Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) (7 page)

Still, Alexander said nothing, and watched while Lucian paced and ranted, waiting for the storm to quell itself.

Eventually, Lucian stood still again, and they were staring into each other’s eyes.

“What do we do?” Lucian said.

Alex exhaled through his teeth and looked away, along the road, to where Norman had been not long before. “I don’t know,” he said.

Donald Peyton kicked at the horse’s ribs, urging it on. As they accelerated, the icy rain bit at his skin without mercy, driving numb fingers closer to coming out in chilblains. Sheer panic kept him moving, but for the last mile he’d been on the brink of falling into a senseless stupor.

When lightning flashed, the valley below was cast alight. Gnarled branches devoid of leaves loomed and clawed at the air above his head. The remains of a winding road cut across the land, stretching away into the unknown.

Somewhere behind the roar of the storm, a distant rumble stirred on the brink of audibility. To Don’s ears, however, it was a deafening racket, dangerously close. Whenever it punctured the din of the tempest, he mercilessly beat at the horse’s sides. The road ahead straightened, allowing him to chance glancing over his shoulder.

All he saw was the tarmac, shimmering behind a curtain of rain.

He pushed on, navigating the winding road, allowing his instincts to guide him. The horse was reluctant and exhausted, but yielded under his beatings.

After ten minutes he could see through the trees ahead, to where the Celtic Sea surged back and forth beneath wicked, black clouds. The beginnings of dawn were afoot, casting the water in an ugly grey hue. The waves slammed against the crumbled sea wall, spraying the remains of County Cork’s most south-western barony—the name of which had slipped from the world’s memory—with chunks of rusted detritus.

Don raced parallel to the sea for what seemed like an age, but couldn’t have been more than a further five minutes. The sea wall was soon left behind and the land buckled into the shape of what had been the harbour. Innumerable yachts and motorboats had once been moored, but now in the churning water only the tattered remnants of as many masts bobbed in their place, bearing fabric torn and limp.

Don peered into the maritime mausoleum and picked out his destination: a tiny rowboat bobbing along the jetty like a twig in a puddle—a violent, turbulent puddle. The rumble grew louder and niggled at the back of his head until he could no longer resist the unbearable urge to glance over his shoulder once more. Again, all he saw was rain-soaked tarmac.

But in his mind’s eye he saw the assortment of orange lights that had hung between the trees like fireflies, before the storm had descended and limited his view. They had remained in pursuit for mile after mile, defying his efforts to escape them. He was sure that as soon as he stopped, they would regain the ground he’d won, but for now they were only ghosts of the mind and a rumble in the night.

He left the trees behind and descended into the ruins of Schull, clad in shadow under the moonlight. The horse’s hooves clattered on uneven cobbled streets and Don was forced to grip the reins tighter to maintain control. He passed by abandoned houses and shops, sending fleeting glances into darkened alleyways.

Then the cobbles gave way to the water’s edge, and he was riding out along the jetty, towards the rowboat. A single figure popped up from within and disrupted its black silhouette. The figure didn’t move an inch until he was directly beside it. He disengaged himself from the steaming mount and worked his arms until the faintest sliver of feeling returned to his frozen, claw-like hands. Grunting, he rubbed them against his chest until they prickled with the heat of fresh blood.

The figure rose from the rowboat and stepped onto the jetty. In the midst of the harbour, the footsteps of the old man were audible in every crevice, cellar and attic, even over the crash of the storm. But, just as was so everywhere else, there was nobody left to hear them. He crept up to the shuddering steed and took the reins, pulling its head close and whispering calming words into its ear.

Don fought the urge to let his knees buckle and gripped the stirrups for a time, watching the old man soothe the exhausted mount. Schull’s withered ruin sat quietly beneath the looming hulk of Mount Gabriel, but he kept it within his peripheral vision, wary of its many shadows.

“You were gone a long time,” the old man said.

Don tried to answer, but his lips had become an exotic form of rubber. He shuddered and stamped along the concrete until his feet were burning in his boots and he felt enough strength to answer. “I had trouble.”

The old man didn't break the horse’s dull stare. “What kind of trouble?”

“They came for our things. The house was raided by the time I got back.”

“What was left, we didn’t need.”

“I know. I just told them what I wanted. But one of them already had the locket.”

“And?”

“He wouldn’t hear me.”

“Did you tell them who you were?”

“They weren’t interested. They knew we weren’t coming back. They must’ve been watching us pack up for days.”

“You shouldn’t have gone alone. People never respect a man on his own.”

“I had to. There wasn’t time.”

“You should have said something. I had to wake up to find you gone. I had to look after Billy. What would I have done if you hadn’t come back?”

Don fumed. “I had to get it,” he said. He touched the locket, now hanging from his neck, and his gaze fell to the ground. “It’s all I have left of Miranda’s.”

The old man abandoned his testiness, and was quiet until Don raised his head once more. “I know,” he said. “You were saying?”

“They were taking it all,” Don began. He made to say more, but hesitated.

The old man caught his eye. “What happened?”

“They thought I was there to do the same, so they got rough. I tried to make them see sense, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“And?”

Don could meet his gaze no longer, and instead addressed the jetty as he said, “Dad, I killed one of them.”

The old man’s mouth drew into a sharp line, but he continued to caress the horse’s mane. After a while he gave the tiniest of nods.

Don knew he would get no more. “I grabbed for the locket, but he wouldn’t let go.” He paced, grunting. “Argh…we fell, and it was dark. I picked up the first thing I could lay my hands on and beat him over the head with it, and…it was your old claw hammer. I killed him,” he murmured, uttering the last words in a harsh voice unlike his own.

