Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) (41 page)

The grey stallion galloped across the meadow amidst sweltering heat, breathing hard and leaving a trail of wispy vapour in its wake. Lucian sat erect upon the saddle, glad for the gentle wind being generated by the movement. The air was otherwise still, and stagnant.

The grass here had grown tall and the peripheral hedges of the meadow wild. A sea of rapeseed had erupted across the surrounding hillside, filling the air with a heady aroma. Dotted here and there were a few archipelagos of flowers; stars studding a carpet of yellow as uniform as the dark of space.

The lease of life was slight—any other year would have seen the grass waist-high and ablaze with colour—but it still set something resembling a smile on his lips.

He swung his gaze in a wide arc as he rode, his eyes trained first on the horizon and then the middle distance, studying every crevice for a sign of activity.

Seeing none, he focused instead upon ascending the slight rise that lay before him: an embankment of dark soil and patched grass. He encouraged his steed with precise nudges, being careful to avoid the many rabbit holes that pockmarked the incline. As he reached the summit, he pulled on the reins and ordered a halt, surveying the ground below.

A convoy of wagons, horses and city folk trudged along a small valley road nestled between the embankment and another on the far side.

Previous summits in London had seen Canterbury emptied. Today, only a few dozen lined the roadway. Some rode, the rest walked, while the elderly or tired sat atop the wagons, surrounded on all sides by piles of supplies.

Looking up from them, Lucian observed the members of the security detail lining the embankments. Half a dozen dotted the crest of either rise, standing sentinel, strung out over a mile, each on horseback. Their stillness made them invisible, unless one knew to look for them.

His attention was so focused on the convoy that he didn't notice Norman approach until his hand touched his shoulder, at which point he jerked, cursing.

Norman was seated stiffly, with a pained squint splashed across his face, holding his side.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” Lucian said, still scanning the landscape.

Norman coughed, leaning forwards, wincing. “I’m fine,” he gasped.

Lucian scowled, pointing down to the nearest wagon. “Just go and sit down, will you?”

“I didn’t come along to sit down there with my thumb up my arse.”

Lucian looked to him. “What if something happens right now?” he said. “What are you going to do?”

Norman grunted. “Everybody expects me to be the one to step up, but when I finally try to do it, I’m told to go and sit at the kid’s table.” His eyes flashed with defiance. “I’m not going down there. I’m
fine
.”

Lucian shook his head, looking back to the convoy. Many people looked sullen and frightened as they proceeded along the road. The mood was stark in contrast to the cheer that had hung over their heads not an hour before. It seemed they all sensed that something wasn’t quite right.

They had refrained from taking the dual-carriageway route as usual, fearing that if they were ambushed in the open terrain, they’d have nowhere to hide. With so many old and frail among them, they would have been defenceless, and had instead opted to take the smallest and most secluded of paths. It was safer, but would take far longer.

At the time, it had seemed the obvious choice. Now, Lucian wasn’t so sure.

In the distance, Lucian could see the distant profiles of the tallest of Canterbury’s buildings. They were still close to home. Close enough to turn back.

But if someone was watching, turning tail now would only trigger an attack.

“Think we’ll make it?” Norman said.

Lucian huffed, looking down at the decrepit elders upon the wagons. “If they were out there, we’d know it by now.” He looked out at the silent expanse, but saw only a flock of swifts swooping overhead. The meadows were barren, and the sky clear. “We’re alone out here.”

Only a further moment of silence ensued before he was proven wrong—very wrong.

A blast of brilliant orange light blinded them, sending their mounts rearing and bucking, very nearly throwing them both off. They both ducked as a deafening rumble reverberated along the valley towards them. A solid wave of heat followed soon after, striking them on the broadside and forcing their hands up to their faces.

The screams of those below reached them a moment later, tiny beneath the continued rumble, which rattled through the air in concussive blasts, surging and ebbing like great ocean waves.

Lucian yanked on his reins, red and green spots appearing before his eyes, trying to regain control. But his mount was spooked, and bucked to the very edge of the embankment before he could wrestle it back to sense.

Norman grabbed his shirt, his face invisible behind a wall of dancing spots. “What was that?” he yelled.

Lucian struck himself on the temple with the heel of his palm, trying to clear his head. “I don’t know!"

“Was it the turbines?”

Lucian rubbed his eyes as the spots dissipated. The grass of the embankment had been tinged deep red, and the sky a fierce orange. Beyond the far embankment was a monstrous fireball, reaching into the sky, as though the heavens had been set alight. A single plume of black smoke was billowing skywards, already beginning to block out the sunlight.

As the sky darkened, several more explosions erupted beside the first, forging vertical bands of fire from the ether. Ground zero was out of sight, but the rising fire itself was indicative enough of the location: the wind farm was being destroyed. If it was left to burn, their power-generating capacity would be halved. Perhaps worse. At the very least, New Canterbury could be without electricity during the night, leaving them exposed.

