clearly human, there was an awkwardness to his speech as if he wasn't used to talking.
'Right. Free the psycho imprisoned in the bowels of the palace. That's a good idea.' 'I'm not a psycho. They're just… scared of me.' She laughed. 'Why would they be scared of you? You look as if you'd snap in two in a strong wind.' He didn't reply for a few seconds as he sorted his thoughts, then he said, unconvincingly, 'They just are.' 'I don't waste time talking to people who lie to me…' She made as if to go and he called her back with a desperate urging. 'I'm sorry. I'm not lying! I just… it's hard to talk, with you out there and me hanging here…' Mahalia gripped the bars. 'Well, if you think I'm coming within arm's reach of you, you've got another think coming.' She eyed the large padlock below the handle. 'Besides, there's no way I'd get through this thing.' 'You could find some way,' he said hopefully. 'How'd you get here, anyway?' 'They stole me.' 'What?' 'From my mother, when I was a baby. That's what they do… what they've always done — steal infants so they can experiment on them.' 'I don't believe you.' Empathy fanned up inside Mahalia. Then: 'You've been a prisoner all your life?' 'Since I was a baby. I escaped from them once, but now they've recaptured me and they're going to send me back to the place where they carry out the experiments — the Court of the Final Word.' Mahalia couldn't decide whether she should believe him or not. She hoped Carlton would give her some sign, but the boy's face was impassive. 'What's your name?' 'Jack.' 'How old are you?' A pause. 'I don't know.' He sensed he was making some headway with her, so he continued to talk in the hope of winning her over. 'There are two factions amongst these people-' 'I know all about that.'
'Well, this lot are neutral. They don't want to offend either side till they've decided who they're supporting, so they're not going to risk having me here as a point of contention. They're sending me back as soon as they can. I need your help. I couldn't bear to go back there again. The things they do…' He swallowed heavily. 'If I went back there'd be no point in me living.'
'Don't say that.'
'If you were in my place you'd feel the same.'
Mahalia chewed on a knuckle. She felt for him greatly, but there was also a part of what he was saying that didn't add up. She'd grown adept at recognising risk and the last thing she wanted to do was to make their situation worse.
'I need to think about this.' She grabbed Carlton and pulled him away from the door.
'Don't go!' Jack pleaded.
'I'll be back.'
'Don't go!' This time it was a yell of desperation, and she could still hear his agonised calls when she had put many, many lengths of corridor between them. Matt was lost in a maze of narrow mews when frantic cries came to him on the wind. He followed the sound out of the oppressively dark backstreets until he came up against a force of heavily armoured soldiers rushing in the direction of the walls. The silvery metal of their helmets and breastplates transformed them into a river of light washing down the dismal streets in the drizzle that had fallen ever since the group's arrival.
The urgency of their actions made Matt uneasy, and he grabbed at a woman hurrying away from the source of the disturbance. 'What's going on?' he asked.
'They attack,' she said breathlessly. 'They have found a way past the defences.' She broke away from Matt and continued on her way before turning to point an accusing finger at him. 'Your fault,' she hissed bitterly before disappearing into the throng.
Matt fought his way through the citizens swarming away from the walls until he had a clear view of the activity. That sickening purple light was everywhere, drifting like the smoke of a battlefield, and through it came hideously misshapen figures, transformed by the Whisperers like the poor hermit from the Motor Museum who had attacked them at the Rollrights. Bones protruded from limbs, skulls shone through flesh, and weapons — swords, spears, axes — had been embedded in their frames as if they were natural parts of the body. They lurched with the relentlessness of zombies from some horror movie, the purple illumination leaking out of them.
Even at that distance, Matt could sense the paralysing despair they carried with them. As the soldiers approached, they stopped in their tracks, their swords falling hopelessly to their sides. Some simply lay down on the cobbles, offering themselves up to the sweeps of the Whisperer weapons, demanding to be released from the pain of life.
