‘Get your fucking hands off me,’ she bellowed, but they gripped her even tighter. She could kick the figure as it approached, but that had about as much effect as sticking it with the pointy end.
It raised its cloth-bound foot, and stood on her chest, right on her breastbone.
How much did the thing weigh? It had barely started leaning in, and it felt like an elephant was settling on her. She tried to breathe, and couldn’t do more than sip air. The pressure increased, and even that mercy was gone.
She stared up at the mask staring blankly down. Those holding her arms weren’t looking at her. This was it, then. A stupid way to die, crushed like a cockroach by some machine that wasn’t going to be made for another thousand years. She was going. Her vision was closing down, like she was falling into a black well, and at the top, that mask.
Something wet splashed across her face, and in the next instance, the incredible pressure was gone. It was going to be agony to breathe in, but she did it anyway, and nearly passed out all over again.
When she moved, it hurt. When she groped for her dagger, which was just out of reach, it hurt more. When her hand jerked away from the severed arm that lay discarded next to it, that hurt the most.
Simeon was on top of the pile of shiny coloured robes. Banging its head against the angle between the wall and the floor, stamping down with all his might. While holding off those servants still upright with his sword.
‘You fucking hero,’ she gasped.
‘If you’re going, go.’ He grunted with the effort of keeping the thing down, pounding it every time it tried to rise.
She was almost sick when she staggered to her feet. If something in her was broken, then it would stay broken. Either it would eventually kill her, or it wouldn’t. The whole room seemed to spin, and she couldn’t make it stop, but at least she could head for the door, lean on it and get her hands to the lock again.
‘Hurry.’
The key turned. There was movement behind her in the corridor. A line of brightly coloured robes was heading their way. She pulled at the door with numb fingers, and cool air puffed in as it opened.
‘Come with me,’ she gasped.
‘Not happening.’ The thing had caught his ankle.
She watched as it snapped his bone like a twig, and Simeon lurched, caught himself on the wall, and started his inexorable slide downwards.
‘Don’t think badly of me,’ he said, and she was gone.
28
Dalip had run, climbed out on to the window ledge, and hauled himself on to the rough tiles using only the strength in his arms. If he was weaker than before, then panic had helped him overcome that, briefly. Now he was on the roof◦– on the actual roof, skittering over the stone tiles◦– and wondering what he should do next. The map was screwed up and shoved down his front. He was pregnant with the secret of Down, and he had no idea how he was going to give birth to it.
He didn’t think he was going to be followed. The robed creatures didn’t appear to be that quick or particularly agile, no matter how resilient to physical damage they were. He scrambled to the apex and crouched down low, looking out over the valley for a sign from God. The moon was vast overhead, grinding past with an almost audible rumble, the shadow it cast blotting out the detail of the land and leaving it a half-tone of grey. The sky at the edges was deep blue, silent, starless.
Then he saw her. She was running, just like he had, her ridiculous red dress as obvious as a neon light. He’d asked for a sign and, as unlikely as the answer was, he couldn’t ignore it.
He moved the map around so that it didn’t bulge at his front, and threw his machete over the edge to the ground first. It took a disconcertingly long time for it to clatter. The front door would have been easier, but he had no guarantee that whatever had killed the pirates wasn’t hanging around in the air, waiting to kill him too.
He lay down, lowered his legs, and dabbed at the stonework until he had the most tentative of toeholds. Going up was so much easier. He climbed as quickly as he dared, and at the halfway point, just jumped. He landed like a sack of flour, dusty and crumpled, lying there for a moment and just wishing it would all stop.
That moment passed. The self-pity would have to wait. He snatched up his machete again, and picked himself off the floor.
He crossed her path at the junction, and she skidded to a halt in front of him, gasping for air.
‘Fuck,’ she said. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I haven’t really thought that far ahead.’
She doubled over, and spat on the ground. ‘Well, think of something fast.’
He looked behind her. She was being chased in slow motion, and when he turned around to check his own path, so was he.
‘We can’t hurt them at all.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Right.’ He made a decision that might well kill them both. ‘This way.’
He caught her arm and pulled her in the direction of the valley entrance. She growled at him, but started to run again, her bare feet eating up the distance. So much so that she started to overtake him.
‘What about the shooter?’
‘What about them?’
‘I don’t want to get shot.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘So?’
The buildings had finished◦– just the small stone huts to pass, then it was into the narrow gorge: sheer cliff on one side, a drop straight down into the river on the other. Somewhere beyond that was someone with a rifle, someone who was possibly already warned of their approach.
The valley narrowed, and the sound of fast-moving water grumbled around them.
Dalip slowed. He could still see the flapping robes of their pursuers.
‘Further in,’ he said, and at the most precipitous point, he lost sight of them. Ahead, the rock wall curved before it opened out again. They were, for a brief instant, unseen.
He called her back and dragged her to the very edge of the path.
‘What are doing?’
‘Jumping.’
‘What is it with you and cliffs?’
He gave her a tight smile, rocked back on one foot, and leapt, arms and legs milling.
If he thought it was a long way down from the roof, this felt even further. The fall went on and on, until the very last second when the white-streaked black river rushed up at him and tried to pour itself into his lungs. All those warnings about leaping into unknown water, full of hazards and hidden shallows, flooded back too, and suddenly it was all about whether or not he could get his head back to the surface without getting trapped by currents or crippled by rocks.
The river was strong, and deep in its channel. Yes, there were sharp stones and turbulence, but they were below him. He kicked hard, and broke into the air.
Mary was still on the path, watching him get swept away. He raised his arm to beckon her urgently in, but that movement submerged his head again. By the time he resurfaced, she was gone, or out of sight, or something.
The river carried him along, an irresistible force, uncompromising and dense. He trod water the best he could in his saturated overalls, and waited for the drop. It was only a small waterfall, but he needed to be ready.
The rock walls started to pull back. Beyond was the forest, and before that, the lip of the falls. He stretched himself out and he was flung over the edge. There was a moment of dizzying flight, then into the broken, churning plunge pool. He swam down as he knew he should but had never done, then up into the slowly turning eddies of the post-fall river.
He turned on to his back. A flash of sodden crimson shot over the falls, and he swam over to her.
‘You fucking idiot,’ she hissed.
‘Shush.’
She allowed herself to be towed into the slack water. He let her go when it was shallow enough just to sit in, and pulled out the sailcloth from his overall. The water had done what scrubbing at it hadn’t, and washed most of the information away.