The Devil in Green (105 page)

'He's off his rocker,' Gardener said without pausing. 'Nobody let him out in case he was dangerous.'

'Very compassionate,' Mallory muttered. He resolved to break down the door on the way back.

Daniels' room was at the far end of the corridor. The lock shattered easily under a few blows from Mallory's shoulder. Daniels lay on his bed, too weak to get up, but he rolled his head and smiled wanly when he saw Mallory.

Mallory quickly poured a cup of water from a jug next to the bed and supported Daniels' head so he could wash some on to his dry, cracked lips; it didn't look as though anyone had been in to care for him for a couple of days at least. In the background, Gardener shifted uncomfortably as if he was getting ready to run.

'Well, isn't this a pretty picture.' Daniels tried to laugh, but it became a hacking cough.

Mallory was drawn to a black stain on Daniels' trousers around his groin.

Daniels saw him looking and began to weep uncontrollably. 'They cut it off, Mallory! They cut it off!'

In horrified disbelief, Mallory turned to Gardener, seeking a denial. Gardener wouldn't meet his eyes.

Daniels' crying turned to a low giggle; his awful trial had left him balanced on the edge, his emotions untethered. 'I think they mustn't have tied off their stitches properly!' he said. 'Those boys . . . can't do anything right! But at least the bleeding's stopped now.'

Gardener was crying silently, too, wiping his eyes repeatedly in an anxious manner that suggested he, too, was on the edge of a breakdown fuelled by guilt and self-hatred. Mallory felt sickened: so much suffering and hardship, so many broken lives, and a pointlessness to it all that made it almost incomprehensible.

His thoughts were disturbed by the echoes of several pairs of feet rushing up the stairs.

'Don't leave me!' Daniels pleaded.

'You stay with him. Block the door with the bed, if you can,' Mallory said to Gardener.

'Stefan's got the relic with him all the time now,' Gardener said. 'He's locked himself in the bishop's palace.'

As he drew his sword and slipped out, Mallory saw Gardener drop to his knees and falteringly take Daniels' hand. Daniels smiled weakly.

Mallory moved tentatively into the corridor. The running feet had slowed now; they were cautious, ready for him. The flickering light of a lantern playing down the corridor told him they'd entered the ward. If they wanted a fight, his best bet was to take them in the corridor where they could only come at him one at a time. He gripped his sword ready, his mind focused, but as he passed Hipgrave's room, the play of faint light told him it was empty. Curiously, he tried the handle; it was still locked.

Before he could understand what had happened, a huge outcry erupted in the ward. He rushed to the end of the corridor to see eight Blues in furious attack caught in the glitter of a lantern lying discarded at the foot of a bed. The uncertain illumination made it difficult to discern what was going on. There was movement, hacking swords, constant running back and forth, faces caught for just an instant, white with concentration and tinged with fear. But their adversary remained firmly in the shadows so that all the motion with no result made the scene faintly comic.

But then there was a wet sound like the contents of a paint tin being thrown against a wall. One of the knights staggered back, trying to hold in his intestines. A second later, an arm skidded across the floor. Someone else backpedalled with a stump where his neck and head should have been. The butchery was so fast and clean it was mesmerising.

The flash of something that resembled an enormous arm stuck with knives snapped Mallory from his trance. He knew what it was, and he now knew who it was. Hipgrave was the host for the thing they had brought back. Of course, it had to be Hipgrave, his madness growing as he was eaten away by guilt, knowing of his crimes but unable to do anything about them. Mallory had no idea how it had passed through the locked door of the room, how it worked at all, but he did know he would be as dead as the Blues would inevitably be if he didn't move.

Mallory slipped along the wall and then clambered over the beds, ignoring the blood that sprayed over him as if it had come from a hose. He couldn't help one look into the heart of the shadows, but whatever lay there resisted any attempt to identify it.

The sounds behind him grew worse, turning his stomach; soon the thing would be finished and free to pursue him. He skidded out into the white-tiled room and came face to face with Blaine lurking in the gloom of one corner. The commander's sword was drawn.

Blaine didn't speak, didn't feel the need to for the benefit of someone so far beneath his contempt. Mallory could read it in his cold, hard eyes: Mallory was just a distraction to be dispatched at the earliest opportunity. Blaine's attention was partly distracted by the noises coming from the ward, which were winding down now.

Mallory stepped in quickly and swung his sword. Blaine was quick to block it, the collision sending jarring vibrations into Mallory's arms. But the fact that Mallory had almost caught him unawares clearly irritated Blaine. Anger flashed across his face and he launched into a calculated but relentless attack that drove Mallory on to his back foot.

Blaine was an excellent swordsman, moving with grace and strength and an eye for his opponent's weaknesses. What added to his threatening pose was an icy composure that made him a brutal machine; his features remained fixed, his arm moving with strokes timed to the millimetre and the microsecond. Mallory had learned his lessons well, but he wasn't even close to Blaine's ability.

