A Quantum Mythology (49 page)

Bress glanced over at her as they brought their horses to a halt a little way in front of Bladud and his assembled warriors. Bladud put his hood down.

‘I am Bladud of the Brigantes. I would say well met, but …’

Bress just looked bored. Nerthach’s face started to turn red, furious at the rudeness. The big warrior’s hand went to the hilt of his sheathed longsword.

‘Are you afraid to say your name?’ Bladud asked. If the Witch King was angry, he was masking it well.

Bress turned to look at the black-robed man. ‘I am here because Britha would see you spared, nothing more. Let’s get on with this, or I will ride your people down right now.’

Nerthach’s sword was half out of its sheath.

‘Enough!’ Britha shouted in the voice that brooked no argument. She might have been with the enemy, but Nerthach and the other Brigante warriors at least had enough respect for the
dryw
to hesitate. Britha glared at Bress. ‘There may well be bloodshed this day, but you will treat these people with respect. Some of them did, after all, defeat your forces on the Isle of Madness and escape from the wicker man!’ Her anger was not entirely for show.

Bress watched her for what felt like a long time. Finally he appeared to come to a decision and turned his attention to Bladud once more.

‘I had heard of power. So far all I have seen is arrogance and rudeness,’ Bladud said mildly.

‘I am Bress of the Lochlannach,’ he told Bladud, ‘and whatever you feel is due to you, remember that you are not my equal. Will you let us pass?’

‘I mislike looking up at a man,’ Bladud said. ‘It hurts my neck.’

Bress glanced over at Britha. She could tell he was irritated. He climbed off the back of his white horse and strode through the mud to stand in front of Bladud. The Witch King was not a small man, but Bress towered over him. He was of a height with Borth the Tall, though much thinner.

‘You still find yourself looking up at me,’ Bress said quietly.

‘Aye, but you look like you’ll snap in the first strong wind,’ Nerthach said. There was laughter from the other Brigante warriors. Bress glared at the one-eyed warrior. Nerthach held his stare.

‘Where are his scars?’ Eithne asked. ‘His smooth skin makes him look sword-shy.’

Britha shook her head. Eithne stared at the other woman and spat.

‘I am no warrior because I prefer to give scars, rather than receive them?’ Bress asked, glancing at Eithne’s disfigured face. He looked up at Britha. ‘How long would you have me tolerate this? These people are no match for us. They know that and would fight with words before they will draw iron.’

Britha caught Nerthach looking at Bladud, but the Witch King shook his head.

‘Will you let us p—’ Britha began.

The small figure darted out of the woods and leaped at Bress. Britha was already sliding off the back of her horse but none of the Lochlannach moved. Bress merely reached out his hand and caught Mabon in mid-air, by the throat. Mabon’s eyes bulged out of their sockets, but the boy still tried to stab down with his dagger.

‘No!’ It was the Trinovantes woman, Anharad, who cried out.

Bress slapped the dagger out of the boy’s hand. His long fingers were wrapped all the way around the boy’s neck as he squeezed the life out of him.

Anharad ran to Bress. ‘When the black
curraghs
came, his mother, father and two older brothers died fighting you. His sister wasn’t strong enough. She died in our arms in the wicker man …’ Tears covered her face. It was obvious to Britha that this was a woman unaccustomed to begging.

‘Do you believe he will be with them soon?’ Bress asked.

The warriors surrounding Bladud were surging forward. Britha moved between Bress and the warriors, mostly to keep them alive. The Lochlannach still had not moved. They sat on their steeds, impassive.

‘What treachery is this?’ Britha shouted at them. The warriors stopped moving forwards. They were not quite ready to defy a
dryw
, not even a hated one.

‘Enough!’ Bladud shouted at the warriors before turning to Britha. ‘He is but a child!’

‘He is but a child wielding iron!’ Britha shouted back, glancing behind her. She needed to get Bladud to stop his people, to prevent Bress from massacring them. Then she would try to save Mabon. The warriors were still edging forwards, weapons at the ready. Bladud stepped in front of them and drew a line in the mud.

‘Nerthach, to me!’ Bladud shouted. There was a moment of indecision on the big warrior’s face as he glanced at Bress, who was still strangling Mabon, but he went to his king’s side. ‘Any who cross this line, who defy me, will be killed, their blood forever cursed!’

He behaves like a dryw when it suits him
, Britha thought as she turned back to Bress. She could still hear Anharad’s pleading. She had been surprised to see Germelqart surge forwards with the warriors, a skull-topped club in his hands.

‘Bress, release him!’ Britha told him. The boy was limp now, his feet still dangling above the ground.

