The Night's Dawn Trilogy (49 page)

High above the treetops, the kestrel wheeled and turned in an agile aerial dance, using the fast streams of hot, moist air
to stay aloft with minimum effort. Laton always allowed the bird’s natural instincts to take over on such occasions, contenting
himself simply to direct. Down below, under the almost impenetrable barrier of leaves, people were moving. Little flecks of
colour were visible through the minute gaps, the distinctive pattern of a particular shirt, grubby, sweaty skin. The kestrel’s
predator instincts amplified each motion, building up a comprehensive picture. Four men carried the body of the boy on a makeshift
stretcher. They moved slowly, picking their way over roots and small gullies, all of them labouring under an air of reluctance.

Ahead of them was the main body of men, led by Supervisor Manani. They walked with a bold stride. Men who had a purpose. Laton
could see it in the stern, hate-filled faces, the grim determination. Those that didn’t have laser rifles had acquired clubs
or stout sticks.

Trailing way behind everyone else the kestrel saw Ruth Hilton and Rai Molvi. Weak, dejected figures who never said a word.
Both lost in their own private guilt.

Horst Elwes was left by himself in the small clearing. He was still curled up on the ground, shivering quite violently. Every
now and then he would let out a loud cry, as if something had bitten him. Laton suspected his mind had gone completely. It
didn’t matter, he had fulfilled his role beautifully.

Leslie Atcliffe broke surface ten metres away from the end of Aberdale’s jetty, a creel full of mousecrabs clamped between
his hands. He rolled onto his back, and began to kick towards the shore, towing the creel. Rifts of gun-metal cloud were starting
to slash the western horizon. It would rain in another thirty minutes, he reckoned.

Kay was sitting on the shore just above the water, opening a creel and tipping the still wriggling mousecrabs into a box ready
for filleting. She was wearing a pair of faded shorts, halter made out of a cut-up T-shirt, boots with blue socks rolled down,
and a scrappy dried-grass hat she had woven herself. Leslie enjoyed the look of her lean body, a rich nut-brown after all
these months in the sun. It was another three days until they would have a night together. And he liked to think Kay enjoyed
screwing with him more than the others. She certainly talked to him the rest of the time, like a friend.

His feet found the shingle and he stood up. “Another lot for you,” he called. The mousecrabs slithered and squirmed round
each other in the creel, ten at least; narrow flat bodies with twelve spindly legs apiece, brown scales that did resemble
wet fur, and a pointed head ending in a black tip like a rodent nose.

Kay grinned, and waved at him, her filleting knife gripped in her hand, steel blade glinting in the sun. That grin made his
whole day worthwhile.

The search party emerged from the jungle forty metres away from the quay. Leslie knew something was wrong straight away. They
were walking too fast, the way angry men walk. And they were heading towards the jetty, all of them, fifty or more. Leslie
stared uncertainly. It wasn’t the jetty, they were heading for him!

“God’s Brother,” he murmured. They looked like a lynch mob. Quinn! It had be something Quinn had done. Quinn who was always
so smart he never got caught.

Kay twisted round at the sound of the low rumble of voices, shielding her eyes from the sun. Tony had just surfaced with a
full creel; he was watching the approaching crowd in confusion.

Leslie looked behind him, over the river. The far shore with its muddy bank and wall of creeper-bound trees was a hundred
and forty metres away. It suddenly looked very tempting, he had become a strong swimmer over the last few months. They wouldn’t
catch him if he started straight away.

The first members of the crowd reached Kay where she was sitting. She was punched full in the face without the slightest warning.
Leslie saw who did it, Mr Garlworth, a forty-five-year-old oenophile who was determined to establish his own vineyard. A quiet,
peaceable man who was fairly reclusive. Now his face was flushed, berserker exhilaration lighting his features. He grunted
in triumph as his knuckles connected with Kay’s jaw.

She cried out in pain and toppled over, a bead of blood spurting from her mouth. Men clustered round, kicking at her with
a fierceness that rivalled a sayce’s blood-lust.

“Fuck you!” Leslie yelled. He slung the creel away and drove his legs through the knee-high water towards the shore, sending
up long tails of spray. Kay was screaming, lost behind the flurry of kicking legs. Leslie saw the filleting knife slash once.
One of the men fell, clutching at his shin. Then a club was raised high.

