Brink (The Ruin Saga Book 2) (41 page)

Lucian warned the others to stay put with a sweeping glare, then crept to the entrance and peered through the hairline crack in the canvas. He wasn’t surprised when Max joined him regardless.

Boots thumped past over ground whipped to muddy pudding, over which floated filthy masses of rags, masking bodies shuddering with the brutish guffawing of black souls.

“Look at ‘er squirm,
yuk yuk
!”

“Haw haw! Ain’t no way out of for you, missy.”

Lucian twitched despite himself, sensing the twisted expression on their faces, which remained out of sight—in his mind’s eye he could see the hunger in their eyes.

“
Yuk yuk
! Come here, let me cop a feel and see what’s sprouting under those drawers.”

A thump was followed by the gurgling
oof!
that only comes from a man utterly felled by a blow to the jewels, then the patter of small feet splashing toward the tent.

Lucian braced to confront whoever approached, and behind him, Max snicked back the hammer on the rusty pistol.

The pattering ceased mere feet away from the tent and a harsh cry rang out, strangled and terrified. Lucian couldn’t resist peeking once more and caught sight of a small creature, almost black with dirt, face curtained by greasy locks of fire-red hair and inset with enormous white eyes.

Their gazes met and Lucian’s heart jumped. It was a girl, a young girl, no older than ten. She skidded to a halt, carving twin gouges in the thick mud, and was yanked back by the grubby hands of a sneering man with no front teeth. Men and women of all walks of life, united only by a common sneering malice, were close behind, enormous and looming, cackling like wicked, cartoonish giants as they surrounded the girl. One of them slipped a bag over her head and lifted her kicking into the air, while another man came limping into view, rubbing his shin.

“Serves you right, fool,” one of the women cried.

The limping man snarled and made to lash at the girl, but he and the others were frozen in place by a new voice, high-pitched and silky-smooth, one that sent alarms trilling in the primitive part of Lucian’s head. “Put her down. I have plans for that one.”

The girl was dropped in a heap into the mud and hauled up again by her collar, jerked forward and away. Just before she passed out of sight, she glanced once again into the tent, and Lucian cursed under his breath. Then she was gone.

What followed was the owner of the high-pitched, chilling voice. Both Lucian and Max were stilled. The man’s appearance only amplified the alarms in Lucian’s head; he had been in enough scrapes to know some men were born killers, and there was one of them. He was short, almost as short as Lucian himself, but every pound was solid, lithe muscle, built for deathly speed and dexterity as opposed to brute force.

“Jason,” Lucian muttered.

“Huh?” Max said.

“Jason. His name is Jason.”

“How do you know?”

“He led them in New Canterbury. The people who put a friend of mine on his back for days, and slit another’s throat.”

He was sure this was the man who had killed Rayford Hubble that night, and broken Norman’s ribs like toothpicks. Even that old Irishman they had found beaten half to death out in the forest—the ferocity of those wounds had the stink of this predator’s work.

“Who is he?” Max said.

“The Rottweiler let off the leash.” Lucian cursed inwardly. They would have to deal with him, too, if they were going to scale the cliff and take James down. Yes, there were thirteen of them. But that man … somehow, Lucian didn’t relish the thought of taking him on without an entire regiment behind him.

Jason passed by, his lupine face pulled into a snarl, and vanished after his underlings and the little girl.

Lucian turned back to the others and waved them forward. “We don’t have a lot of time. Soon there are going to be too many of them. All that smoke coming over the hills … There must be thousands by now. As soon as we’re done forging for them, they’ll march south. And then it’ll all be over.”

The faces around him looked ready, their shoulders bunched and rippling, and the fists clenched until bone-white.

Lucian nodded. “Alright. As soon as we get a chance, we move.”

The setting sun turned red as arterial blood behind a thin veil of clouds. The light was low, yet gave life to every surface, every line, every speck of dust. Another golden inner light seemed to leak from the trees, the earth, and the hundred unwashed faces upon the red carpet were illuminated with anticipation.

Norman would have said a few hours before that his life couldn’t have been much stranger. But now, standing here at the front of the crowds in an ancient itchy suit with a velvet pillow in hand, he had to admit he would have been wrong.

Only moments after dismounting, he and the other riders had found fine clothing thrown over their travel cloaks by the people of New Canterbury. Despite vehement protest, Norman and the others were shepherded toward the fields where the wedding court had been erected.

Robert himself had greeted Norman, then Allie and Agatha, who had dismounted from the first wagon. Robert had laid out his terms clear and fast: he would come, but first he was going to get hitched.

Norman had been flabbergasted beyond response, but there had been little he could do. By then he had already been pressed into his suit, they had been standing on the red carpets, and Agatha had vowed to carry out the ceremony.

In any case, it didn’t matter. They needed Robert. And Norman knew this was a deal breaker.

Better to just get it over with.

And though he didn’t want to admit it, a part of him would have given anything to have this: one last normal thing. It was only right. It was what they were fighting for, what they were all set to die for.

So here he was with one eye on the sky and the failing sunlight as people stood from their seats and a ramshackle band struck up the traditional wedding theme, playing instruments taken from the precious repository from Alexander’s great time capsule of a house.

The crowd turned to catch sight of an ocean of spilling white cloth, pooling from an Athenian figure of feminine curves, and trailing for yards behind. Sarah Clarke was hidden by no veil. Her eyes had never seemed so large, free of spectacles. No doubt she couldn’t see, but her face was unpuckered and freshly washed, radiant with fierce determination, taking each step as though pulling herself towards her fiancé with a rope binding them together.

