The Forever Man (W.A.R.P. 3)

And they did have at it, with speed and brutality. The toad gave a good account of itself, notably with headbutts, but ultimately was skewered and rolled back into the water.

Garrick affected an anxious mood. ‘The witch sends her minions. She would destroy us all. Forward, men, forward, though our bellies and the very elements are against us.’

So forward it was, through the fog that would not be banished, until the sun accepted defeat and sank into the marsh, or so it seemed, and the stars blinked their watery eyes through the gloom.

In spite of his great speech of a few hours earlier, it was Albert Garrick who tired first, for he had been awake for many hours now and had done battle with a giant creature. Even though the dark matter had repaired his form, his mind was weary and he thought he would lie himself down by a tree and perhaps sleep a half of the hour.

And thus, when a tree presented itself, Garrick ordered the men to continue their search and leave him to pray for their success. The militiamen were less than happy to move forward through the failing light without their leader, but who among them would question Albert Garrick? Not a one. Obediently they checked their loads and powder, finished whatever provisions they had, and plodded ever further into the vastness of the fens.

In fact, this tree that Garrick chose was the very one from which Riley had been spying on the band. From afar initially, but then ever closer as the group took an unexpected turn and seemed to head directly for him.

Have I been careless and eyeballed? Riley wondered. Will those men deal as brutally with my person as they did with those other creatures?

But they could not have seen him, he reasoned. The light was dim and his form was well hidden by foliage. Also was he not a master at the art of concealment? Perhaps Albert Garrick could find him if he was looking, but there had been no contact from the town, of that Riley was certain, so he concealed the blade of his axe beneath his cloak and hugged the branch on which he lay.

When Garrick lay down in the lee of the mighty tree and turned on his side, with a root as his pillow, Riley could not believe what he was seeing. For there, directly below him, all wrapped up in cloak and hat, with his head raised on a virtual chopping block, was the man he had come to slay.

On a platter, he is, Riley realized. A chance like this will never come again.

Riley knew he could have the man’s head off in a flash.

I could be off and running with that head before Garrick’s body has ceased its spasming.

That he was even considering such a ghoulish act caused his stomach to churn.

This would see me swing back in London, he thought. And I would indeed deserve to dance the Newgate Jig.

Riley gripped the axe’s handle and it felt greasy in his fingers. I must do it, he thought. I must sacrifice my soul for Chevie’s life.

But could he?

Could he feel the axe blade sink through flesh and bone, no matter that the bone was evil to its marrow? And could he then carry the severed head by the lank hair, with Garrick’s eyes rolling at him, to a safe distance so he could set it alight and bury it?

Strangely it was Garrick’s own voice that Riley heard in his head: Go on, son. Do it. Make your bones. Lively now, opportunities the likes of this don’t grow on trees. Ha ha.

Garrick would not have passed up the opportunity to make one of his dark jokes. Gallows humour was his most favourite type.

I must strike, thought Riley, and the axe blade was strangely warm against his cheek. I must.

From a good distance came the report of a single gunshot, echoing flatly over the marsh.

Riley glanced in the direction of the shot, and then immediately down at Garrick, but the Witchfinder had not been disturbed, and the boy was almost disappointed that his chance was still open to him and now he must make a decision.

There is no decision. I have no choice.

And so, committed to action, Riley grasped a branch, swung himself down, making no more noise than a falling leaf, and landed square beside Garrick in the perfect position for the strike. Inch perfect he was and there would never until Judgement Day be a better opportunity.

You will be a blight on this planet no more, he thought, and raised the axe high.

The instrument was familiar in his hands, for had he not learned to throw every blade known to man as part of his training? And he knew the edge was sharp just by a look, for a starlight seemed attracted to it and collected in ruffles along the swirls left by a whetstone.

So no excuses.

Strike! he told himself. Strike!

Yet he hesitated. To cleave a man’s head from his body, even when he was a monster like Garrick – this was a terrible act.

Strike! Damn you for a fool. Think on Chevie.

But he could not. The bad blood did not run through his veins and he could not murder a man in his sleep.

He is not a man.

Riley knew this and he still could not do it. He felt the flush of shame and anger rise in his cheeks.

