An immense circle of iron chains had been placed in the middle of the earth floor. It was wider than any circle I’d ever seen, maybe thirteen feet in diameter. And the chains themselves were vast; they were like the ones you saw at the London docks mooring ships to the harbor posts. They must have weighed a ton.
The reason for all this iron was instantly apparent. Inside the circle were Visitors.
Many of them.
Perhaps because of the restrictive power of the chains, they manifested only as pale gray shapes, superimposed upon each other and moving from side to side, like schools of fish in an undersized tank. Faint as they were, I could tell they weren’t Shades or Lurkers or other feeble Type Ones. These were forceful spirits. It was their collective energies that I’d felt all the way back in Aldbury Castle.
Their Sources had been piled up inside the circle. You could just see them, lying on the ground below the restless, drifting forms. I knew at once that these were the objects looted from the furnaces, taken from the relic-men, purchased and stolen and gathered across London. They had been removed from their protective jars and cases and placed inside the chains, to create a single Source of monstrous power.
The skull had to be somewhere in there, but I couldn’t spot it. Everything inside the circle was curiously hazy, as if light lost traction the moment it crossed the chains. The effect was almost like a thick column of mist blocking the center of the hangar, but that was too definite. It was more like a dullness of vision. You felt like you wanted to rub your eyes every time you looked at it. Mainly you just wanted to look away.
“What have those idiots done?” I murmured. “What’s it all for?”
Lockwood nudged my arm. “Look at the chain, Luce. It’s all about the iron chain.”
Not far from the end of our wooden platform, a metal post had been hammered into the earth. Attached to it, at about (I guessed) the height of my shoulder, was a length of medium-weight iron chain. This chain stretched away from the post, maintaining the same height, passed across the boundary of the iron circle, and went between the piles of Sources. What happened to it after that was curiously hard to see, owing to the peculiar light in the center of the room. It must have been connected to something, but what that was, or where it was, I couldn’t tell. The iron of this chain kept the Visitors in the circle at bay; the air around it, hazy as it was, was free of them.
The chain must have been of great significance, because the men and women of the Rotwell Institute who were present—I counted twelve in total—all stood near the metal post. Some had clipboards, and were dressed like the man and woman who had passed us in the weapons room; others wore thicker suits of protective gear, with plastic hats and oversized gloves. Among them was bland-faced Mr. Johnson (his clipboard much in evidence) fussing around, checking their data, looking repeatedly at a stopwatch in his hand. There, too, was Steve Rotwell, decked out like the rest with hat and coat, but recognizable by his bulk, his glittering rapier, and his shiny shoes. He stood apart, drinking from a silver flask.
All of them just standing, waiting for something.
Lockwood spoke in my ear. “Someone’s in the circle.”
“You see him?”
“No. The light’s weird. But the chain provides a safe way in.” He bit his lip. “Well, safe-ish. Well, not that safe at all, actually. Whoever it is must be wearing some kind of protective gear.”
“What’s he doing in there?”
“We’ll find out. You heard what that pair said back there. It’ll be any minute now.”
As if in confirmation, the door from the weapons room clanged behind us; we saw the man and woman who had passed us hurrying back down to join their colleagues at the chain. The next moment, Mr. Johnson’s stopwatch had started ringing. The tinny sound made me jump. Johnson silenced it. Everyone watched the chain.
Nothing happened.
Steve Rotwell took another sip from his flask.
The iron chain gave a twitch.
As if jolted to life by an electric current, the Rotwell crew sprang into action. Men picked up spray guns, hoisted cylinders onto their backs; they stood in a broad semicircle around the metal post.
The chain was twitching furiously now. Within the circle the ghosts grew agitated, flitting chaotically to and fro. All at once they drew back, away from the chain.
Into the empty haze at the middle of the circle appeared a lurching shadow—faint at first, then darkening. It grew bigger and bigger. It had a creeping, rolling gait; a monstrous body; around its vast and shapeless head snapped leaping flames. Closer and closer it came, hand over hand, and the psychic hum from the circle suddenly cut out. In absolute silence the shape reached the barrier of iron. It did not hesitate.
Lockwood gasped; I cried out. One instant it was not there. Then the Creeping Shadow stepped straight over the chains with a sudden roar of noise and fire.
In those first seconds, the figure could barely be seen. Pale fire ran across it, leaping from its smooth sides, darting and crackling above it like a living crown. Ice encrusted its surface, thick and veined with blue. To my horror, it seemed to have no face, just two narrow slits for eyes. Its size was huge; it was a head taller than the Rotwell attendants who now stepped near, spraying it with their salt guns, dousing it with jets of liquid that enveloped it in clouds of roaring steam. Joints screamed and ground together as, hand over hand, the figure moved slowly along the iron chain. Ice broke off of it and shattered on the ground. Flames died back, went out. And now I saw that the limbs beneath the ice were made of sheets of iron, hinged and riveted; the feet, the monstrous fingers—all were iron-clad. Concentric bands of iron encircled the lower torso, while vast oval plates sat atop the breast, with chain mail links showing between the cracks. The head was encased in a thick, ungainly helmet. Bolts attached this to the neck; it had no decoration. Like the rest of the armor, it was ugly, heavy, brutally functional.
The burning figure came to a stop, not far from the metal post. It stood there, swaying. A metal cart was wheeled close, and scientists in protective garb rushed forward. Hands in thick gloves snapped locks, twisted levers. A visor at the front of the helmet sprang up and a face, deathly pale, could be seen within.
Until that moment I had not been sure. Now there could be no doubt. This was the Creeping Shadow, the thing of flame and smoke glimpsed at the churchyard. And it was not a spirit, but a man. An ordinary, living man inside an iron suit.
A man at the end of his strength, who staggered and seemed about to fall. Attendants thronged around him like ants beside an ailing queen; his giant metal arms were held, his sides supported. In painful looking stages, he sank back onto the cart. Electric motors whirred; the cart was driven off, down the nearby passageway, with the Rotwell team hurrying behind.
Steve Rotwell had been standing a few feet away, impassively observing the whole procedure. He put the cap back on his flask, rubbed his nose, and strode after them.
The door clanged. The hall was empty.
All that time I’d been motionless. I felt I’d almost forgotten how to speak. “Lockwood,” I croaked, “that man in armor…You really think—?”
He shook his head. “Not now. Got your spirit-cape?”
“Yes.”
“Put it on.”
I opened my bag, did as I was told. Lockwood was doing the same with his cape, unfurling the iridescent feathers. “I’m not going near the circle without protection,” he said. “This is our only chance to examine their setup. We have to take a closer look.”