Leslie never heard nor saw if it fell on the battered girl. He cannoned into the band of villagers who were racing down the
slope at him. Powel Manani was one of them, a big fist cocked back. Leslie’s world disintegrated into a chaos where instinct
ruled. Fists slammed into him from all directions. He lashed out with blind violence. Men shouted and roared. His hair was
gripped by a meaty hand, strands making a terrible ripping sound as they were torn slowly out of his scalp. A torrent of foam
raged around him, almost as though he was fighting under a waterfall. Fangs clamped around his wrist, dragging his arm down.
There was snarling, the snap of splintering bone that went on interminably. Pain was everything now, flooding down every nerve.
Somehow it didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should. He couldn’t strike back the way he wanted to now. His arms didn’t
respond. He found he was on his knees, vision fading away into pink-grey streaks. The muddy river water was boiling scarlet.

There was a moment when nothing happened. He was being held prone by invincible hands. Powel Manani towered in front of him,
his thick black beard soaked and straggly, grinning savagely as he lined himself up. In the silent pause, Leslie could hear
a child wailing frantically somewhere off in the distance. Then Powel’s heavy boot smashed into his balls with all the force
the brawny supervisor could summon.

The pulse of agony knocked out every other thread of awareness. Leslie was cut off from life at the centre of a dense red
neon mist, feeling or hearing nothing from outside. There was only the sickening pain.

Red turned to black. Twinges of sensation oozed back in on him. His face was being crushed into cold gravel. That was important,
but he couldn’t think why. His lungs ached abominably. With his jaw shattered and useless, Leslie tried to suck air through
his mashed nose. The Quallheim’s grubby, blood-stained water rushed into his lungs.

Lawrence Dillon was running for his life, running away from the insanity that had claimed the inhabitants of Aberdale. He
and Douglas had been working in the allotments behind the A-frame when the villagers arrived back from the search. The tall
bean canes and flourishing sweetcorn plants had partially hidden them from view as the men attacked Kay and Leslie and Tony
down by the river. Lawrence had never seen such a display of wanton violence before. Even Quinn wasn’t that rabid, Quinn’s
violence was directed and purposeful.

Both he and Douglas stood mesmerized as their fellow Ivets disappeared beneath the blows. Only when Powel Manani came wading
out of the river did they think to flee.

“Split up,” Lawrence Dillon yelled at Douglas as they crashed into the jungle. “We’ll stand more chance that way.” He heard
that monster hound, Vorix, barking loudly behind them, caught a glimpse of it racing across the village clearing in pursuit.
“Get to Quinn. Warn him.” Then they peeled apart, tearing through the undergrowth as if it was made from tissue paper.

Lawrence found a small animal path a minute later. It was becoming overgrown, deserted by the danderil ever since the village
had been built. But it was good enough to give him an extra burst of speed. His tatty shoes were falling apart, and he only
had shorts on. Creepers and branches tore at him with needle-sharp claws. Irrelevant. Living was all that mattered, building
distance from the village.

Then Vorix went after Douglas. Lawrence threw a wordless cry of thanks to the Light Brother for sparing him, and slackened
off his pace a fraction, scanning the ground for suitable stones. The hound would find him as soon as it had dispatched Douglas.
The hound could pick up scents even in the damp jungle. The hound would lead the villagers to any hidden Ivet. He must do
something about it if any of them were to have the slightest chance of surviving this day. And that bastard supervisor didn’t
know just how big a menace those who followed the Light Brother could be to any who stood in their way. The thought lifted
his spirit, enabling him to throw off some of the panic. He had Quinn to thank for that. Quinn had shown him there was no
fear in true release. Quinn had helped him find his own inner strength, showing him how to embrace the serpent beast. Quinn
who featured so powerfully in his dreams, a dark fantasy figure crowned in searing orange flames.

Grimacing at the multitude of scratches he had picked up during his mad flight, Lawrence looked around with a determined gaze.

Powel Manani was used to seeing the world through Vorix’s eyes. It was a prospect of blues and greys, as if every structure
was bonded together from layers of shadow. Trees stretched far overhead until they vanished into an almost hazy veil of sky
and the bushes and undergrowth of the jungle loomed in oppressively, black leaves flicking aside like cards snapped down by
an expert dealer.