Bress looked at her. ‘You do not command me.’

‘Would you serve the one who does in this matter?’ she demanded.

Bress dropped the boy into the mud at his feet and stepped back. Anharad fell into the mud next to her grandson, cradling him. Britha slid into the mud next to her. Bladud was there a moment later.

‘Unless you are an excellent healer, stay out of my way,’ Britha snapped. She knew that the boy was either dead, or not. If Bress had already crushed the breath out of him, there would be nothing any of them could do for him. She examined his neck. Looked in his mouth, down his throat. ‘Hold him still!’ She watched his chest and then listened to it. ‘He still breathes,’ Britha announced. She looked at Anharad. They stood up, the Trinovantes woman carrying Mabon. She gave Bress a look of absolute hatred and then took her grandson into the trees.

‘Are we done with this farce?’ Bress asked.

Britha glared at him and then faced Bladud. ‘May we pass?’

Bladud was trying to rub the mud off of his hands. ‘Do you know what awaits you south of here?’ the Witch King asked.

‘I have walked with them,’ said Britha. ‘They were once my brothers and sisters.’ Bladud stopped rubbing his hands and stared at her. Britha knew he was trying to work out if she was lying or not.

‘That is a bold boast,’ he said, cautiously.

‘Watch your tongue, Witch King,’ Britha told him evenly. She heard Eithne spit again.

‘Are you a friend of monsters, then?’ he asked.

‘Speak plainly,’ Britha told him.

‘I would deal with the enemy at my back first, then the enemy at my front.’

‘An alliance?’

‘A temporary truce.’ There were angry mutterings from the assembled warriors. ‘Nothing’s forgotten. Bress will answer for his crimes in time.’

Britha glanced behind her at Bress, who was standing in front of their horses. He shook his head. She knew that Bladud’s people – particularly the refugees – were of no use to Bress.

‘No,’ she told Bladud.

‘Surely we share an enemy?’ Bladud asked, leaning forward on his staff. This was the first time his mask had slipped. Britha wasn’t sure if his agitation was fear or anger.

‘May we pass?’ Britha asked.

Bladud straightened up again, regarding Britha carefully. ‘A challenge – your champion against mine. If you win, then you may pass.’

Britha couldn’t believe the stupidity of the suggestion, particularly from such a seemingly shrewd man.

‘They are from the Otherworld. They have incredible magics at their hands. Nobody has been able to stand against them,’ Britha told him in exasperation.

‘They raided, used surprise, often attacked farms and villages where there were few, if any, warriors present. They ran when the warriors came looking for them,’ Borth the Tall said. There were muttered agreements from the surrounding warriors. She saw Nerthach nodding. She couldn’t read the expression on Bladud’s face.

‘They weren’t running,’ Britha spat, angry at their warrior idiocy. ‘They killed any in their path. Those are stories told by warriors to justify their failure.’

‘Even from a
dryw
we do not have to suffer such insults!’ Eithne shouted. ‘Assuming you are still a
dryw
!’

The Iceni warrior’s words stabbed home closer than Britha would have cared to admit. ‘Fine!’ Britha spat. ‘Which one of your people are you going to kill?’

Nerthach started to step forwards but Bladud put a hand on his chest. The look of betrayal was written all over Nerthach’s face. He stared at Bladud, appalled.

‘Borth, would you be prepared to fight?’ Bladud asked. Nerthach opened his mouth to protest, but Bladud silenced him with a look. Borth looked surprised.

‘It would be a pleasure,’ he growled.

Then Britha saw what Bladud was doing. She knew that Borth didn’t stand a chance, but all the Witch King had heard were warrior’s tales, and second-hand ones at that, because the Lochlannach had killed all those they had not taken. He had to see for himself. He had to gauge the Lochlannach’s strength, but he wasn’t going to kill his ‘strong right arm’. Bladud had just saved Nerthach’s life and killed Borth, and the Witch King knew it.

Borth put on his helmet, transferred his longspear to the hand that already held his shield and picked up one of his casting spears. He pointed the spear at Bress as he walked forwards.

‘I am Borth of a Hundred Battles, Borth the Head Harvester, the Child of the Red Man, and I will drink my beer from your skull.’

Bress started walking towards Borth, looking irritated. ‘Is this the man I must kill to pass?’ Bress asked Britha.

