The White Wolf's Son (40 page)

We were a long way down before I heard a hint of voices above. They came closer. Men were shouting over the menacing noise
of growling dogs. At last we hit fresh air, so cold it made us gasp and shiver. We stood on cobblestones. High overhead were
the restless clouds which sat forever above the towers of Londra. Before us was a maze of little alleys, some of them blocked
with rusted, rotting bars which were easily pushed down.

Jack stood there shivering, wrapped in rags, listening and staring around with his unseeing eyes while I kicked in several
different grates, on the basis that if we were followed we didn’t want to give them an easy clue to the way we had gone. Those
dogs sounded businesslike.

I grabbed Jack by the hand again and pulled him through the nearest alley, imagining I could already smell the river. But
the maze was endless, twisting back and forth on itself, even though the river, surely the Thames, was only a few yards away
some of the time! Every so often I heard distant explosions and saw whole squadrons of big, old-fashioned ornithopters lumbering
through the air.

Dimly I realized that a battle was taking place somewhere, though not directly over us. Jack’s ears were superb. He heard
the different notes of engines and described air fights he thought must be happening over on what he called “the Surrey side”
of the river, the South Bank. Were the Dark Empire clans breaking up under threat? Fighting among themselves? Were we witnessing
the opening engagements in a civil war?

The Empire must have been rotten through and through to have collapsed so thoroughly. Or had it always
been stretched too thin, its power maintained by illusion, its victims too used to its dominance to realize their own numerical
strength?

We finally reached a small cut in the river, where a couple of old, filthy rowboats were tethered. Everything looked as if
it hadn’t been used in years, and the Thames was dirtier than I had ever known it, with bits of nasty-looking debris floating
in it. The water, reflecting lights and far-off explosions, was a murky crimson.

As I pulled Jack onto a slippery little jetty a shadow rose from one of the skiffs. Our black panther! Now I knew which boat
to use. “Good girl,” I whispered, rubbing her broad head as we climbed in with her. She looked expectantly towards the far
bank. Maybe from there we could make our way to the coast, in the hope that Dorian Hawkmoon’s army had already invaded.

It was not something I knew much about, but Jack couldn’t believe it, either. “What did my sister say about a crystal helping
them?”

“That’s all she
did
say. What is the crystal, anyway?”

“I only know what I overheard Klosterheim and Gaynor saying. There’s some sort of crystal shard which allows you to move yourself
and sometimes whole chunks of real estate through the dimensions. What purpose that has, I don’t know. Most of these people
don’t seem to need a crystal to get from one world to another. Maybe it’s what allows you to bring something enormous through
with you. Like an army. You know, not just yourself but tanks and planes or houses or something.”

I could see how it would help Hawkmoon’s cause, at least in minor ways, to own such a device. With my grandmother almost certainly
killed or captured, I should be grateful for any advantage. If we could keep out of
their hands for a while, maybe Hawkmoon would save us. Gingerly I tested the rowboat, bouncing the end of an oar in the bottom
to see if it was still riverworthy. The panther moved to the prow.

The boat was sounder than I had any right to expect. All those years rowing on Grasmere were at last proving useful. I helped
Jack sit down, put the oars into the rowlocks and maneuvered slowly down the cut, which was thick with filthy, smelly flotsam
and jetsam, steering us in the shadow of a long wooden jetty. The stink of the river made me feel sick.

Jack sat holding the tiller ropes, tugging them left or right at my command, so we got out fairly easily. I rowed under a
series of jetties, making as little noise as possible. It grew pitch black quite quickly, except for the sky, illuminated
by the flickering red glow from the Surrey bank, the occasional spurt of flame or a gouting explosion. The sky was thick with
flocks of flying machines, their metal wings clashing, their clawed landing gear stretched out as if they stooped on their
prey, but we saw no direct fighting. I had the impression the battle order had changed. Perhaps Hawkmoon’s people were being
forced back as the Empire rallied its strength.

Eventually I judged it safe to push out into midwater and attempt a crossing. A horrible fog was rising, but I had spotted
a potential landing place under cover of the jetties on the other side. As I crossed, the river would carry me down, and with
luck I would wind up where I wanted to be. We were nearing the opposite bank when suddenly a white, brilliant light illuminated
the whole scene. I thought we would be spotted for certain, but nobody shot at us.