“Come on!” Lucian barked, yanking his reins and urging his mount forwards. Charging down the hill, he weaved between the floundering bodies of the fleeing members of the convoy, who clambered up the embankment on their hands and knees.

The security detail had gathered along the valley floor, surrounding the wagons and supplies, yelling for the others to rally to them instead of scattering.

Looking back for a moment, Lucian saw that Norman was barely past the precipice of the embankment. His face was creased into a grimace of pain, yet he too called down to the others all the same, as though he were as able-bodied as the rest.

Another blistering explosion rang out in the distance, eliciting another bout of screams from those fleeing in terror.

Through the mass of writhing bodies Lucian spotted Alexander, riding atop his white steed, bellowing over the din of the explosions and roaring fires, “Everybody to me!
TO ME!
”

His voice brought some back from the brink of panic. Stopping in their tracks, they about-faced, the gravitas of the situation hitting home. They wheeled to their leader, infected with sudden purpose.

“We’re under attack,” John DeGray cried from the back of the farthest wagon. “We have to get out of the valley. We’re trapped down here—trapped on lower ground.”

“It’s the turbines!” Norman called from afar, still twenty feet from the main body of the convoy.

Alex looked pained. “It very well may be,” he said. “But if it is, they may not know that we’re here.”

Lucian felt incredulity blossom on his face. “They decide to take out our power just as we leave?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Alex said. “Either way, we have to leave now.”

Lucian wheeled to the far embankment. “Okay, everybody,” he called. “We have to get back home as soon as possible.”

Alex jumped in before he could say any more, cutting across him, “No! We can’t go back.”

Lucian whined, “
What?
”

“It’d be dark by the time we could get back, and then what would we do? We can’t get across the river without the lights.”

“So what then? Just keep going?”

Alex looked at the angry faces surrounding him. All members of the convoy had now gathered around the wagons. “We need to press on to London, and go from there. If we go back then we’ll be vulnerable.”

Norman finally reached them, his face pale and perspiring. “What about the city?” he gasped.

“They’ll be fine for one night,” Alex said. “They have plenty of people standing guard—to mount a defence, if need be. There aren’t enough of us to warrant turning around. We’d probably do more harm than good.”

Lucian shook his head, adamant. “No. I’m going back.”

Alex started in distress, but Lucian turned away before he could utter a word. “Who’s coming with me?” he called.

There was a brief silence, and then a dozen calls of affirmation rang out.

“I’m coming too,” Norman said.

Lucian turned to him, shaking his head. “No.” He looked around at the cowering members of the convoy, to Alexander’s fuming face, and then back to him. “They need you here.”

“What about everybody else?”

Lucian pulled his reins and steered his mount towards the far embankment. “Like you said: They may not even know we’re here.”

He gave his stallion a vicious kick, and together they charged up the hill, followed by a dozen members of the security detail, leaving the others behind. He looked over his shoulder as they neared the summit, and yelled, “We’ll catch up to you.”

Not far from the site of the blast, Charlie stood atop the hillside above New Canterbury, beneath the shadow of the tree line, silent beside two stoic companions. High above the convoy that had been snaking away from the city for the last few hours, they each looked out across the meadow at the distant embankments, watching the pandemonium.

They had waited here for days. By now their supplies were low, and their water all but exhausted. A small camp lay behind them in the undergrowth, but the fire had been stamped out hours ago to keep them hidden.

Despite his companions’ assurances, he’d begun to suspect that the rats would never leave their hole.

But now, at last, their quarry had arrived. And he could watch his very own private light show without fear of being spotted.

He turned to the pair beside him. “I’m sorry I doubted you,” he said.

As he spoke, yet another explosion ripped across the hillside complex that housed the Old World Power Mills.

The older of the two grunted, His face obscured by a balaclava. He only offered his eyes to the outside world, diamond-hard and unblinking. He was focused on the group of distant specks upon the horizon, which now moved away along the valley, disappearing from view.

Charlie stepped forward. He still had a heavy limp, but had grown numb to the pain. In any case, he wasn’t going to miss this on account of a gammy leg. “What do we do now?” he said.

The masked man stood for a while in silence before answering. “We do nothing. Just follow them. For now.”

Charlie growled. “But they’re defenceless!” he cried. Sudden panic set in, sending his pulse racing. He couldn’t have his prize snatched from under his nose now. They were so close. It wasn’t
fair
.

The remaining man, short in stature, wielding a huge knife, struck Charlie across the back of the head. “Watch your tongue,” Jason muttered, picking the underside of his fingernails with the tip of the monstrous blade. “That’s not part of the plan.”

Charlie started forward. “You said they’d bleed. You promised!” he cried.

The masked man observed them both coldly. “Patience,” he said.