‘You best be to work, son,’ said a voice over his head. ‘I ain’t going to lie there all night. Oh, bless me, I ain’t lying there at all.’

Riley’s shoulders slumped. A dupe. Of course. This whole time. He kicked Garrick’s cloak and there was nothing in it but cloak.

The gunshot had given Garrick the moment he needed to slip away and climb the tree, leaving Riley to stalk his wardrobe.

Riley looked up and there was his master, his stockinged feet dangling, astride the very same branch that had borne Riley moments earlier.

‘I left the boots for effect,’ Garrick said. ‘You have lost your touch, Riley my boy. I spotted you an hour since. And now you are distracted by a gunshot like some wide-eyed punter. I feel shame for you, son.’

‘I ain’t your son,’ said Riley, gripping the axe with new resolve.

‘Too right, you ain’t,’ said Garrick. ‘I brought you up to seize the moment and look at you, dithering like a child in a sweet shop. You ain’t got the gumption, boy. You never did.’

Riley took a step back to give himself room to swing. ‘Maybe, but what I do have is an axe.’

Garrick was not in the least bothered by this. ‘Tell me, the Cat’s Collar. How did you figure it out?’ He winked. ‘It was my own blasted vanity, wasn’t it? That would be my downfall, if that were possible.’

Riley needled him. ‘It is possible, though, ain’t it? The wormhole will have you, Albert Garrick. And next time you ain’t coming out.’

Garrick’s eyes flashed but he recovered himself. ‘I’m working on that, boy. I have the bones of an idea, as it were.’

Riley hefted the axe, figuring to brazen it out. He reckoned he was done and dusted but might as well go down swinging, as the pugilists of Covent Garden would say.

‘I have a bang-up idea of my own, Albert Garrick,’ he said belligerently.

Garrick moved suddenly, hoisting himself up on to the branch and squatting there like a monkey. ‘So I see. Lop my head off, was it? Bury it some place far away.’ He tilted his head. ‘That might have worked. A pity you will never know.’

It struck Riley that he was the younger man, with a lethal weapon to boot, and still he felt outmatched and, if he was honest, doomed.

‘Come on then, sir,’ he challenged. ‘Let’s be about our business.’

Garrick smiled. ‘At least you go down into the dirt with some spirit. I like it when they have spirit.’

With that comment, Garrick leaped high into the air and seemed to hang there suspended, lips drawn back in a vicious snarl, arms spread wide like the wings of a vulture.

And there he hung.

And did not descend.

Pinned to the sky, it seemed.

Riley could not understand it. What is happening here? Garrick can fly?

But if Riley was puzzled, then Albert Garrick was even more so.

‘What devilment is this?’ he said, and actually seemed comical in his amazement.

Albert Garr

ick.

Comical.

The words did not seem to fit together, and that impression was fleeting, as Garrick fought the forced levitation, concentrating till a vein pulsed in his forehead and slobber dripped from his lips.

Comical no more.

Riley felt a tug on his own person like a gust of wind at his back and, although he was not lifted from the ground, he recognized the sensation. The attraction. And his eyes were drawn upward.

There, in the twilit sky, was a slash of copper light. A tear in the sky that might be a sunset-tinged cloud, but Riley knew that it was not, for it called to him the way no mere cloud ever could.

The wormhole is here. In this world.

This was terrifying. That science was no longer in control. Now the wormhole had come looking for them and there would be no need for dematerialization.

On the bright side, it wanted Garrick most of all.

But Albert Garrick would go nowhere easily. He grasped a branch and held on.

He’s holding a branch, thought Riley. And I have in my hands an axe for chopping wood.

So the lad ran round to the other side of the tree, where Garrick could not reach him without releasing his hold, and hacked at the branch. It seemed less awful somehow than chopping a man’s head from his body.

‘Up you go, Garrick,’ he cried with each swing. ‘Up you go.’

Garrick howled and cursed him for a traitor for here above him was the only thing he truly feared. It was not that the wormhole would kill him; it was that it would undo him. Which was worse somehow.

The branch was stout but the axe was sharp. The branch yielded with a splintering crack.