The Ghost Roads (Ring of Five) (32 page)

All eyes were on Gabriel. It was a mistake. With the swiftness of a snake striking, Devoy seized a long knife from a Cherb and put it to Pearl’s neck. With his brother behind him he edged toward the door, dozens of crossbows trained on him.

“Don’t let them get away!” Pearl cried. “Shoot!”

“Don’t fire!” Gabriel ordered. The Cherbs kept discipline.

“Conal. Attack!” Longford screamed. He flung Pearl to the floor and he and his brother ducked through the door. Immediately crossbow darts embedded themselves in the wood. Simultaneously a squadron of Seraphim flew into the gaping hole in the wall, Cherbs leaping from their backs. Desperate hand-to-hand combat broke out. The
attackers were driven back, not expecting the ferocity of the defense. Danny could see ravens outside attacking the flights of Seraphim. Then another squadron of Seraphim appeared, carrying a huge gossamer net between them. Before the ravens could fly away, they were scooped up in the net. The Seraphim flew several times around a tall pine tree, securing the trapped ravens to it. Danny could see more enemy Cherbs mounting Seraphim far below them. He felt someone poking him. Nala.

“Longford! Devoy!” Nala said. He was right. They could not be allowed to get away. Nala ran a few steps and looked back at Danny. Danny followed just as a squadron of Seraphim landed a fresh platoon of Cherbs on the apothecary floor.

THE TREACHERY TROPHY

T
hey went out onto the hidden staircase. Nala began to go down, but Danny shook his head. He knew that the two brothers would not be able to resist seeing their triumph unfold. He led Nala upward.

The rooftops of Wilsons were a kingdom to themselves, great gables and peaks rearing and falling, fire escapes and aerials dotted across them. It was starting to get dark. Danny and Nala moved quietly toward the front of the school. Nala pointed down. There were two sets of footprints in a bed of dead leaves. Fresh footprints.

On they went, until they reached the edge of the roof. They looked down. The air was full of wheeling Seraphim screeching in triumph. Danny longed to be back with his friends, to stand or fall with them. Nala nudged him.

Twenty yards away, in the shadow of a tall chimney, the two brothers stood. The last rays of failing light silhouetted them, casting long shadows that danced and gibbered as they bore witness to the fall of Wilsons.

“Around the back of the chimney,” Danny whispered. They crept across the roof until they were behind the two men. They listened.

“I was always the best at inks and ciphers,” one voice said, but Danny didn’t know whose; he could no longer tell them apart.

“Perhaps, but I excelled at disguises.”

“Father never did award one of us the trophy. I wonder where it is.”

“I thought you might ask that. I have it here.” There was a hissed intake of breath.

“Let me see, let me see!”

“I took it from the house before I had to torch it to get rid of Knutt and that featherbrain girl. It was still in the same place—on the sideboard where Father would polish it every morning and remind us how Grandfather had given it to him.”

“Give it here!”

Danny risked a look around the chimney. Longford was holding a small silver trophy crowned with the figure of a prowling man wearing a hat, a dark coat, and a mask over his face. Longford was staring at it with longing.

“The Treachery Trophy,” he breathed. “I should have it, for my mastery of the Ring.”

“But what about me? I stayed in character for years as Devoy. I fooled them all, I sacrificed everything!”

“I was always the more treacherous. Remember when I made Father believe that Mother was after his money and he sent her away?”

“Yes, I remember,” Devoy said wearily, “it is true. You were always more treacherous. You must take the prize. But perhaps I could hold it for a minute, here in the hour of our triumph.”

“Yes, Brother, of course you may.” Longford stepped forward till he was even with the roof parapet, his hand outstretched. Devoy, his face blank as stone, took it, then leaned forward and, almost delicately, pushed his brother in the chest. Longford teetered on the brink for what felt like an eternity; then, with a look of disbelief, he fell. His scream seemed to last forever.

“I
liked
Mother,” Devoy said. “Who is the more treacherous now, dear Brother?”

Danny stared in disbelief as Devoy polished the trophy with his sleeve. He seemed in a trance, only shaken out of it when the tone of triumph from the shrieking Seraphim turned to rage. He peered over the edge of the roof.

T
hings had not gone well with the defenders in the apothecary. They had held the attacking Cherbs at the edge of the floor but had suffered many injuries. Toxique and Jamshid worked frantically. Spitfire was unconscious, Valant had taken a dart in the leg, and the Storeman was fighting with one arm dangling uselessly by his side. The bravery of the Cherbs meant that they had sustained most of the casualties, and several lay still on the floor. A
sudden onslaught by Gabriel drove the remaining attackers into a huddle.

“Don’t let them regroup,” he shouted. Pearl grabbed a sword and swung at the first attacker to get to his feet. Gabriel ran to the ward containing the injured Messengers, who were cowering together at the far end.

“Get up!” He loomed over them and they cowered even more.

“Get up and fight!”

Uncertainly, they got to their feet.

“You can stay in here and die on the floor, or you can go out and fight with glory on the wing. Messengers of Wilsons, this is your hour!”

A tall, stooped Messenger named Fred Morton rubbed his face as though shaking off the effects of sleep, then straightened his back and flexed his wings.

“Damn it, Gabriel, you’re right. What do I do?”

T
he sky around Wilsons belonged to the Seraphim. The air was dark with their wings while the trapped ravens struggled in vain. The end had come for the school, and the foul winged creatures wished to prolong their triumph. Conal, the great leader of the Seraphim, scanned the ground for carrion, but there would be time … and when Rufus Ness shouted “Savor your moment!” Conal licked his lips.