We landed and went ashore, scrambling to a low, narrow
landing platform, up some steps to the main jetty, the panther leading and me pushing Jack as he groped for handholds. A narrow
lane ran between two sets of tall warehouses, which looked as if they had fallen against one another and were now offering
mutual support, like old drunks.

And then the panther vanished again! All around us were chimneys and factories, just like in Mirenburg, and if anything, the
stench was worse. We moved between rotting tenements, where not one person gave us a second glance. We were still bundled
in our rags and looked just like everyone else on this side. This must be where they kept the drones of the Dark Empire anthill,
without masks and, by the look of them, without hope.

I led Jack deeper and deeper into the mass of wretched apartment buildings and thundering factories. His bone-white face was
turned to the sky, which still raced red, and his skin reflected the flames. His hair was the color of cream, and his eyes
were the color of blood. In the weird, sluggish, wavering light, he looked as if he were on fire. He sniffed his way through
the swaying buildings, his head cocked for any threatening sound, but he missed the danger when it eventually came.

Suddenly Jack stopped.

“Soldiers!” he hissed.

Too late. “Oh, bugger!” We turned instinctively. Behind us crept half a dozen warriors in the snarling war helms of the Order
of the Vulture, Asrovak Mikosevaar’s own legion.

I heard a stomping sound in front of me. Rounding a corner came a score of hounds bearing flame lances. They were led by the
Chevalier St. Odhran, in all his
bizarre Scottish finery. I dashed into another alley, dragging Jack, but there was no way of escape.

They seemed to have known where to capture us. St. Odhran recognized us both. We couldn’t hope to fool them. We were trapped.
At any moment we’d be back in the hands of enemies who planned to kill us in the most disgusting and painful way imaginable.

Oona
had
to be dead or captured! I had led her brother into a trap! All our efforts had brought us no advantage. I felt that I deserved
what they were going to do to me, that I had betrayed my friends in a profound way.

Jack yelled a warning.

St. Odhran put his hand out towards me.

But instead of grabbing me—he pushed!

Suddenly Jack and I were falling.

W
E FELL SLOWLY
for what seemed a mile or more. I could see Jack’s white hair standing straight up from his head, just below me as he sank
in slow motion. Once he turned, staring upwards. His blind eyes had an expression of pure pleasure.

In other circumstances I might have enjoyed the sensation, which was like riding in a hot-air balloon—a cushioned weightlessness.

It was impossible to judge the time. We could have fallen for hours. My mouth was very dry. My heart stopped pounding from
the terror of the encounter with St. Odhran. I was determined to get my nerve back.

Someone
had
to have known where we were. Had the traitor deliberately set things up so that he could push us into the pit? But who had
warned them? The panther?

I heard Jack land first. I drew a deep breath. He grunted with surprise, sprawled flat on his back. “Bugger! I was enjoying
that. What’s happening?”

I came down with a thump beside him. The ground yielded slightly, like a sponge. But it wasn’t grass. Deep moss? I got up
and helped Jack to his feet. All the stench of the city had disappeared. The air was clean, sharp, even a little bitter. I
took big gulps of it, the way a near-drowning person might. I tasted it on my tongue. After all
the horrible, suggestive smells of the city above us, this air was a welcome relief.

I still had a candle in my pocket. I decided to risk lighting it.

“That was awesome!” Jack said enthusiastically from nearby. I saw his pale skin in the fluttering yellow light. “A lot better
than the London Wheel! I wouldn’t mind doing
that
again.” He treated the experience as he had treated a ride in a theme park. He hadn’t seen St. Odhran. He didn’t even know
how profoundly we’d been betrayed. Again, it seemed churlish to spoil his moment. He wouldn’t benefit from any outburst of
mine.

I was thirsty. I thought I heard water running somewhere nearby. The candle illuminated what appeared to be a ventilation
shaft or maybe, in an earlier epoch, a goods chute for whoever lived down here. Hadn’t there been something like it in
The Time Machine?
A sort of gravity regulator. Of course, I half-hoped we had accidentally returned to the land of the kindly, courteous Off-Moo,
who would surely know how to help us. But St. Odhran wouldn’t have sent us into the arms of our allies.

