The Fatal Strand

CHAPTER 1 THE HOMECOMING (#ulink_43a2dcff-d444-5f81-96e0-711e3b2b818a)

The chill night airs which encircled Glastonbury Tor sliced through the barren trees, crowding its lower slopes and gusting with icy vigour up the narrow track that climbed the shoulders of that steep, ancient hill. The desperate conflict between the hideous forces of Woden and the small group from The Wyrd Museum was over. Upon the Tor a horrible battle had been fought and now, for those few who remained, this was a horrible, grief-filled time.

Standing there in the cold, his school uniform providing meagre protection against the biting breeze, Neil Chapman’s flesh trembled – but the boy made no other movement.

Upon his shoulder the feathers of a mangy looking raven stirred as the bird considered his young master with its single beady eye.

‘Gelid doth the blood flow thick and laggard,’ Quoth cawed faintly. ‘Cold as a frog art thou, yet the icy breath of the Northern wind is blameless in this.’

Lifting his head, the raven gazed upon the dreadful scene which lay before them and clicked his tongue sorrowfully.

There, lying across the muddy path, was the body of Miss Veronica Webster. By the old woman’s side an eight-year-old girl knelt in the crimson pool which had formed around her, weeping hopelessly. In that macabre mire lay a rusted spearhead which was steeped in blood.

Quoth sniffed and wiped his beak upon one wing. It was a terrible moment and although he racked his decayed brain he could find no words of comfort to offer.

Beyond the sobbing figure of Edie Dorkins, several small fires burned upon the hillside and the raven stared at them thoughtfully. There the last of the enemy’s servants, the Valkyrja, were burning. The small crow dolls which had taken possession of twelve local women were utterly consumed in the greedy flames and their reviled existence in this world was finally banished forever.

It had been a terrifying contest and Quoth pulled his head into his shoulders as he counted the cost of this unhappy victory. His brother, Thought, and many others had been lost in the horrendous violence. Aidan, the mysterious gypsy who had brought Neil to Glastonbury, now lay dead upon Wearyall Hill which reared into the darkness across the valley.

Almost drowned out by the dejected cries of Edie Dorkins, the raven could hear faint whimpers from the few lucky survivors and he shook his feathers in readiness to seek them out. But, before he could unfurl his wings, a wail of sirens joined the common grief and the night began to strobe with harsh blue lights.

Turning, Quoth peered down the track. Through the screening trees he saw many vehicles gathering in Wellhouse Lane, and heard the voices of men raised in wonder and dread, amidst the confused blare of alarm and engine.

‘Squire Neil,’ the bird croaked into the boy’s ear, ‘the reckoning hath come. We art besieged and guards toil up the mountain’s side to seize us.’

Slowly, Neil Chapman wrenched his eyes away from the desolate sight of Edie and Miss Veronica and moved like one roused from a fathomless sleep, gradually surfacing back into the grim, waking world.

At first he was only vaguely conscious of the frantic sweeps the torch beams made as they blazed through twigs and branches, dazzling in the muddy puddles and searing the shadowy night. Then one of the lights shone directly in his face and he threw up his hands to ward off the blinding glare.

Suddenly, he was aware of everything: the angry, bewildered yells and the urgent progress of the figures hastening up the track.

‘There’s a kid up here!’ someone bawled.

‘This is the police,’ another barked with authority. ‘Stay right where you are.’

Captured in the accusing glare of a dozen dazzling torches, Neil squinted and automatically raised his hands whilst Quoth gave a frightened squawk and buried his beak in his wing.

‘We haven’t done anything!’ Neil protested, his mind racing. How could he possibly explain what had really happened and expect anyone to believe it?

Then the torches fell upon Edie and Miss Veronica.

‘Another two behind him!’ one of the officers cried. ‘Get the medics up here – quick.’

Edie Dorkins tossed her head at the intrusive light and she curled her mouth into a ferocious snarl. If one of those men so much as touched Miss Veronica she was ready to fly at him, biting and clawing as rabidly as any wild creature.

‘God almighty,’ someone muttered, seeing the rivulets of blood streaming from the old woman’s body. ‘Explosion or summat, they said. She’s been knifed – look at the state of her!’

