Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) (43 page)

“What’s going on?” he asked as he came to a standstill beside Marek.

Marek turned to him, looking him up and down. He pulled his shirt on fully, ruffling his collar and averting his eyes. “They’re here,” he said. Then, reluctantly, but firmly, he added, “Sir.”

Norman eyed the gate as the searchlight’s beam filtered in through the opening doors.

Thirteen figures on horseback cantered through, stretched out in a V formation, their faces taut and withered. Lucian, leading at the head, nodded to him as they moved into the square.

Norman strode after him. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer at first, his eyes downcast. He dropped to the ground, sighing. “Nothing but ash,” he said. His face was set, emotionless, but his eyes betrayed a seething rage bubbling beneath the surface. His movements were calculated, smooth, overcompensated.

Norman mouthed silently, lost for words. “All of it?” he managed after some time.

Lucian looked over his shoulder. Norman turned to see Allison, who had just emerged from the tower. She had clearly overheard; her eyes were fawning, her cheeks fallen. She held her head in her hands, groaning.

“It looked like a crater,” Lucian said. The crevasse between his brow was deeper than Norman had ever seen it. “There’s no chance of salvaging anything.” He fumed for a moment, and then turned the others. “Get over to the stables. We need food.”

There was no protest, nor a change in the volume of chatter. The small crowd simply milled for a time before dispersing, disappearing into the night.

Only Norman, Marek and Allie remained with Lucian, subdued, yet on the verge of outburst. His grey mount was restless, tugging against Lucian’s grip on the reins. But he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes had glazed and his mouth was slack as he gazed into the middle distance.

And then Marek rushed forth, growling. He blasted past Norman and collided with Lucian. With a sharp push he launched him back, lifting him from his feet.

There was an endless moment in which Lucian seemed to hang in midair. Then he collided with his mount’s thigh, bouncing from it with an utterance of horror. Norman, stunned, watched his face go through a startling transformation: passing through several emotions associated with surprise before settling on dawning fury.

He steadied himself, his eyes wild. “How dare you!” he cried, rushing forwards with teeth bared.

He was almost a foot shorter than Marek, but he looked no less intimidating. A guttural growl escaped his throat, but then he took a deep breath. “After the day I’ve just had, I would really like to get some sleep. But right now, I wouldn’t mind—”

“Shut up,” said Marek. “Who do you think you are?”

Lucian struck him hard in the chest, sending the larger man careening back through sheer force. “What are you talking about?” he hissed.

Marek rushed forwards, his muscles taut beneath his shirt. “You and your stunts. They’re going to be the end of us if you don’t start taking orders, you little runt.”

Lucian’s eyes popped wide. “Don’t you dare,” he said.

Marek ignored him. “You think you can just wander off at the first sign of something interesting?” He jabbed Lucian’s chest as he spoke, snarling. “You have a responsibility, a job to do! There are people who could have died because of you.”

Lucian’s face had become a doppelganger of Marek’s, his eyes brimming with pent-up anger.

Norman had time to exchange a look with Allison, who seemed strangely unbothered by the sudden hostility. Her eyes were still dazed, and her face slack. He guessed she still hadn’t recovered from the news about the wind farm, or the fact that they were probably trapped here.

Lucian’s face was millimetres from Marek’s, both of them stretched into tight masks of fury. “I had to find out what was happening,” he said through gritted teeth.

Marek’s finger struck his chest once more. “And what if it had just been a trap to lure you away? Divide and conquer? Did that cross your mind?”

Lucian gave a humourless bark. “Oh yes, that’s very insightful. Perhaps if you had been there then everything would have been just fine, except for the fact that anybody back in Canterbury would have been ripe for the slaughter.”

Norman watched the argument jump back and forth, his eyes following each aggressor in turn.

“Not everybody needs you to protect them.”

“They wouldn’t have been ready during the middle of the day. If something had happened, they would have been caught off guard.”

“It’s too late for ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’.”

Norman turned towards the sound of footsteps echoing in the square behind them. A magnificent regal woman was stalking towards them, her face thunderous despite her withered eyes. “Enough!” she roared.

A long pink shawl hung about her, making her torso appear elongated and amorphous. A generous smattering of jewellery hung around her neck and adorned her fingers, twinkling in the blue halo of the Wharf. Her face was heavily scarred down one side, and on the other marred by the kind of leathery wrinkles that only come with extreme age.

Evelyn Fisher was a sight for sore eyes. She held herself rigid as an iron rod, observing Lucian and Marek from the summit of her long, cragged nose.

Lucian didn’t seem to notice her deathly stare, his eyes still fixed on Marek.

Marek, however, appeared to deflate. The fire left his eyes, and his shoulders slumped. His breathing remained shallow and ragged, betraying the fire still crackling beneath the surface. But, after a moment’s hesitation, he took a step back.

Lucian looked perplexed. Evelyn’s draconian stare suddenly seemed to become visible to him. In time, he too slackened and stepped back.

Evelyn didn’t seem to derive any satisfaction from the ceasefire. Her stare remained merciless, aglow with scorn. Her body shook under the halogen glare, vibrating with barely contained abhorrence. “What is going on here?” she demanded.

Lucian turned from Marek, pulling open a small satchel hanging from his mount’s saddle. There was a clinking as he reached inside, turning back towards them and holding something up to the light.

It was a piece of charred metal, bent, twisted, and blackened. Norman thought he might have been able to discern a sharpened edge skirting its periphery, but couldn’t be sure.

“What is this?” Evelyn said.

Lucian turned the shard in his hands, such that the jagged edges threw off a dazzling collection of reflected light beams. “This was all I could find,” he said. “Everything else was vaporised, or melted into the ground.”

