The Devil in Green (86 page)

He tugged gently on her hand and she looked into his face, her eyes lost in pools of shadow. 'Against all the terrible things happening in the world, we should be nothing, but it doesn't feel like that to me.'

She rested her head on his chest. Even in that place he could feel the tension in her brought on by the weight of all her obligations. Behind her confidence and power lay a woman as unsure as everybody else, desperate for a break from the demands heaped on her, someone who had managed to put her own needs to one side to do her best for others. Sensing that, Mallory felt even more drawn to her.

'We're going to make a go of this, aren't we?' she said wearily. 'It would be so nice to have someone to help with the
burden ...
of this life.'

There was a weight of belief in her voice that suddenly scared him. She was implying he had the strength, the ability, the confidence, to stand beside her, to help support her, and he was very good at presenting that view to the world; but inside, he wasn't half the man he pretended to be.

Once again she appeared to be reading his thoughts. 'You're a better man than you think you are, Mallory,' she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

'Where do we go from here?' he said. But even as the words had left his lips, he was aware that they were moving apart, not through any conscious will of their own, but as if a rope were dragging him back.

Her voice floated to him even as she was swallowed by the trees. 'I'll you soon, Mallory. In the flesh next time.'

He awoke with a start, still wrapped in thoughts of trees and a moonlit landscape. Briefly, he wondered where he was, until the warmth of the oven brought him back to earth quickly. Someone else was in the kitchen. Cautiously, he peered around the edge of the oven.

Gibson, the Canon of the Pies, was opening a padlocked larder built into one wall. It had been constructed to be almost hidden unless it was actively being sought: the doors merged with an area of wood panelling, the keyhole lying behind a swivelling, decorative rail. Only the padlock around the two handles, both disguised as ornaments, gave the game away.

Inside the larder were shelves filled with food. Mallory could see cured meats, dried fruits in jars, pickles in larger glass containers, and assorted tins. Gibson was removing what looked like salt-beef from a large Tupper- ware box and stuffing it into his mouth till his cheeks bulged. From his anxious backwards glances, Mallory understood this was Gibson's own private store. He had plainly stockpiled emergency supplies under his role as head of the kitchens to keep him well fed. Meanwhile the rest of the brothers underwent privations to ensure everyone had enough food to survive. Mallory felt a dull flare of anger. He considered confronting Gibson there and then, but he knew the canon would use his authority to deny his crime and Mallory would be the one made to suffer.

While he considered his options, Gibson finished off half of the salt-beef and followed it with two pickled onions. Then he pulled out a stoppered bottle - some fortified wine, probably brandy, Mallory guessed - and took a long draught.

Just as Mallory had reached the conclusion that he could no longer contain himself, he became aware of a sickening but disturbingly familiar smell. His heart began to pound as desperate images of the labyrinth at Bratton Camp crackled through his mind.

Gibson filled his mouth with dried apple and raisins until the contents were falling out even as he pushed more in.

Anxiously, Mallory searched for the origin of the foul odour. Gibson wasn't aware of it. He popped one whole sugary biscuit into his mouth and began to close the cupboard. At that moment, he heard or sensed something and froze. Mallory saw Gibson's fear that his sins had sought him out.

Mallory drew his sword slowly.

'Who's there?' Gibson snapped the padlock shut and turned, pressing his huge bulk against the larder. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining.

Who's there?
Mallory echoed in his head.

A shadow moved on the far edge of his vision, but was gone the instant he looked towards it.

The air in the kitchen appeared to deaden. The only sounds were the dim crackling of the logs in the oven and Gibson's laboured breathing.

The key-ring jangled as Gibson dropped it into a pocket in his robe. He wiped the saliva from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Mallory had grown taut. He scanned back and forth across the kitchen but could see no sign of any other person even though every fibre of his being told him the threat was there. Gibson, too, appeared to have come to this conclusion, for his expression was now tinged with nascent dread. He shivered, steeled himself, then began to march insistently towards the door.

The shadow reappeared, driving towards Gibson so fast that Mallory had no time to react. Half-glimpsed, it seemed to be made of glass, falling almost into view, then vanishing completely, like flashes of light illuminating a statue. At first it was undeniably human in shape, but altering as it progressed: tentacles, wings, a fan of knives, a bulking body with too many arms and legs, each blurring into the next.

Gibson only had time to let out the briefest scream. His twisted, horror- filled expression showed that the attacker had presented itself to him fully. Mallory launched himself from his hiding place, a dazzling sapphire light dancing across the kitchen from his sword.

The sheer speed and ferocity of the attacker made him feel rooted. Though barely seen, its effect on Gibson was of unyielding substance. As Mallory vaulted a preparation table, he was aware of a rapid back and forth movement and Gibson simply crumpled.