‘You may fetch your helm, shield and spear,’ Borth told Bress. The pale warrior didn’t answer, just continued walking towards the huge Iceni. Borth looked confused for a moment. Then he threw his casting spear. Bress ducked. It narrowly missed Britha’s horse and one of the Lochlannach had to deflect it with their shield. Borth transferred his longspear into his free hand and stepped forwards, thrusting the weapon at Bress. Bress quickened his pace, darting to one side, getting inside the spear’s reach. He still did not have a weapon in his hand. Borth dropped his spear and reached for his sword. In one movement, Bress drew his sword and sliced up through Borth’s shield, the iron blade of his almost-drawn sword and the tall man’s cuir bouilli armour, opening the warrior’s body from hip to shoulder. Bress sheathed his blade as he walked past Borth and came to stand in front of Bladud.

‘Have you learned enough?’ he asked, leaning down to whisper into the other man’s ear. Borth’s corpse toppled to the ground.

‘Let them by,’ Bladud said. People started shuffling towards the trees, making way for the Lochlannach. Bress turned away from Bladud and walked back towards the horses.

Britha was watching Bladud, but she could not quite make out the expression on his face as he observed Bress mount his horse. There was more than fear in his eyes, she knew. She climbed up onto her own horse.

They rode through the warriors and the landsfolk, who parted for them. The silence was broken only by the occasional sob. The little Cirig girl from Ardestie was still sitting in the tree. She watched Britha ride by. Britha saw that the girl recognised her.

34

Birmingham, 3 Weeks Ago

They were finding more of them. Or rather, Grace was finding more of them. She had used the Circle’s resources to do an invasive city-wide Internet history check, looking at the most unpleasant content on the net, who was writing horrible things, who was creating horrible artwork – in short, anyone who was showing signs of a significantly deviant imagination. In a number of cases they found the brass scorpions, the Alpha- and Theta-wave recorders and transmitters. Silas appeared to have learned from Letchford, though, as none of them remembered seeing him. They also had no memory of the brain surgery they’d undergone to remove the brass scorpions, though they would perhaps have dreams of abduction experiences.

Control had sought ways to trace the Alpha- and Theta-wave transmissions, but as yet had found nothing. It looked as if the carrier wave for the transmissions was too ubiquitous to spot and blended into the background electromagnetic radiation of modern-day life.

Nanette Hollis’s brain had been removed, but they found no traces of Silas in or around the Moseley Road Swimming Baths. He had not revealed his presence this time. Du Bois checked. It was less than a mile from the closest waterway to the baths, but then most of the city was just as close, or closer.

They were both in du Bois’ room at the Malmaison Hotel. Du Bois was seated at the desk. Grace was lying on his bed with her boots on, much to du Bois’ annoyance. They were transferring files back and forth between their heads, or rather between Grace’s head and du Bois’ phone, much to Grace’s annoyance.

‘He doesn’t have enough time – he’s working towards something and it’s about to come to fruition—’ Grace started.

Du Bois sighed. It was just more speculation. The case was all she thought about now, all she talked about. Going over the same things again and again.

‘So we’re agreed that Galforg was a misstep,’ she went on. ‘He killed the wrong person, he pretty much said so. Then Songhurst, Jaggard and Hollis. He thinks they’re the real deal, psychic or something. So he takes their brains because he wants something from them, presumably their “power”, because it feeds some element of his fantasy life. Then he puts transmitters in the brains of sick individuals. Why?’ Grace was talking to herself. Du Bois had heard variations of this a dozen times since they’d dealt with Letchford and found Hollis. ‘Does he think he’s transmitting to the brains? Torturing them in some way?’ She looked over at du Bois. ‘You said he always goes for the pain.’ Du Bois nodded. ‘But why just torture brain matter? That doesn’t make sense.’ Grace went quiet for a few moments. ‘Unless he doesn’t think he’s transmitting it to them. He thinks their brains are transmitting to someone or something else.’ She looked over at du Bois triumphantly.

‘Which doesn’t make sense,’ du Bois said. ‘It’s not possible.’

‘Christ, Malcolm, if this job’s taught us nothing more, it’s that given enough technology, pretty much anything’s possible. Besides, it doesn’t have to work, he just has to
think
it does.’ Then it was as if a light went on behind her eyes. ‘He’s building a beacon, like—’

‘Hawksmoor,’ du Bois finished for her.

Grace looked over at him. ‘I’m not—’ she started.

‘Transferring?’

Grace was off the bed in a flash and marching across the room towards him. ‘Fuck you, Dad! What have you brought to this? He might be swimming in the canals? Great, we’ll look for bridges with billy goats clip-clopping across them, but that’s not been much use so far, has it? At least I’m trying to think it through!’