The first of the policemen drew level with Neil and the confused man stared at the boy questioningly.

‘Don’t you do nothing,’ he snapped as others pushed by him. ‘What the ’ell’s gone on ’ere?’

Before Neil could reply, one of the policemen ventured too close to Edie and there followed a savage struggle as he fell backwards into the mud, with the feral girl scratching and kicking him.

It took two of the astonished officer’s colleagues to drag the fierce child away and, although they kept a firm grip of her arms, their shins suffered vicious blows from a barrage of kicks.

‘We’re not going to hurt you,’ they assured her through gritted teeth. ‘Let the doctors by to ’ave a look at her.’

‘She’s dead!’ Edie screeched in a thin, shrill voice. ‘Let her ‘lone. Don’t you touch her. Veronica! Veronica!’

Neil tugged the sleeve of the distracted superintendent, and the man started nervously.

‘Keep your hands where I can see them!’ he ordered, but Neil could tell that the policeman was almost afraid of him. Did he think that Neil had murdered Miss Veronica? The whole town must be wondering what had happened upon the Tor. Tremendous rumbles had shaken the earth and angelic fires had raged upon the summit, spreading a blistering light across the surrounding countryside. Perhaps the officer thought that he and Edie were responsible.

Watching the man’s expression, Neil was certain of it. Yet there were more immediate concerns.

‘There’s others,’ he said, nodding towards the dark hillside where the small, scattered fires still crackled. ‘People – up there. Some might still be alive.’

The superintendent stared at him for a moment, then gave a shout to the surrounding police. A group of them hurried up the track, their torches thrashing the night as they searched the surrounding slope.

Feeling helpless, Neil looked on as a team of paramedics from one of the ambulances clustered around the body of Miss Veronica. Then he saw a fat sergeant carefully place the blood-covered spearhead into a plastic bag.

‘Looks like this is what did it,’ the man said, unable to hide his ghoulish glee at having been the one to bag the murder weapon.

‘Who did this?’ the superintendent demanded sharply. ‘Did you see? Was there someone else up here?’

Neil shook his head. Upon his shoulder the raven shifted his weight from one foot to another whilst ogling the man with the utmost displeasure.

Before anything further could be said, a new, abrupt voice called out, ‘Willis, get your lads out of the way! I’ll deal with this.’

The policeman turned and shone his torch straight into the face of a man who had quickly pushed his way up the track.

Neil looked at the stranger. He was a tall, big-boned man whose greying beard framed a hollow-cheeked face that was corrugated with irritation.

‘Turn that damn thing off!’ he rapped severely.

‘Chief Inspector!’ the superintendent exclaimed, fumbling with the flashlight. ‘We’ve got a right royal mess here. I was just …’

‘I said, get your lads out of the way,’ his superior insisted. ‘Those damn reporters’ll be here before you know it. Set up a cordon right around the Tor and one over at Wearyall Hill. Hurry up, man – I mean now, not some time next week!’

Cowed by Chief Inspector Hargreaves’ unusually curt directives, Superintendent Willis set about organising what had to be done and left him alone with Neil.

Staring at the stretcher which now bore Miss Veronica’s body, Hargreaves’ face looked more sunken than ever and he gripped hold of Neil’s shoulders to steady himself. Then, in a rush of anguished words, just low enough to prevent anyone else overhearing, he implored, ‘Is it true? Can Verdandi really be dead? How can the deathless die?’

Neil stared up at him. ‘Who are you?’ he asked in an astonished whisper.

It was Quoth who answered. ‘Canst thou not perceive it, my Master?’ the raven cawed. ‘’Tis another scion of Askar who standeth afore thee. That fairest of cities doth glimmer dim yet steady in his eyes. As Aidan was, so too is this spindle-shanked bean pole – a servant of the Loom Maidens is he.’

The Chief Inspector lowered his eyes, murmuring. ‘To the descendants of Askar, the world’s first civilisation, Aidan was our leader. I’ve just come from Wearyall Hill. I – I saw him there. It’s up to the rest of us now to continue his work.’