The robust dog was chasing down an old animal track after Lawrence Dillon. The young Ivet’s scent was everywhere. It lay like
an oily mist in the footprints left behind in the soft loam, it wafted down from the leaves he had brushed against. Occasional
spots of blood from lacerated feet were soaking into the spongy loam. Vorix didn’t even have to press his nose to the ground.

Sensations flowed into Powel’s mind, the tireless bands of muscle pumping in his haunches, tongue lolling over his jaw, hot
breath flaring in his nostrils. They were a duality, Vorix’s body, Powel’s mind, working in perfect fusion. Just like they
had when the dog caught up with Douglas. Animal attack reflexes and human skill combined into a syn-ergistic engine of destruction,
knowing exactly where to strike to cause the maximum damage. Powel could still feel the soft flesh giving beneath hardened
paws, the taste of blood lingered long after fangs had punctured the lad’s throat, severing the carotid. Sometimes the rustling
breeze seemed to carry Douglas’s gurgling cries.

But that was just a foretaste. Soon it would be Quinn who faced the dog. Quinn who would scream in fright. Just like little
Carter must have done. The thought spurred both of them on, Vorix’s heart thudding gleefully.

The scent trail petered out. Vorix lumbered on for a few paces then stopped and raised his blunt head, sniffing intently.
Powel knew a frown would be crinkling his own face. There was a touch of rain in the air, but not nearly enough to wash away
such a strong trace. He had almost caught up with Lawrence, the Ivet couldn’t be far away.

There was a soft thud behind the dog. Vorix whipped round with electric speed. Lawrence Dillon stood on the track seven metres
away, crouched on bloody feet as though he was about to spring at the dog, a fission blade in one hand, some kind of vine
loop in the other.

The lad must have backtracked and scampered up one of the trees. Cunning little shit. But it wouldn’t do him any good, not
against Vorix. His only chance had been to drop on the dog and plunge the knife in before either of them realized what was
happening. And he’d blown it.

Powel laughed as the dog started its run. Lawrence twirled the length of vine around. Too late Powel realized it was weighted
with oval stones. Vorix was already leaping as the supervisor’s mind bawled its warning. Lawrence let go of the bolas.

Insidious coils of vine snagged Vorix’s forelegs with a barely audible
whirr
, the spinning cord biting sharply into his fur. One of the stones knocked heavily against his cranium, sending a shower of
pain stars down the affinity link to daze Powel. Vorix crashed into the ground, slightly groggy. He flexed round trying to
reach the vine with his teeth. An incredibly heavy mass landed hard on his back, nearly snapping his spine. His breath was
knocked out of his lungs, winding him. Several ribs cracked. Hind legs scrabbled frantically for purchase to try and buck
the Ivet off.

An excruciating lance of pain fired into Powel Manani’s brain. He yelled out loud, stumbling around. He felt one knee give
out, and pitched over. For a moment the affinity link wavered, and he saw a ring of villagers gazing down in dismay. Hands
reached out to steady him.

Vorix had frozen in pain and shock. There was no feeling at all from one of his hind legs. The dog squirmed round on the rucked
loam. His leg was lying on the bloody grass, twitching and jerking.

Lawrence cut the second hind leg off with his fission knife. Blood hissed and steamed as it bubbled over the radiant yellow
blade.

Both of Powel’s legs were being squeezed by tourniquets made from bands of ice. He fell leadenly to sit on his rump, breath
wheezing out of parched lips. His thigh muscles were spasming uncontrollably.

The fission blade penetrated Vorix’s left mandible joint, skewering through muscle, bone, and gristle. Its tip emerged into
the back of his mouth, severing a large portion of the tongue.

Powel started to gag, fighting for breath. His whole body was shaking wildly. He vomited weakly down his beard.

Vorix was emitting a harrowing whining from his ruined jaw. Sallow eyes rolled round, glazed with pain, trying to find his
tormentor. Lawrence aimed a blow at each of his forelegs, slicing clean through the knees, leaving the dog with stumps.

At the far end of a murky whorled tunnel, Powel saw the sandy-haired teenager walk round in front of the dog. He spat on Vorix’s
squat muzzle. “Not so fucking smart now, are you?” Lawrence shouted. Powel could barely hear him, his voice sounded as though
it was coming from the bottom of a deep rocky shaft. “Want to play chase again, doggy?” Lawrence did a little jig, laughing.
Vorix’s stumps knocked feebly against the soil in a parody of walking. The sight sent him off into another bout of laughter.
“Walkies! Come on, walkies!”