The Whisperers, Matt guessed, had caught some poor travellers making their way across the plain to the court and were using them to breach whatever magical defences kept the court secure. Somehow they had clambered up the vertiginous walls to gain access to the city. The ones within were now forcing their way down the road towards the gates, to throw them open for the leaders who waited without.
There were only twelve of them, but the horde of soldiers seemed incapable of stopping them. Thirty or more of the little men already lay dead, their blood running down the stones in a claret stream, and now the others were starting to hold back, realising the futility of their attack. Without a second thought, he turned and bounded up the steep streets until he found the shop he had noticed earlier. It was a fletcher's, the interior hung with more bows of all description than he had seen in his life. The owner eyed him suspiciously, but did nothing to stop him as Matt selected one he thought he could handle, along with a quiver full of arrows, and then he was hurtling back down towards the melee.
He clambered precariously on to a water butt, steadied himself, and fitted an arrow to the bowstring. His experience instantly came into play, mechanical, cool. The bow flexed easily and he loosed the arrow straight at one of the Whisperers. It smashed into one side of his head and tore straight out of the other. The Whisperer tottered for a few seconds, as if coming to terms with the fact that his life was over, and then he crashed face down on to the stone.
The heads of the soldiers turned as one towards Matt, and then they set off for the fletcher's shop. Matt got another Whisperer, but by that time the remaining interlopers were well on the way to the gates and his view had been obscured by the jumble of rooftops pressed up tightly against the walls. Jumping from the butt, he joined the soldiers, who parted with a little grudging respect to allow him into their midst, and then they all set off in pursuit.
One Whisperer went down like a pincushion with fifteen arrows sticking out of him. Others followed, but the soldiers found it difficult to make progress over the bodies of their comrades who had paid the price for venturing too close to the pervasive, toxic emotions the Whisperers radiated.
Frustrated, Matt pushed his way back through the soldiers and ran up the street, taking a right turn through an alley until he located another route down towards the gates. The thoroughfare was completely empty, but he had to temper his run for fear of slipping and breaking his neck on the precipitous street. Finally the gates loomed up ahead of him and he fitted an arrow as he moved.
He turned a corner, ready to fire, and came straight up against a Whisperer.
The shock paralysed Matt for a second. Spears protruded from each of the Whisperer's shoulders, and the thing used them by pivoting at the waist to knock the bow from Matt's hands. The lethal tip of one of the spears narrowly missed taking one of Matt's eyes out as he threw himself backwards on to the ground.
As the Whisperer loomed over him, its shimmering purple eyes aglow, Matt felt the slow, damp creep of despair. His muscles ached; tiredness inched along his bones. He didn't have the energy to do anything but lie down, give up. The soldiers were too far away to help him. There was no point, in anything.
Yet even with his abilities shutting down, his instinct remained a powerful force. As his fingers closed on the fallen arrow, he was almost amazed to see it rising up in his hand, up and up, until it was driven into the eye of the stooping Whisperer. Matt rammed it deep into its brain then fell back wearily, but he had done enough. The despair ebbed away quickly and his strength and purpose returned.
The last remaining Whisperer was already at the gates, ready to open the intricate locking system. He was beyond the reach of the soldiers' arrows.
Matt jumped to his feet, put one foot between the shoulder blades of the fallen Whisperer and wrenched out one of the spears. In a fluid motion, he turned and hurled it. It smashed into the last Whisperer's hand, pinning it against the wood of the gate. A few seconds later, the whistle of arrows signalled an ending.
As the adrenalin seeped away, Matt sagged against a wall. He could hear the heavy trundle of the other Whisperers' mounts just beyond the gates.
His thoughts were echoed by the captain of the soldiers, who marched up to Matt holding the head of one of the Whisperers. He brandished the grisly trophy in Matt's face and said, 'This will not be the end of it.' And then he returned to his troops, the accusation hanging in the air with the hint of future menace. A plan was already forming
