The oaf had chosen to deliver himself to this altar. Pitch should have hit him over the head, and dragged them both back to where Old Bess waited.
‘Godsdamn it, you are the cause of this,’ he snarled, at himself.
Hehad decided to be a chivalrous arsehole and return for the simurgh. Silas had wanted to leave the cockaigne at once.
The water played at Pitch’s armpits now. He stood, quickly. Not wishing to be reminded of that other great calamity. The flood. Somewhere behind him, where the tunnel had spat them out, the churn of water was strong. This cave would be a fishbowl before too long.
A cry battered its way through the screams of the ravens. Silas erupted from their midst in a spray of fine water and a plume of that delicate black smoke. He threw his arms into the air, and there was immediate silence.
The flock turned to dust. Raining down around the ankou.
He slumped back into the water, shoulders heaving, head bowed. He had his back to Pitch still…and it was a sickening sight.
‘Oh, Sickle.’
The ankou was covered in blood. Nothing of his coat remained, and with his shirt gifted to Pitch it meant that Silas was bare, deep holes in his flesh visible. The pale white of his scalp could be seen in places where the ravens had torn his hair free.
‘Silas.’ Pitch lunged forward, and nearly wrenched his shoulder from its socket when the ring held him back once more.
‘Not yet, Pitch. It is not done.’
It was true the funereal air had not vanished with the ravens. This place was still the bleak. But enough was more than enough.
‘Oh, we are done with this, I assure you.’
Silas lifted his hand. Great chunks were missing from his forearm, the blood flowing from the fresh wounds.
Above him the black smoke gathered into one heaving mass. Twisting and folding in on itself whilst Silas just watched.
‘What are you doing, you fool?’ Pitch shouted. ‘Fight.’
He was one twitch from sending the flame into that black-hearted mass.
Stay your hand, daemon. Heed him.
The whisper inside Pitch’s skull made him jerk, and clutch at his ears. His cry rang out, in a cave that had gone terribly silent.
‘Help him,’ he hissed. He suspected he knew who cautioned him, and it only made him more furious. ‘One bat of a dead eyelid and you could turn the tide here, goddess.’
Silas’s goddess, who seemed to like nothing more than to watch him suffer in her service.
The smoke found its form. And what else could it be but a raven? An enormous gods-damned raven. Large as a garuda, but with none of the beauty of that creature. This spectral monstrosity reeked of menace, of destitution and hurt.
‘Almost done, Pitch,’ Silas gasped.
‘Yes, you are, Silas. I beg you, let me help.’
The raven opened its maw and its cry was like the end of the world . The creature stretched its wings, the tips reaching from one side of the cave to the other, rising up over the ankou, black as a storm. Darkening all the crevices, despite the brightness of Pitch’s flame.
Do not interfere.Pitch winced at the pressure inside his head as Silas’s goddess laid down her command.He shall bring down Morrigan. Do not stand in our way.
The terrible pinch at Pitch’s finger ceased. The ring slipped from his finger, dropping into the water before he could lunge for it.
Silas turned his head, his face a bloody profile. ‘Almost done,’ he whispered and Pitch’s pulse skipped.
The ankou lowered his hand, submerging it beneath the waters. When he raised it again he held a huge scythe. Not of wood and crude blade, as he’d had with Black Annis, here the long handle was wrapped in tight winds of pristine white rope, and the blade, a massive thing, was clear as glass with a silver frame. Recalling Balthazar Crane’s glasses, it was not hard to image where they’d found their place on the new scythe. And the rope on the handle, could only be the string of the bandalore.
The goddess’s massive raven descended. And Silas rose off his knees to meet her. His injuries made Pitch’s blood burn, the tears in his flesh unforgivable.
