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

Riley, my only true friend. Come and deliver me from this evil.

And the contradiction:

Riley, my sweet boy. Get away, far away from here. Or he will kill you too.

And Chevie could not honestly tell which wish she would prefer to come true.

Garrick settled his cloak round his shoulders and patted the silver at his neck, wrists and belt, as he did habitually dozens of times each day to ensure the protective jewelleries had not somehow been magicked away. The cold touch of the metal comforted him in a way that nothing on earth had for a long while.

Tomorrow, he told himself, I will have no need of silver.

He stood in the square of Mandrake’s Groan with the residents ranged before him, the zealots to the front, their eyes red with eagerness and the reflected crimson of the quantum rift, which they believed to be the gates of hell. The sensible stood back, close to the walls of their modest houses or shop fronts. The children of course were eager to be in the square itself – they would be poking the witch with sticks if given leave – but their mothers held them close and tight enough to stifle their breath, for there was not one woman in this place who was not in mortal fear of the Witchfinder and his accusations. And who would dare challenge him with the gates to hell yawning overhead?

Who indeed would dare accuse me? thought Garrick. Except perhaps Miss Savano, but conveniently she is a witch and has no right to speak here.

Garrick waved a dismissive hand at the militiamen who guarded Chevie.

‘Move ye back. All must bear witness to the events of this day.’

The men moved aside so that Garrick was visible to all. Even the jail and almshouse had disgorged their residents on to the main street so that all could behold the Witchfinder’s glorious achievement.

Garrick had adopted his speechifying pose: legs manfully apart and hands on hips, when Jeronimo Woulfe stepped forward.

‘Master Witchfinder, I feel it most imprudent to gather for ceremonies when danger hovers above. We must be gone from this place and seek refuge to the south.’ This suggestion sent murmurs rippling through the good folk of Mandrake. After all, it was a fool indeed who courted the devil’s wrath.

But Woulfe was not finished. He had some imagery up his sleeve. ‘At this moment, good Master Garrick, we are as ants in a boar pit waiting for the boar to fall on our poor heads. Tell me why we should not at least remove the womenfolk and children?’

It was an easy argument for Garrick to refute. ‘Refuge, you say? To the south, says you, Master Woulfe? Be my guest, says I, but know this: the fens are crawling with abominations and they converge on this town where their mistress is held captive. Anyone setting a single toe outside the border of Mandrake’s wall will surely be consumed or, worse, infected.’ Here Garrick’s tone became threatening. ‘And any person suspected of infection must of course be tried.’

Almost as one, the townsfolk reared back and a tumult of shrieks and terrified roars issued forth from the crowd.

For a moment Garrick was impressed by his own powers of oration, then he apprehended that the horror was directed not at him but rather above.

The rift, he realized. Something has issued forth.

Garrick whirled, his cloak whipping round with the speed of the turning and his silver-buckled hat toppling from his head, and he saw descending a formation of dark flecks that clung together initially, then ranged apart and grew larger as they fell.

Diverse creatures, he thought, squinting for details.

The rift belched forth another flock of creatures, one large enough to be distinguished as a tusked boar of mammoth proportions.

Jeronimo Woulfe is to blame for that, thought Garrick, with his talk of boars.

The creatures separated, most being sucked immediately back inside the rift like minnows dragged along with the undertow, but a few seemed to be on course for the town itself, including the giant boar.

Garrick pointed a rigid finger at it. ‘Now what say you, Jeronimo Woulfe? Are you for leaving now? By all means, take your family and go. Or stay by my side and watch your Witchfinder defend the faithful.’

He then turned to the militia. ‘Form a ring round the witch and, no matter what manner of creature drops from the sky, be certain that nothing gets close to the girl, or you will answer to me for it.’

Garrick had no choice but to deal with what the wormhole threw at him. However, he would not allow Riley to take advantage of his distraction.

Garrick was in two minds about the descending creatures. He had little time for these distractions, with the rift growing in power, but to defeat this monster in full view of everyone would be the ultimate proof of his own strength.

Down came the boar, howling all the way, its proportions that of a fully grown elephant, a fact only Garrick and Chevie would appreciate, and with horrifying swiftness it crashed into the chapel, sending masonry and lumber flying and spinning. For a moment all hoped that the creature was dead but Garrick knew better. He could see its aura shrugging away the impact, and he set off running in its direction before the creature could regain its senses.

Off went every musket, and the watch and the militia peppered the dazed beast with their lead shot, but the projectiles bounced like pebbles from its hide.

‘Desist! In the name of God!’ shouted Garrick to the men as he ran. ‘Do you wish to hamper my efforts?’

The shaggy boar rose, masonry dropping in chunks from its coarse hair, and Garrick could see through the creature to the man it used to be. It was there standing like a ghost inside its host: a hugely muscled warrior in a full-face helmet, wielding an axe.

A Viking, or the like. Olaf was his name. I feel it.

‘Olaf,’ he called. ‘Steady now.’

The boar was in no mood for Steady now. He kicked his hooves free of the rubble and attacked, his thundering run shaking the very ground, and Garrick thought, This will be a sight for the cheap seats. This ain’t one bit boring.

The boar opened its maw and roared, ‘ Jag kommer att doda dig!’

Which Garrick rightly interpreted as a crazed death threat and not an invitation for tea with the queen. He steeled himself for the impact, knowing it was going to smart quite a lot before his quantum foam fizzed and rushed to make him whole.

I will endeavour to grasp the tusks, he resolved. And then suck this savage dry, just as I did with the giant squid. And there won’t be a soul in this town who will dare speak of quitting the place.

Garrick laughed then for, even in a life as extraordinary as his, to fight giant squids and boars was undeniably a distraction from the humdrum day-to-day dreariness of existence. For him nothing else existed but the moment. He was child-like in his investment in the now. Immortal he may well have been, but Albert Garrick was no lover of physical excruciation and would appreciate a few less broken bones or ruptured organs on this outing.

Olaf the boar charged and the folk of Mandrake howled and fled his path, all except the brave, stupid or petrified. Jeronimo Woulfe gathered his lovely Lizzie under one arm and his dear wife, Anne, under the other and shepherded them inside his house, then took down the musket above the mantel, which he had vowed never to use again unless his ladies were in peril.

And they were in dire peril now.

Woulfe’s musket was long barrelled and rifled, and Pointer was fortunate that Woulfe did not have it with him while on the wall. It had the range to put a leaden ball in his haunch, and Woulfe had an eye for shooting too, having served his time in the militia. He’d never had occasion to wound a man, but he had once knocked the helmet from a renegade Roundhead who’d tried to scale the wall. And he had been aiming for the helmet.

‘Dearest wife and treasured daughter,’ he said to his family, ‘stay ye both inside our home and see to your prayers. I will defend the door to my last breath.’

Good Anna clung to her husband. ‘Jeronimo. Stay with us, in the name of heaven, for surely this is Judgement Day and God will spare the faithful.’

/> The mason’s face was uncommonly hard and his eyes slits of flint. ‘This be not God’s doing, I do think. There are other forces at work here.’