“You did what you had to do.”

“I killed a man.”

The old man seized his arm. Don stared down into his sunken face and was subjected to the ravages of his frank, searching eyes. “Yes, you killed a man,” he said. “Smashed his head in, no doubt. And then what?”

Don swallowed. “And then I ran. I took the locket and ran.”

The old man nodded impatiently. “Yes, you ran. And
then
?”

“They followed me across our fields and through the forest. But I think I lost them.”

“You think.” Two words, only two, but more than enough to make Don’s heart skip a beat.

The old man searched his face. Then he said, “Get in the boat. We can’t be seen in the harbour.”

Don moved closer to him. “I lost them, I swear.”

“Get in the boat.”

Don glanced back at the village a final time—and then he saw them. The distant orange glow turned his chest to ice and sent his knees shaking. He made to alert the old man, but he’d already noticed, and was in the process of loosening the boat’s tether, his ancient hands a blur.

“They followed me. I shouldn’t have come back!”

“Be quiet now,” the old man hissed.

The orange lights were in the lower parts of the port, bringing the dead buildings to life, shining ghostly light through long-weathered glass. The rain was thinning as dawn approached. The storm was moving up the coast, leaving the harbour in relative silence. The rumble that had plagued Don in the forest had once again become audible, and was growing louder by the second.

Don sat in the boat and laid the oars over his lap, flexing his arms for a last time. He rubbed them until his tingling skin screamed in protest before taking hold of the oars again, preparing to push off from the jetty.

And then he paused, eyes bulging from their sockets. The dull pain that had persisted in his chest for the last few weeks—which he’d forgotten all about during the night’s chaos—suddenly pulsed, sending daggers shooting along his throat.

No,
he thought.
Not now. Please not now!

But despite his efforts to stifle the ugly sensation, a guttural groan forced its way up from his lungs. He doubled over as a deafening cough flew from his mouth. The racket echoed across the harbour, followed by a rapid succession of gags and cries. He tried to stop the flow of spittle as it fell from his lips, tinged with darker shades of blood, but his lungs were doing their best to rid themselves of any residual air.

“Be silent!” the old man said.

Don tried to answer, but his body had no intention of allowing it. He dropped the oars, his vision blurred by tears as unbearable pain wracked his body.

A shrill cry issued from the awning in the stern, young, feminine and frightened. “
Daddy!
” The flap jostled as its occupant shifted within.

Don whirled, gagging, and flapped his hand at the old man.

Billy couldn’t see him like this. She couldn’t see how close they were to oblivion.

The old man rushed to the awning’s opening. “No, no, Billy! Stay there. Stay hidden. No matter what, you stay under there.”

“Grandpa, I—”

“You stay there!”

A whimper filled the air, but the jostling ceased.

The coughing subsided after half a minute. By then Don was on the floor beside the abandoned oars, taking great gasps of the fetid blanket of air surrounding the rowboat’s hull. The old man said nothing more. After a while Don had caught his breath and sat up. Rubbing his chest, he waited for his breathing to settle, and blinked tears from his eyes.

The coughing fits had been getting worse, but that had been the worst yet. He suppressed a distant pang of fear and forced himself to focus.

He struggled over to the stern and steadied the tarpaulin draped over it, checking the lashings and tightening the knots until he was certain it wouldn’t collapse in the high winds blowing in off the North Atlantic.

“Daddy,” Billy whispered from within. Through a crack in the tarp, a pair of owlish eyes peered out at him, ocean-blue, watery, and afraid. “Daddy, what’s happening?”

“Quiet,” he hissed. “We’re leaving. Stay hidden, now. Stay safe.”

The old man whispered a few final words to the exhausted horse before leading it a small distance down the jetty and slapping its hindquarters. It gave a startled huff and shuffled away, towards the orange lights. It wasn’t long before it disappeared into the town, no doubt in search of food and rest. The old man’s shoulders slumped at its loss.

The orange glow now permeated the village, and Don all but pulled the old man into the boat. He threw the loosened tether into the bow and thrust them from the jetty with a great heave, ignoring the pain that still wracked his lungs. Then they were rolling on the calm waters of the harbour, and he fixed the oars in place moments before giving his first, smooth stroke. It was hard going, and his muscles trembled against the drag, but the second was easier. By the third, they were moving.

But he had set off before the old man could get into position. Without his aid, the rowboat wandered off course until it was dangerously close to the mast of a sunken yacht. Don winced, but then the old man sprang into action, displaying an agility that Don had thought lost to him for many years. Together, they steered around the ragged shadow of the wreck.

The orange lights were a single street from the jetty. They would be upon the water within the minute, and the rowboat would be spotted immediately.

They made slow progress through the water. Don and the old man divided their time between weaving between wrecks and casting terrified glances over their shoulders, still buffeted by the last of the rain and ice-cold gales.

They reached clear waters just as the orange lights reached the jetty. Don rowed with such force that his shoulders shuddered under the strain, and the rowboat jumped to a greater pace—but they were still only twenty metres from the water’s edge.

Dozens of figures on horseback rushed out along the jetty, lanterns held high, hollering and shouting. Hooves roared upon the rickety planks, which squealed under their combined bulk. Axes, knives and hatchets filled the air above their heads, but Don was eternally relieved to see no guns. They kept up their galloping advance until they reached the very edge of the jetty, where they yanked on their reins and piled up, row upon row, until the mounts in front were in danger of being pushed into the freezing water.

“Daddy, what’s happening? Who’s there?” Billy whimpered.

“Stay down, Billy,” Don wheezed. There wasn’t a rifle to be seen, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have bows. “Get as low as you can, make yourself into a ball. Don’t move!”