He reached the canon in seconds, but all that remained was butcher's- shop detritus, the final spark of life just winking out.

He whirled, but somehow, even at that close range, the monstrous attacker had become lost to him. Yet as he searched, the light from his sword created a shadow where none should be, away by the doors into the storerooms; and it was the shadow of a man.

As it attacked, he brought up his sword, hoping whatever power it held would be enough. The blue glow illuminated something so foul his conscious mind refused to accept it, but at that point he realised - as he had known at Bratton Camp - that he could never defeat it alone. He turned and sprinted out into the snowy night.

Things only fell into place when he was sucking in the freezing air, finally accepting that nothing was going to come out of the open door. Downcast before, his mood was beginning to fan into despair.

The killer wasn't human at all: somehow they had brought the thing from Bratton Camp back with them.

He ran into the cathedral to raise the alarm. Compline was just coming to a close. Before he had time to yell out, Blaine ran over and gripped his arm. 'Shut up, you idiot! Do you want to start a panic?' he hissed. He could see from Mallory's face that something terrible had happened.

Roeser, the Blues' captain, manhandled Mallory out into the night while Blaine attempted to convince the brothers that all was well. After Mallory revealed what had happened, Roeser gathered a coterie of Blues and rushed to the kitchens, leaving Mallory with Blaine, two other Blues and Broderick, who watched Mallory closely with his inquisitor's eyes.

Stefan arrived shortly with the knight sent to summon him, and spoke hurriedly with Blaine before they both approached Mallory. Blaine looked hateful, but Stefan remained as emotionless as ever.

'Do you swear now before God that you did not kill Gibson, and before him, Cornelius, our beloved bishop, and his assistant, Julian?' Stefan asked abruptly.

At first, Mallory was taken aback, but then he saw the hardness in Blaine's face and realised the connections that had been made. 'No, I did not,' he said forcefully. 'I've already told what I saw.'

'He's lying,' Blaine said. 'I've had him under observation for a while. He can't be trusted.'

Mallory didn't flinch in the face of the accusations. 'I have not killed. I could never do anything like that.'

'Not even in the service of God?' Stefan said slyly. He softened as he turned to Blaine. 'We must not distrust this young knight,' he said. 'He has made his vow before God. He has proved himself in the past as a good crusading Christian.'

Mallory didn't believe him for a second.

'Besides,' Stefan continued, 'we will shortly be putting all of our good souls to the test. Then the truth will be there for all to see.'

Mallory wondered what Stefan meant by this, but he didn't have time to consider it for Roeser ran up, looking more worried than Mallory had ever seen him.

Blaine recognised it, too. 'What is it?' he barked.

'No sign of the perpetrator, sir,' he replied. His lips had grown thin and white. 'But the storerooms have been ransacked.' He looked from Blaine to Stefan and back. 'All our supplies have been destroyed.'

The assault on the walls began soon after, with a ferocity that took them all aback. Mallory could hear the clattering against the gates even from outside Blaine's office, where a council had been hastily convened. When Roeser made his announcement, Mallory had seen Stefan blanch for the first time. They all knew what it meant: starvation on a mass scale within days. They were already at a low ebb; there wasn't much chance of hanging on longer without any food at all.

The voices echoed dully through the office walls while Mallory thought of Sophie and whether all that potential would ever be achieved. He didn't fear death. For so long, it had almost felt as if he had been shuffling through life in a dream, simply waiting for the end to turn up. Now that it had, he wasn't surprised. But he was sad that he might not be there for Sophie, as she had hoped.

There were still options. He considered dropping over the cathedral walls and attempting to dodge the hellish creatures beyond; he guessed one or two would try that before long. Oddly, he still had hope; that surprised him. He thought hope had long since been excised from his system.

The council had been talking for a good hour. Mallory stretched his legs, then slid down the wall to sit for a while, no longer caring if Blaine emerged to castigate him for not standing tall and erect as a knight should. He knew they'd only brought him along because they didn't want him passing news of the crisis to anyone else.

Through the window he saw fire erupt against the eastern wall. Part of the masonry crumbled, and the regular crew of guards and knights who manned the defences every evening set about desperately trying to shore up what was left.

As he watched, two things struck him: firstly, that the enemy appeared to know of events within the cathedral - the attack had clearly coincided with the murder and the destruction of the supplies; and secondly, not only had the enemy grown stronger, but the defences had also grown weaker. It was this that intrigued him the most. On the surface there should be no rational reason why the cathedral's defences were starting to fail. But what he had learned over the previous weeks about the nature of the Blue Fire hinted at the reason.

The earth energy, whatever designation was chosen for it, was a power of the spirit, strengthened by belief. To the pagans it was the essence of nature. To Christians it was the spirit and power of God. The same force, different ways of approaching it. The same undeniable pathway to the numinous.