Jack of Ravens by Mark Chadbourn Page B

his mouth. A deep cold had materialised in the pit of his stomach: a warning sign, though there was no movement and no sound beyond the driving rain.
    ‘What is wrong?’ Jerzy hissed.
    ‘Something’s coming.’ Church clutched at the dry, ancient wood of the porch wall.
    Jerzy looked out past the water sheeting off the porch roof. As if on cue, the staccato
clip-clop
of hoofs on the cobbles rose up. Church’s heart was pounding so hard he thought it would burst. Blue sparks fizzed around his fingers and when he removed his hand from the wall an imprint was burned in the wood. Jerzy’s white face glowed in the gloom. Now he could feel it, too. He clearly wanted to ask Church what was approaching, but the words would not come.
    The steady hoof-beats drew nearer. It was the sound of a rider taking his time, surveying the area. From around a sharp bend came a shape darker than the surrounding shadows. Church held his breath as it approached the first circle of torchlight.
    The horse appeared first, a strong black stallion liveried in black leather, but with armour on its head and around its eyes, though much of it was crusted with brown rust. The rider too was swathed in black. A sodden cloak hung like bat-wings, and beneath it was a long black tunic, though it was so terribly tattered it appeared to have been stitched together from rags. Underneath that, Church could just glimpse dull flashes of armour, all of it rusted. The cowl of the cloak was pulled low over the rider’s head to keep off the driving rain.
    Though he did not know why, Church buried himself in the depths of the porch next to Jerzy’s now-trembling body.
    When the rider was just a few feet away, he reined in his mount so that both man and beast were stock still, listening, smelling, sensing.
    He wants me
, Church thought.
He can feel the Pendragon Spirit in the same way I can feel whatever drives him
.
    And then the rider looked in Church’s direction and it felt as if the world was falling away.
    It was Etain, her dead, mouldering face accusing him of betrayal. Her eyes burned across the gulf between them, and they spoke of a deep, abiding hatred that even the grave could not soothe.
    Church stumbled away from that chilling gaze before she saw him, but she was already urging her horse gently towards the porch. From beneath her cloak she slowly drew a rusty sword that made a grinding noise as it rasped from the scabbard.
    Church had no weapon with which to defend himself, but how could he oppose her anyway when deep down he believed she was right to hunt him for vengeance?
    Thunder boomed and forked lightning threw the street into stark relief. Church’s heart jumped along with it. He might get a little way down the street before Etain ran him down and took off his head with that rusty sword. He might even get a little further, but he knew from what he saw in her face that she would never relent, however far or fast he ran. Sooner or later he would feel the cutting edge of her revenge.
    Fear was mounting in Jerzy, too. His grin now looked sick and horrified beneath his terrified eyes, and he clutched Church’s shirt pleadingly. Looking around, Church’s gaze lighted on a possible escape route.
    ‘Follow me. Keep low,’ he whispered into Jerzy’s ear. Church saw the Mocker silently put all his trust in him, just as Etain and the others had done.
    Church bounded into the pouring rain. The horse reacted with a feral hiss, raising its head and baring its teeth with a viciousness uncharacteristic in horses. Etain’s sword ripped fully from its scabbard and sliced through the air. Church ducked low and kept running as the sword whisked mere inches above his head. Behind him, Jerzy shrieked like a little girl.
    Church had to fight to keep his footing on the wet, slippery cobbles. He splashed through a puddle almost as wide as the street and propelled himself upwards to grab a wrought-iron mounting supporting a creaking sign that read ‘Hardwick