Conal looked up as he swept over the Roosts. Some commotion was apparent at the jagged entrance to the apothecary. Perhaps the Seraphim and the Cherbs were
squabbling over spoils. He flew closer. There was a melee of Seraphim and Cherbs around the aperture in the wall, the Seraphim swarming like bees. Conal moved close so that he could witness the pillage of the defeated enemy. As he did so the knot of Seraphim parted, thrown outward, their Cherb riders tumbling through the air. Through the middle of the attackers flew a squadron of Messengers, led by the steely-eyed Gabriel, like a figure of vengeance from an old book. Each Messenger carried a Cherb with a crossbow on its back, and the crossbows twanged in unison. Conal squealed with rage.

“Attack, attack them!” he commanded his troops. They turned in the air, but the phalanx of Messengers flew through them like an arrow, and Seraphim and Cherbs fell from the air in their dozens.

Conal rallied his fighters in the time it took the squadron of Messengers to circle for another attack. As they closed, the Seraphim tried to attack their flanks, flying side by side with the Messengers while the Cherbs on their backs fought each other. The Messengers had lost their immediate advantage of surprise. Many were elderly, and they were up against a vicious and experienced enemy.

The Seraphim managed to separate Fred Morton from the squadron. His Cherb fought bravely, but they were surrounded by four of the enemy. Fred’s left wing took a blow from an enemy knife, and gore dripped from both him and his Cherb defender, who was bleeding from a dozen cuts. He looked desperately for Gabriel, but his leader was not to be seen. Howling triumphantly,
the Seraphim rained blows on him until he could take no more. He spiraled downward, landing spread-eagled in a tree, where he lay unmoving, his Cherb companion beside him.

The Messengers regrouped, but there were too many Seraphim surrounding them in the air like shrieking birds of prey, harrying them, trying to separate them from their group. The Seraphim sensed the Messengers’ weariness and uncertainty and redoubled their attack. Tired blades attempted to parry. The watching Conal smiled thinly. The defenders were spent. It was only a matter of time.…

Conal heard the rushing wings before he saw them. The remaining Messengers had been roused, and Gabriel was at their head. Like a storm they fell upon the Seraphim, and this time there was no reprieve. Gabriel cut through the Seraphim like a knife, wielding a shining sword above his head, and none could withstand him. With one stroke he freed the ravens, and their fury knew no bounds. The Seraphim reeled. The Cherb attackers leapt from their backs to the ground rather than face the onslaught. The Seraphim fell back. Conal raged in vain until at last he came face to face with Gabriel.

“Draw your sword, vermin,” Gabriel said. “The time of reckoning has come.”

But Conal could not face him. He turned and fled. With a wail of terror the remaining Cherb attackers ran into the woods. The Seraphim took flight, the Messengers in pursuit, singing a battle song as they flew.

Danny couldn’t see what was going on from his hiding
place. He could only judge the battle from Devoy’s behavior. At first the man danced up and down, kissing the Treachery Trophy and clutching it to himself. His mood darkened, then rose again, and he skipped along the parapet. Then he stopped skipping and stood stock-still. Danny could hear a song of victory from below, and knew it was not the Seraphim who were singing. Devoy placed the Treachery Trophy on the parapet beside him. In the fading light Danny could see the Seraphim fleeing, pursued by the Messengers.

“It’s over,” Devoy said. “Ruined! Finished.”

A figure rose from the shadows, a disheveled, gaunt woman in a dress. Danny stifled an exclamation. Devoy didn’t see her as she made her way along the parapet, but a sweet smell drifted through Danny’s mind, a honeyed voice.…

“It is a fine evening, is it not?” Nurse Flanagan said. Devoy turned with a start. “Things have changed a little since we last saw each other.”

“You were dead.… Ambrose had you …” Devoy trailed off.

“Killed? The photograph was a fake. You disappoint me. Did you think a simple assassination attempt would succeed against me?”

“Of course not,” Devoy said, regaining his composure. “I knew you would escape.”

“I paid Fairman to bring me here.…”

“Not now,” Devoy said impatiently. “Things are going against us on the battlefield, but there may be time to turn things around. This is what I want you to do.…”

“ ‘Going against us’? There is no ‘us,’ not after your brother left me in that jail.”

“Be quiet, woman!”

“I will not be quiet.” Nurse Flanagan walked along the parapet toward him, swaying on her high heels, her hair hanging over her face, her makeup streaked.

“Damn you, woman!” Devoy snarled, gesturing to ward her away. Nurse Flanagan stepped sideways, her heel caught in the forgotten Treachery Trophy. She teetered on the edge.

“Narcusus!” She reached out and caught his hand. He tried to break free, but her grip was strong. She started to topple.

“Let go! Let go!” he shrieked. But it was too late. Nurse Flanagan fell like a stone. Devoy was jerked from his feet. One hand clutched at the parapet for a second, and then he was gone.

A SONG OF LOSS AND
UNBEARABLE LONGING

T
he defenders could not believe it: the attackers had fled, pursued to the edge of the sound and beyond by the Messengers and their Cherb allies. Those who remained turned to each other, numb with shock and sudden weariness. It was a great victory, but no one raised a cheer. Weapons were dropped; tired bodies slumped on whatever space they could find in the ruined apothecary. Others gazed aghast at the injured or at the silent bodies on the lawns below. It was not until Vandra stirred and moaned that Pearl stood up.

“It’s not over,” she said. “We have wounded to tend to. Shame on us, letting Vandra lie in the dirt after all she has given.”

Several defenders sprang to Vandra’s side, but it was Steff Pilkington who carried her to a bed.