Pitch swore, and Tyvain peered about, eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t see nothin’.’
‘It’s all right, they intend no harm. I think they played a part here, to aid us…but their time is done now.’
Then, as the creaking timbers of the church played a sombre tune, the souls did something quite unexpected.
Some took a knee, others bowed at their waists. Some just bobbed their heads. All of them looked at him. And only him.
Lord Death.
Their hushed reverence was unsettling. And he wondered why they would use such a name. No one but the headless horseman had done so. He wasn’t sure he wished for it to catch on.
‘Our time is well and truly done here too.’ Pitch turned him about, gesturing at the doorway. ‘Lalassu, perhaps you need to drag your Horseman a little further.’
‘Well, spank me and call me Francis,’ Tyvain declared. ‘What the ‘eck is that git doin’ up there?’
Silas turned, with Pitch muttering his annoyance at his side.
The soothsayer stood further up the aisle, hands on hips. Staring up at the window, where the virgin Mary had been replaced, by one far less pious.
‘The Dullahan,’ Silas gasped.
‘Where?’ Pitch’s hand burned with flame.
‘No, no need for that. There.’ Silas pointed. ‘In the glass.’
Byleist knelt by the fox hole, his hands raised towards its darkness. Perfectly formed hands, with slender fingers and darkened, pointed nails. His head was returned, too. The Dullahan, the elf, was just as Silas recalled from Cumberland House, when his features had shown themselves more readily. In the glasswork Byleist knelt at an angle that showed only the left hand side of his face, he had thin but reddened lips, elongated ear sharply pointed, its edge hooked with multiple gold hoop earrings, cheekbone chiselled and high, his hair the colour of ripened plumes, and so long it reached all the way to the ends of the lengthy saffron yellow tunic he wore, a sleeveless style highlighting his lithe form.
Silas stared, struck by how regal the vexatious creature appeared. ‘What has he done?’
‘All he could to ensure his precious Lord Death escaped.’ Lucifer emerged from the shadows, every bit the spectre the souls had been. ‘You did not think it willpower alone that held that gateway open for you, did you? But if you two insist on standing there gawking, it will be all for nothing. Move. The cockaigne is being sealed away, and this church will go with it.’
‘Is he trapped there?’ Silas gestured at the stained glass, feeling rather sickened at the thought of such a fate for the horseman. ‘Is there nothing we can do for him?’
He searched for the souls, thinking perhaps they might have seen how the Dullahan got himself into the bind to begin with, but his ethereal audience was gone.
‘I have no bloody idea the ways of such creatures, especially those of the UnSeelie Court. The Dullahan made his choice freely, Mr Mercer, for you. Now go, don’t waste his sacrifice.’
Another laborious groan punctuated his order. Lucifer took his own advice, striding down the aisle. His boots sloshed in the water-logged carpet but the daemon himself was dry as a desert. Not an oil-slicked hair out of place, armour shining as though freshly polished.
‘That includes you, woman.’ Lucifer barged past Tyvain.
She flicked her middle finger at the king, which he did not see on account of now barging past Silas and Pitch. ‘Move you fools.’
Dust rattled from the beams and stonework, coming down like a dry rain. Silas coughed as he ushered Pitch ahead of him. ‘Quickly, Tyvain.’
The pews Silas had unsettled jolted with the vibrations that gripped the church. The floorboards jumped beneath the carpet runner, several puncturing the deep claret carpet.
The first of the support beams fell as Silas and Pitch crossed the threshold.
‘Tyvain,’ Silas cried.
‘Right behind ya.’
They all dashed down the short flight of stairs onto the flattened-earth path that led from door to gate.
Another resounding crash emanated from the church.
Pitch and Silas turned back in unison. But there was not the destruction Silas had thought to find. Rather there was ruin. The church appeared derelict. A hundred years of growth and crumbling brickwork landed on it in a moment. The small structure, with its squat square tower and its evil eye in the stonework was consumed by thick winds of creeping brambles. Massive thorns, like sabre blades, curve off the branches, and the thick green foliage was copper tinged at the edges, giving the sense that even the leaves would be found razor sharp. The thorn nearest the door they’d just fled through had strands of bright orange hair dangling from it.