I held the candle up as high as I could. There was glittering dust in the shaft. Magic? Vestiges of an older science, as Flana
and most of her kind believed? Another invention from before the Tragic Millennium? The surrounding walls were the same spongy,
pink-red rock as the floor: tough, elastic and made of no material I had ever experienced. It felt faintly damp. Its smell
was almost familiar. Fishy yet pleasant. I put my palm on the wall and brought it to my nose. What
was
that smell? Skin? Hair after you’ve washed it? Definitely something organic.

“Over there,” said Jack. “The air’s different.”

Ahead of us I saw an even smaller passage leading off to one side and poked my candle in so that I could see where it led.
It gleamed back at me, reflecting the light, but I couldn’t easily tell if it went anywhere or had been blocked off.

“I’m not sure. If we got stuck …” I began nervously.

“We won’t.” He was totally confident. Now Jack took the lead. Anything was better than just sitting around, so I followed
him. I told him to let me know if he needed my eyes, and blew out the candle, squeezing after him through the slightly yielding
rock, along a short passage until I breathed a sigh of relief as we emerged into a much larger cavern, full of thin, spiky
stalactites and stalagmites, with a rather beautiful, pastel-colored luminous fungus growing over everything, enabling me
to see quite a long way in all directions. Strangely familiar territory. Could this really be the way to Mu-Ooria? Or, in
this world, had Granbretan conquered so thoroughly that all the Middle March was theirs, too? No. The Middle March, by its
definition, was common territory to all. Once there, we’d be free.

I described it to Jack, and he nodded. “I’ve been somewhere like it, I think. God, doesn’t it smell clean after that horrible
crap?”

I felt we needed something more than “clean” to reassure us, since St. Odhran had deliberately pushed us down here and I couldn’t
see a friendly, elongated Off-Moo face anywhere. We appeared to be on our own.

“Have we lost ‘em?” asked Jack.

“I doubt it,” I told him. St. Odhran had surely known what he was pushing us into. Where exactly were we?

I took Jack’s hand. The floor of the cavern was unusually smooth. An underground river had once run this
course. As my eyes became used to the soft glow I saw the walls of the cavern rising in a sequence of terraces and ledges.
The cavern was a natural amphitheater, with the terraces forming seats and walkways. The perfect place for a bit of human
sacrifice. The Dark Empire had certainly been here. Many of the outcrops of limestone were carved in their typical designs,
of animal faces and grotesque, bestial figures, only partially human. I was surrounded by an audience of gargoyles, their
stone eyes glaring, their stone lips curled in cruel, triumphant sneers. I could hardly believe we hadn’t been deliberately
lured into a trap.

My hand tightening on Jack’s must have alerted him. He turned his sightless eyes on me. “What’s up? I can’t hear anyone.”

“We’re still in Empire territory,” I told him. “And I have a horrible feeling this is where they’ve wanted us all along. It’s
some sort of theater or ceremonial temple.” I didn’t speculate further for him.

“Are we the first act on?” He was trying to make light of the situation, with the dawning understanding that we might not
get clear. “Or are we the grand finale?”

“They want our blood, remember? Mumbo jumbo, but that doesn’t make it any better for us!”

“Well, if it’s only a pint or two, they’re welcome to mine. Let’s get the transfusion over and go home. I fancy a nice big
plate of Dover sole and chips. How about you?” Jack had become unnaturally amiable.

It wasn’t really in my nature to make jolly quips as the great big saw drew nearer and nearer, but I could not be irritated
with him. I knew why he was doing it. I was pretty nervous, too. I thought that our only hope of getting out of this cavern
alive was to leave at once, before
the people chasing us realized we were down here. Again, as we made our way along that ancient riverbed, I was impressed.
These images, corrupted and warped as they were, reminded me of what I had seen when we had gone with my parents and grandparents
on our trip to Egypt. Strangely, I wondered if we were on the inside of a pyramid. The walls did slope slightly inward as
they disappeared out of sight into the gloom above. Heads of birds and fish, reptiles and mammals, stared down. But they lacked
that peculiar integrity which you found in Egypt. Perhaps they had derived their ideas from a more barbaric source. History
and the human imagination being what they were, maybe they’d come up with it all themselves, developing it out of the football
tribes, as I mentioned before, who had once ranged urban England and the Continent, looking for trouble.