distractions.'
But as they turned to run back up St. Julian Street, the threatening blast of a horn echoed out across the quiet town.
Church's heart skipped a beat. 'The Hunt. They're in the old town.'
As they waited uncertainly, with the dog's growls growing louder behind them, they heard a horse approaching slowly down St. Julian Street. A street light threw an enormous angular shadow across the front of the pastel houses in which Church could make out the cruel pike-weapon he had seen used so effectively on Dartmoor.
'Just one?' Veitch said.
'They're trying to flush us out.'
They turned and ran instead around the harbour, diving into an alley that led up to the Tudor Merchant's House tourist attraction. Church could feel the thundering of his blood in his ears. For a long time there was just the lapping of the waves. They both held their breath, listening. Church glanced at Witch, both ready to make their move; he held up his hand for one more listen. The faint clip-clop of hooves echoed somewhere nearby.
Church cursed under his breath. 'Good job there're lots of tiny streets and back alleys to hide in.'
'And to get cornered in. Bleedin' hell. How did I get caught up in all this?'
Keeping to the shadows, they crept quietly up some old, weathered steps and headed along another alley. At the end of it Tudor Square lay deserted and brightly lit. They listened again; silence.
'We could make a run for it,' Veitch suggested.
'If they catch you out in the open, you won't stand a chance.' Church edged forward to get a better look, but just as he closed on the light, a horse and rider loomed up in the entryway. He could smell the unearthly, musky stink of the beast's sweat, see the light glint on the rider's metal buckles and arm rings, and the odd, lambent shimmer of his greenish skin.
Just as the rider started to look down the alleyway, Veitch grabbed Church's jacket and dragged him back into the shadows of a doorway. The rider stared for a moment, as if he had seen something, and then, just as Church thought he was going to investigate, he spurred the horse and it trotted away down towards St. Julian Street.
'I thought he'd marked us then,' Veitch whispered.
'There's an alley on the other side of the road next to the bookshop I saw earlier. If we can reach that, we might be able to wend our through the backstreets to base.'
Cautiously, they crept back to the end of the alley to survey the scene. The square was empty once more.
'He's probably waiting just around that corner,' Church noted.
'What we need is a diversion.' Veitch pulled out the gun and held it at his side; he seemed to carry it easily.
'What are you going to do with that?' Church asked uneasily.
Veitch moved in front of Church, raised the gun, pointed it at a shop at the top end of the square and fired, all in one fluid motion. The thunder of the retort merged with the high-pitched shatter as the window caved in and the burglar alarm started to scream. In an instant the clatter of hooves erupted as the Huntsman burst from St. Julian Street and spurred his horse towards the shop, his sickle-pike glinting in the street light.
Once he'd passed by, they ran. Veitch had been cunning; the noise of the burglar alarm masked the sound of their running feet.
But just as they'd stepped into the road, a car sped up in the trail of the rider, so fast it almost ploughed into them. There were four youths inside, faces flushed from too much beer. The driver swerved at the last moment, screaming his rage through the open window, then hammered the horn. Church knew instantly that stroke of bad luck had ruined them. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Huntsman rein up his horse and turn it on the spot. Veitch must have seen it too, for he didn't slow for a moment; instead he powered up on to the car's bonnet and launched himself off to the other side.
Church was too near to the rear of the car to follow suit, but Veitch's actions were too much for the beer boys inside. They burst from the doors, their faces contorted with anger, fists bulging, mouthing post-pub threats in broad Welsh accents. One of them took a swing at Church and he had to throw himself back to avoid the blow.
'Come on!' Veitch yelled, as if it were in Church's power to respond.
The rider was almost upon him. Acting purely on instinct, Church propelled himself forward, past his assailant and behind one of the doors, surprising the beer boys with his tactics. The Huntsman's pike raised a shower of fizzing sparks as it ripped along the car's wing.
That resulted in another predictable outburst from the four youths. The driver stepped forward and hurled a near-full beer can. It bounced off the rider's shoulder, spraying cheap lager across the road.
He was already advancing, fists raised, when Church yelled, 'No! He'll kill you!' Another of the youths stepped in and kicked Church violently on the leg. More from shock than the agony that lanced up to his waist, Church pitched backwards, half-in and half-out of the car.
He tried to call out again, but it was too late. The driver rode forward, stabbing his pike and ripping suddenly upwards as he passed. A fountain of blood spurted, then showered down to mingle with the lager in the gutter.
The shouts were stifled in the other three youths' throats. But a second later, to Church's disbelief, they resumed their assault on the rider with force, hurling anything at him that came to hand, trying to kick out at the ghostly horse as it passed. Church didn't wait to see any more. He scrambled right through the car, rolled out on to the tarmac and was then up and running to join Veitch at the alleyway.
Overcome by despair and guilt, he glanced back and immediately wished he hadn't. The rider tore through the youths like a storm of knives, shredding and dismembering in a manner that suggested he had only contempt for humanity. The horse that was more than a horse jumped on to the car's roof, crumpling it, and then Veitch and Church were running as fast as they could along the alley.
They rounded into Cresswell Street, hoping to make their way along the front where they could lose themselves amongst the mediaeval streets before reaching the B amp;B, but the futility of their plan became immediately apparent. One rider cantered from the seafront, blocking the bottom end of the street, while another appeared at the top, their pikes raised, ready to harry them like foxes.
'Up,' Veitch croaked.
It took Church a split-second to comprehend what he was saying, and then he was running behind him and getting a leg-up on to a garage roof. He leaned over and hauled Veitch up behind him just as one of the pikes smashed into the brick with a force that belied even the formidable strength of both rider and weapon. The old buildings made it easy for them to find footholds until they could reach the bottom rungs of a fire escape, where they could scramble up to the roof. Crawling over the lip of the gutter was a terrifying experience, and once Church thought the whole frame was about to give way and plunge him to the hard pavement far below.
But eventually they were lying back on the dark slate tiles, staring at the sky as they desperately tried to catch their breath; beneath them the horses' hooves clattered insistently.
'They're not going to go away,' Veitch said redundantly.
'We could stay up here till dawn. They'll leave with the daylight.'
'You think they're just going to let us sit here? Anyway, didn't you say you'd seen them up in the sky?'
Church remembered viewing the eerie shapes among the clouds after Black Shuck's attack at the service station, but it was almost as if they had been in some transitional phase brought on by the sun's first rays. He shook his head. 'If they could, they'd have done it by now.'
He peeked over the edge. The rest of the Hunt had gathered there now, the imposing figure of the Erl-King at the heart of them. The horses snorted like traction engines as they jostled for space. A few curtains flickered in the apartments overlooking the street, but wisely, no one pursued their investigations.
'If they could rise up here in some way, I think they would have done it by now,' he said, but that didn't give him much comfort.
He had good reason to feel that way. The Erl-King raised his horn to his misshapen mouth and blew a long, aching blast. A second later it was answered by the mournful howl of a dog; not Black Shuck, Church noted-it was too thin and reedy-and then more joined in, yelping ferociously. The sound was so eerie; it almost sounded like human voices.