It was all he could do to keep Blaine from driving straight through his defence into his heart. In fact, as he batted away the curt moves while backing across the room, he felt that Blaine was simply making him suffer before he decided it was time for the killing blow.

In the ward, the sounds of attack faded away.

This time, it was Mallory's turn to be distracted. Blaine saw an opening and rammed his blade through. It cracked against Mallory's shoulder blade, cutting through the skin, but Blaine whipped it back before it did any more damage; still toying.

Mallory recoiled in a brief burst of pain, but somehow managed to parry the next stroke. Cold sweat sprang up all over him.

Another blow, this time just missing Mallory's cheek but nicking his ear. Instead of defending, Mallory launched into a swift attack. It surprised Blaine, who backed off a little. Mallory kept it up, forcing Blaine to keep parrying.

Mallory knew that the Hipgrave-thing had arrived a second before a shadow fell across him, and across his soul. The monstrous gravity of it drew Blaine's gaze instantly, despite the intensity of the fight. Mallory saw the awful realisation cross his face, the ice flooding into his limbs holding him rigid. It was too late for Mallory to stop the swing of his sword. It crashed into Blaine's ribcage, sliding up to sever the artery in his armpit.

Blaine went down on his knees, clutching the wound as blood gushed out across the floor, but his face was still turned to whatever was at Mallory's back, so consumed by the horror that he wasn't even aware he was dying.

In a cold sweat, Mallory leaped forwards, casting one glance at Blaine's transfixed, final expression, not daring to look back. He could sense the thing beginning to move a step or two closer behind him. As he raced for the stairs, he heard it fall on Blaine.

More snow was falling and it was already a foot deep across the compound. As Mallory reached the edge of the cathedral, with only a short run and a few small walls to climb between him and the bishop's palace, he couldn't resist looking back. Just at that moment, the aberration emerged from Malmesbury House. At first it was Hipgrave, then something that made Mallory's mind fizz and slide, then Hipgrave again, limping, looking around deliriously as if he couldn't quite tell where he was. The ground was losing its faith-driven power under the desperate, cruel rule of Stefan. Increasingly, the beast could move freely.

Mallory ran.

Candlight glowed in one downstairs window of the bishop's palace, a faint warmth amid the darkness and silence of the cathedral compound. Stefan must have been watching, for as Mallory approached, stark against the snow, there was the crash of the front door as the bishop emerged at a run clutching an antique wooden box, his robes billowing behind him.

Mallory set off in pursuit. As they rounded the edge of the cathedral, Stefan plunged down some steps into the new buildings. Within their constantly shifting architecture, unbounded by logic, it would be easier for the bishop to evade capture. Mallory picked up his pace, but as he reached the doorway a strange winnowing, like the cry of a wounded bird, echoed eerily across the compound. He looked back to see the Hipgrave-thing sweeping across the snow towards him. Mallory slipped inside and pulled the door shut behind him, knowing it would offer no defence.

He sensed the change in the new buildings immediately. There was an unbearable atmosphere of
potency,
of a sick, crazy power leaking from every part of the fabric. Shadows were distorted; others were thrown by no obvious light source. At a distance, straight lines appeared to bend as if they were being warped by some magnetic force. This was most apparent in the long, columned corridors and the great hall, where the pillars rose to an enormous height and the roof was lost to darkness.

And the further he progressed into the building on Stefan's trail, the worse it got. Logic was cut adrift, replaced by a dreamlike chaos where nothing quite made sense. Mallory would realise that the Hipgrave-thing was behind him only intermittently, when he heard that strange bird-cry or was overwhelmed by a smell like battery acid, but mostly the corridors and rooms at his back were filled only with darkness.

After a while, time lost all meaning. It felt as if he was on a Mobius strip, passing through the same places, experiencing the same emotions. But a single thought had taken root in his mind and that was enough to drive him on: to make amends.

It was in a room lined with statues of people he didn't recognise that he met the Caretaker. Some of the statues resembled ancient Greeks, Egyptians and Celts, while others appeared vaguely non-human with pointed ears and an unusually delicate bone structure, and the Caretaker was at first lost amongst them, his giant form silent and unmoving in the shadows.

He stepped out and held up his hand, startling Mallory. 'You will never reach your prize by running, Brother of Dragons,' he said in his deep, echoing voice. You will be adrift in here for ever, never quite making up lost ground, till your time is gone or the world winds down around you. Only by going back will you achieve your aim.'

'I can't go back,' Mallory said desperately. 'There's something behind me . . . death . . .'He glanced over his shoulder.

'You know this door, Brother of Dragons.' The Caretaker motioned to a portal that hadn't been there before.

And Mallory did know it, though he tried to pretend he didn't. It had a look of the fairy-tale about it, with mysterious figures intricately carved around the stone jamb. Mallory was suddenly overwhelmed with inexplicable emotion, terrified yet trembling with an abiding sadness at the same time. 'I can't go back,' he said desolately.

Mallory took a step away from the door and found himself in front of it. 'No,' he said. He had no choice but to pass through into . . .