‘No,’ Malcolm said calmly. ‘You’re not. You’re wildly speculating in a bid to make the facts fit because you want revenge on someone who terrorised you, murdered your friends and family, and made you feel helpless. Except it doesn’t fit. Hawksmoor’s delusion was different. He was a driven man. A fanatic. He really believed in what he was doing. Silas is a sensualist and an egotist. He gets off on other people’s suffering, power and, frankly, attention. While you were speculating, did you actually read the profile put together by several very powerful AIs using programs specifically written to profile Silas? Hawksmoor thought of himself as performing a grand experiment, a ritual, even. Silas is interested in spectacle, grand gestures, like what he did at the Manufactory. He does these things for gratification, nothing more.’

Grace opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again. She looked furious. Du Bois was pretty sure it was because she knew he was right. As she stormed out of the room, du Bois’ phone vibrated on the desk. Grace stopped and concentrated for a moment. She glanced over at him, then grabbed her bike jacket and helmet from the bed.

‘Why don’t you come in the Range Rover with me?’ du Bois managed to get out just as the door slammed behind her.

Du Bois was already receiving information from Grace as he drove – as quickly as the narrow, busy road would allow – towards the Druids Heath Estate. A number of missing-person reports had been called in to the West Midlands police. All the disappearances centred on Demesne House, a name that didn’t really make sense to du Bois. Demesne House was one of the tower blocks on the estate. Two police officers had been sent to investigate. Only one of them had made it out. Beyond that, information was a little hazy as the police hadn’t really wanted to speak to Grace.

He was driving through a basin on the Alcester Road lined with grass-covered verges, beyond which lay bland suburban housing. He could see the tower blocks of Druids Heath on a hill to the south. Through the haze of the cold but sunny spring morning, the tower blocks reminded him of megaliths. The haze was pierced here and there by blue flashing lights.

Minutes later he was being flagged down by an armed police officer as he pulled up next to the cordon of emergency vehicles surrounding Demesne House. The tower block was a nearly featureless grey concrete high-rise. There were a number of identical tower blocks in close proximity. Like the other towers, a car park and large grassy expanse surrounded Demesne House.

Druids Heath was obviously a run-down area. Many of the businesses, shops and what had once been quite a large pub had been boarded up and then vandalised. In addition to the tower blocks, the estate also contained rows of dilapidated terraced houses.

The police were dealing with a number of locals who were visibly upset. Presumably they knew people in the tower block. Du Bois could feel a palpable anger in the crowd, but he wasn’t sure who it was aimed at yet. He suspected some of the local residents weren’t great fans of the authorities.

He showed a Special Forces warrant card to the armed police officer who had flagged him down. He suspected it would be the quickest way to get what he wanted. He glanced over and saw a police armed-response team gathered near the tower block.

‘Are they getting ready to go in?’ du Bois asked. The officer he was dealing with didn’t reply, though his expression told du Bois everything he needed to know. Looking around for Grace, he saw her talking to the chief superintendent. He could see by her gestures that she was less than pleased. Du Bois started walking towards them.

‘… told you I’m an undercover operative, you’ve checked my credentials …’ Grace was saying to the chief superintendent as du Bois came into earshot. He noticed a white Mercedes Sprinter van parked close to Demesne House. It piqued his curiosity because of the heavy-duty winch mount on the front of it, which was far from standard on such a vehicle.

‘How old are you, anyway – eighteen? If that?’ the chief superintendent demanded. Grace just glared at the man. Du Bois quickened his pace. ‘Look, little girl, we’ve got over a hundred missing persons – and rising – and an estate on the edge of a riot. More than enough to handle, without whatever your undercover freak show is about.’

Du Bois ran the last few steps and grabbed Grace’s arm just as she was about to hit the chief superintendent in the throat, very hard. Grace spun around to glare at him, but calmed down enough not to cripple or kill the high-ranking police officer.

‘Is the commissioner here yet?’ Du Bois asked the red-faced chief superintendent.

‘He’s running this from HQ. I’m in command on the ground,’ the chief superintendent told him.

Brilliant
, du Bois thought. A pompous fool in command with a boss who liked to lead from the rear.

‘Okay, you need to get the commissioner on the phone for me—’ du Bois started.

‘I need to do no such thing,’ the chief superintendent retorted. The armed-response team was now running across the grass towards Demesne House. Grace pointed at them, a worried expression on her face.

‘Look, I’m sorry we’ve pissed all over your jurisdiction,’ said du Bois, ‘but you need to let us handle this.’

‘How? By doing nothing? Or by mutilating corpses?’ the chief superintendent demanded.

The armed-response team had reached the main door of Demesne House.