Allison led the bridesmaids. Norman expected to see her smiling giddily, in keeping with her longstanding reputation as chief gossip of New Canterbury. But she was different, now—older, more demure. A dignity had come from the trials of the siege in London.

She had aged in soul by two decades, by the blood of Geoffrey Oppenheimer’s children. She still smiled, but it was a happy and content smile, one of a woman relishing the here and now.

Sarah seemed different, too. Norman hesitated to call it coldness, but certainly she was tougher and more imposing. The rosy librarian and schoolteacher was now concealed by a shield to which men and women would rally.

Then there was Agatha standing at the altar, more present than Norman remembered seeing her, but a shadow of the great woman she had been before the dementia had taken her.

All the city’s women were standing tall. Compared to them, Norman and the city’s menfolk were cast in shadow.

The bride swept by along the aisle and Norman met Sarah’s gaze. The last time he had seen her she had been gabbling and starry eyed, newly engaged. Now, she was another woman altogether.

What the hell happened here while we were away? What have they had to do?

He didn’t want to know.

She smiled and he winked back. That was all that needed to be done.

Then Allie was passing and his chest swelled up until he was sure it would crawl up past his teeth. “You’re next,” she purred as she passed and he held back a laugh, caught by a fit of sudden good humour despite everything—and that was why this was worth it.

Sarah reached the mocked-up altar and turned to face Robert, who had turned a bizarre milky white despite his charcoal-black skin, and was covered in a layer of dripping sweat. Built like a bulldozer, the macho-man of New Canterbury had been tamed. He was shaking visibly. Sarah in turn looked nervous, but between them they seemed to shine, holding back the doom incumbent upon them and the city with some force.

Agatha cleared her throat. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today …”

Norman stepped forward with the velvet pillow held out before him and tried to keep his eyes off Allie while Robert and Sarah’s smiles grew wider until they were both identical jokers, and the rings lying on the pillow were taken.

Never thought I would be best man at a time like this
.

Robert squeezed his shoulder and Norman stepped back, taking in the crowd and remembering with visceral impact just how much he loved this city and these people. He came to stand beside Heather, scarcely recognising her.

She was withered and work weary, a shadow of the long-faced doctor who had saved him from the edge of death not long ago, when Jason had crippled him. “You look well,” she whispered.

Agatha was announcing the conclusion of her part of the spiel and the “
I do’s
” were commencing. Robert and Sarah were holding hands, staring not at but into one another, blind to anything else. Yet it wasn’t a gushing, sickening puppy romance—rather a furious and desperate vehemence, like two people gripping one another amidst the roiling of a coming maelstrom.

Norman nodded. His broken ribs troubled him still and the ride from London had them crying out in blinding pulses, a bad omen for the long ride north. But he owed every breath he took to Heather. “How are they?” he muttered, nodding to the city’s people.

“Crumbling, afraid. We’ve lost almost everyone we could rely on.” She cocked her head at the altar. “Except those two. They’re holding us together, getting us ready.”

Norman flexed his aching chest, ignoring a phantom truck—another Echo of the myriad that now appeared everywhere—turning a corner on a faraway street, and nodded. “I know you’ve given everything, but I need to know you’re with us to the end. When it comes …”

“I’ll do everything I can, Norman.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you ready to lead them?” Her eyes were on him. “You never wanted any of this. Of us all, it’s most unfair on you. None of the rest of us were forced to live this life.”

“It’s done now.”

“And?”

He turned to her. “I’m ready.”

“I pronounce you as joined under God,” Agatha said, her face amused and fond and alive. “You may kiss the bride.”

Heather nodded. “Just remember that it’s your life.”

This was never my life
,
Norman thought.

Heather gripped his hand and her fingers’ chill stole into his. “Ride safe.”

Under the bloody sky and golden rain of falling autumnal leaves, Sarah and Robert’s lips came together, and two became one.

There was no reception, no after party, no honeymoon. The attendees trailed back to their homes in silent procession, and the riders from London returned to their temporary camp before stripping off their moth-eaten tuxedos and preparing to go.

Those who were going to stay—Allie and Agatha included—began moving supplies to the city larder from the wagons, and bade their goodbyes. The newlyweds were left alone at the altar for the little time it took to prepare, and whatever occurred there nobody knew or cared to know.

Norman was soon once again ready to saddle up, with his troop of volunteers in front of him.

Richard and John were at the very front, their faces drawn and nervous, but their gazes set and diamond hard. Beside Norman huffed the bulk of Robert’s black Shire horse, Obsidian, awaiting his master while standing a head over the other mounts. All had rallied to Norman, but there was no doubting who was going to lead them north—to what black rump they would fix their gaze the whole way there.

Then Allie was in front of him, held by the arm by Agatha. “I may be old ‘n’ crazy, but I know two people steelin’ to ignore each other so’s they don’t have to say their last goodbyes,” she drawled.

Norman was astonished to see her still lucid. It seemed her body had rallied against the dementia for this one last hurrah, sensing the end. “I’ve seen wiser people ‘n’ the both of you do the same when they knew something bad was coming and they sure as all Heaven regretted it once it was too late. So here’s me doing you both the biggest good.” Her eyes twinkled. “Make nice, and make sure you get your behind home safe, Norman.” She sighed, held his chin, and shook her head. “So old, we’re all so
old
. How did things go so wrong?” A note of simple sadness touched her brow, then she tottered away toward the cathedral.

Norman was left alone with Allie and the two of them shifted uneasily. Minutes ago they had been all side glances and coy smiles; but now, face to face, knowing that this could be the last time …

“I …” he said.

“You come back.” He was startled by the cutting power in her voice, and the fact that she was meeting his eyes dead straight.