Evelyn stared at the sliver of wreckage, and her eyes softened for a moment. Then the moment passed, and her face tightened back up. She held her head high, throwing her desiccated white locks over her shoulder. “So they’ve lost power?”

She beckoned Marek with a flick of her wrist. He complied without so much as a blink, reaching her side and stooping to match her stature.

She whispered something incoherent, her words lost in the void between them and Norman’s ears. However, he could tell by her tone that they were no words of praise, nor even frank discussion.

Marek answered in high-pitched protest, but apparently the argument wasn’t to her taste; she dismissed him with another flick of her wrist.

Marek scowled, his head rearing to one side, his hands gathered into shuddering fists.

Evelyn ignored him, turning to Lucian. “I trust you’re unaware of the situation?”

Lucian frowned and looked at Norman and Allie.

“They’re here, surrounding us,” Norman muttered. “We can’t get word out, but they’re letting people in.”

Lucian paled. “They’re gathering us up.”

“Like sheep for the slaughter.”

Evelyn cut across them. “It’s prudent that we move quickly. However, little can be done tonight, and I therefore recommend that each of you rest as best you can.” She fixed Marek with a stern look. “Let that be an end to this foolishness. We have few friends left. We can’t afford animosity now.” She gave a small bow. “Goodnight.”

With that, she departed, leaving them amidst an awkward silence. Little moved as she swayed across the square and disappeared.

Marek remained a while longer, his eyes downcast. He moved close to Lucian. “Stay out of my way,” he muttered. Then he too wandered away, back towards the hut by the gate. The door slammed behind him, and the light emanating from within winked out soon after.

Lucian didn’t move until Norman patted him on the arm and said, “It’s good to see you.”

He mumbled something in return, and then hurried towards the tower.

Norman watched him go, sighing, and then took Allison under the arm, leading her inside. “Come on,” he said, “we need some rest. Evelyn’s right: There’s nothing more we can do tonight.”

She didn’t protest, bending freely to his will. “How could this happen?” she whispered. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Not how it goes in all those stories the elders told. We’re supposed to be the strong ones, Norman. We’re supposed to be the good guys.”

He swallowed, and his throat cracked. “There
are
no good guys. And it’s never like it is in the stories.”

Robert crept across his front door’s threshold, his face creased into a strained, desperate grimace. He was determined to tread only upon the hallway’s edge, but his bulk still sent the floorboards snapping like bullwhips with each step.

His mind buzzed with the day’s run of mayhem: flashes of endless thickets, fields and meadows, accompanied by the buzz of a hundred blurred voices; a thousand half-remembered conversations; screams and shouts, anguished and furious alike.

He hadn’t returned to the city since the explosion. Working at the turbine site, securing the surrounding area and searching the denser forest beyond the hills had taken until long after dusk.

By then the streets had been pitch-black, and there had been little point in staying out to search the city itself. There had been little else to do but ensure that the guards were at their posts and slink away in the distant hope of a night’s rest.

If he was lucky, he’d get a few hours’ sleep before sunrise. Then he’d go out to the hills again and see if he could find some trace of a trail. If he could find one, maybe he could find out how those bastards had gotten past the perimeter. Maybe he could set up some kind of defensive strategy.

The house was crooked, misaligned. He and his father had built it themselves, many years before, when Canterbury had been home to just the two of them. That had been long before the others had arrived, before the rebuilding or the restoration.

Before Alexander, even.

The hallway’s low roof forced him to bend at a ridiculous angle, but it quickly split off into two perpendicular doorways, forming a T-junction. He made to cut away into the kitchen, but before he could take another step, a rumble built from the living room: the patter of running feet.

Sarah appeared in the doorway, candle in hand. Her hair lay lank and knotted over her glasses, throwing red, puffy eyes into shadow. Her cheeks drooped, pallid, and her mouth quivered, lopsided between dried tear tracks. “Where were you?” she whispered. She strode forwards, and her voice rose to a shriek. “
Where were you?
” She raised her free hand and slammed it against his chest.

He barely felt the impact—her fist rebounded with such a kick that it almost struck her chin—but he recoiled nonetheless. “What’s wrong?” he said. He gripped her by the arms, but she struggled, cursing and yelling. The candle wavered to and fro, sending their shadows dancing across the wall. “Wait! What are you doing? What’s wrong?”

She ripped herself from his grasp, her mouth working as fresh tears splashed across her cheeks. “What’s wrong?” she wailed. “I’ve been waiting here for hours! You’ve been out there all this time, and I had no way of knowing whether you were hurt or—or dead!”

Robert gripped her once more, firmly, holding her still, and stared into her eyes. He bent until well below the horizontal, and he reached her head height. “I’m fine,” he breathed. “Everything is fine.”

He steered her around and walked her slowly to the living room as her sobs began to settle. Once they’d passed inside, he started. Heather was perched on their dusty armchair, a cup and saucer frozen halfway to her face.

She observed them for a moment. “Hello,” she said after a brief, taut silence.

“Hello,” he replied. “Sorry I’m late.” A slab of awkward discomfort landed against the nape of his neck as he sat on the sofa, one that refused to dissipate.

The room was dark. The scant light of a dozen candles, even coupled with glowing embers in the grate, couldn’t quite replace that of the dead bulbs hanging overhead.

Sarah sat beside him, straight-backed, her eyes still seeping. There was something within them that made the struggles of the day dim and distant, and yet they inspired a great weakness in his bowels. It was almost as though she expected him to leave her again at any moment.

He put his arm around her and pulled her close.

“What happened?” Heather asked. “We’ve been waiting all day. But nobody came back. We thought…” She glanced at Sarah and grew quiet.