overhanging annexes that at the second storey were barely a man’s width apart.
Jerzy whimpered again. Church’s gaze was drawn to Etain, who had thrown off her hood. Her sleek black hair was plastered against her head, and there was a hint of lividity around her jaw and lips. Her eyes were utterly black, radiating malice.
Church tore his gaze away and jumped to a window sill across the way. His feet skidded off the wet wood, forcing him to grab onto a banging shutter for dear life.
Jerzy grabbed the other shutter. ‘Oh no! I will fall! I will die!’ he cried into the storm.
‘Just keep climbing!’ Church shouted. ‘We’ll get away over the rooftops.’
‘If we are not struck by lightning or blown off by the gales!’ On cue, more lightning flashed and earthed overhead and Jerzy released a terrified howl.
With the rain lashing down like stones, scaling the buildings was slow and perilous. Fingers gripped guttering that threatened to tear out of its fixings, and boots slipped on tiles made glass. The wind channelled between the buildings in savage gusts that plucked at Church and Jerzy when they were at their most precarious. They scrambled and slithered, knocked elbows and knees, became soaked to the skin, every second fearing they were about to fall.
And then, miraculously, they were at the summit. Rooftops stretched out all around, baked-orange tiles, dark-blue slate, sodden wooden planks, punctuated here and there by spires and domes, towers and cupolas on the gothic upper storeys of the larger buildings. The lightning illuminated the scene, a welcome relief after the gloom of ground level. But the wind was stronger up there and the rain was like bullets of ice.
Jerzy pointed to a hulking structure of stone, gold and glass with monolithic walls, ramparts and turrets. ‘The Palace of Glorious Light,’ he shouted.
Movement in the gulf between two rooftops caught Church’s eye. He expected to see water streaming from a gutter, or lightning shimmering off a window pane. Instead he saw a sight that rooted him in its nightmarish intensity.
The horse was coming up the sheer side of the building, negotiating eaves and overhangs as if it were on the level. Sometimes it would flatten itself, almost crawling like some giant insect. Etain remained mounted on its back, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on her prey. Church could read the bitter betrayal in them with each flash of lightning.
Jerzy’s fingers bit into Church’s shoulder. ‘She wants our death. Who is she? Do you know her?’
Church didn’t answer. He realized that their only possible escape route was across the rooftops to the palace, a journey of lethal inclines and vertiginous chasms.
He grabbed Jerzy by the shoulders to squeeze the paralysing fear from him. ‘She’ll kill us if she catches us. And that’s why you’ve got to stay with me. Move as fast you can. We can help each other.’
The words proved true within minutes. Jerzy grabbed the back of Church’s shirt to prevent him from sliding backwards down a steeply pitched roof. Church spread himself out like a starfish to gain some traction, but the rain was running so hard it felt as if he was lying on the bed of a stream. Somehow he made his way back up the pitch of the roof and clutched a leaning chimney stack for support. Propelling himself down the other incline, he let the momentum carry him across the next street.
Jerzy kept pace, running and leaping with all the supple strength of a professional tumbler. Church’s muscles burned with every jump, and as his exhaustion increased the chance of making a fatal misstep grew.
At one point the lightning struck so close it demolished a chimney stack mere yards away. Burning brick and blackened shards of pot flew like missiles. Church and Jerzy dived for cover, their momentum almost taking them into a hidden gulf between buildings.
Church made the mistake of looking back. Etain guided her horse eerily over the rooftops, never faltering, never deviating from its relentless path. Yet whatever its supernatural abilities, it was clear the horse could not ride at speed in such precarious circumstances.