There’s a blood-screen surrounding the tower block.
Du Bois received Grace’s message direct to his mind.

‘Okay, you need to pull your men back right now,’ du Bois said, a trace of desperation in his voice. A shout of surprise from a member of the armed-response team drew his attention back to the building. They’d got the door open and a stream of blood was flowing out through the doorway. It looked as if the building was bleeding. The chief superintendent was staring at the blood, appalled.

‘Over a hundred tenants, nine pints each,’ Grace said.

‘Pull your men back, now!’ du Bois told the police officer. The armed-response team waded through the blood as they entered the tower block, weapons at the ready. The chief superintendent was still staring. He clearly had no idea what to do.

Then the screaming started. The crowd, almost as one, ducked when they heard gunfire. Du Bois watched the inside of Demesne House light up with multiple muzzle flashes, then grabbed the chief superintendent by the face.

‘Listen to me – if any of your men fire on us, we’ll fire back, and then I’m going to kill you. Do you understand me?’ he demanded. The chief superintendent managed to nod despite the grip. Du Bois leaned closer. ‘Do you believe me?’ The chief superintendent didn’t say anything, but du Bois saw the answer he needed in his eyes. He let go of the man. The gunfire had stopped.

Du Bois drew his Accurised .45 and checked the chamber for a round. There was still screaming coming from Demesne House. The sound echoed among the tower blocks. Grace drew one of her Beretta 92 FS Inox pistols, removed the fifteen-round 9mm magazine and replaced it with an extended twenty-round magazine from the ammo pouch on her belt. The screaming was cut off suddenly. Both of them knew that the armed-response team were all dead. Grace replaced the magazine on her other pistol as well.

‘There’s media here,’ she noted.

Du Bois nodded. With a thought, he texted Control. They would have to D-notice the media, and probably hack or edit any footage that was shot as well. Control would not be happy with the public nature of what they were about to do. Grace checked that she had a round chambered in each pistol and that the safeties were off.

‘Plan?’ she asked.

Maybe if we’d had any prep time
, du Bois thought. ‘Can you think of anything more sophisticated than go in there, find Silas and shoot him a lot?’

‘Try not to get our brains eaten?’ Grace suggested. The chief superintendent was still staring at them, utterly lost for words.

‘I like it,’ du Bois said. Her earlier anger with him was forgotten. They had something to do now. Du Bois started running across the grass towards Demesne House, half-expecting to get shot as he ran. He wasn’t sure if it would be by Silas or the police at his back, but as he ran, he heard the chief superintendent speaking to his men over the radio.

It wasn’t quiet or subtle. Du Bois hit the door with his shoulder at a run. Safety glass cracked and metal bent enough to knock the door out of its frame. Du Bois went flying through into a small foyer and slipped over on the blood covering the floor.

Grace hurdled him and charged through the foyer into the base of the stairwell, where it was raining blood. She had both her pistols pointing upwards as the gore covered her.

Du Bois pushed himself to his feet, blood dripping off him. He moved quickly to the stairwell, his .45 at the ready, checking along the other corridors on the ground floor. He saw the bodies of a number of the armed-response team on the stairs. A quick glance told him they’d all been killed with a single well-aimed knife slash, and then their arteries had been cut. There were shell casings lying in the blood. The butcher-shop smell was overwhelming, a metallic tang of blood mixed with the stench of evacuated bowels. It could have been his first battlefield all over again. Looking up at the constant deluge of blood still pouring down, he saw bodies cable-tied to the railings all the way up the stairwell. Their arteries had all been opened, too. Silas had painted the interior of the building red.

Du Bois could feel the mass murderer’s blood-screen interacting with his own like an itch, a cold war being fought at a molecular level as du Bois attempted to find Silas, and Silas sought to hide.

Where do we start?
Grace asked in his mind.

‘Malcolm, is that you?’ The voice came from above, echoing down the blood-soaked stairwell. The accent was still there, but Silas’s voice was deeper now. It had a rasp to it, as though he’d damaged it somehow in the last two hundred years or so.

Grace glanced over at du Bois and then looked straight back up the stairwell, trying to catch a glimpse of the speaker. Du Bois indicated that she should start moving up the stairs. She nodded and began climbing, both weapons at the ready. Du Bois followed.

‘I was so pleased when I saw you outside. Tell me, who’s the girl? When I consume her, will I find that she hates you as much as the archer did?’

Du Bois didn’t answer. He just continued moving up the stairs, weapon at the ready, trying to use all his augmented capabilities to pinpoint where the sound of the voice was coming from.