He stared, and even though he was still in sunlight, he was suddenly chill.
There was no wind. Not a breeze, a zephyr, a fitful gust, nothing at all. Air is never this still, he thought, not even in a tomb. The thought made him shudder, then he blinked. If there’s no wind, what’s driving those clouds this way?
Realisation hit him, a solid punch to the chest. They weren’t clouds that looked like battleships. They were battleships made of clouds, steaming toward him in the afternoon sky, dark-grey as thunderheads. Clouds made solid and menacing in a mighty show of magic.
Dizzily, Aubrey put a hand on the stone of the bridge to steady himself. He stared, and shaded his eyes, unwilling to believe what he was seeing. Battleships in the sky? He swallowed in a throat suddenly dry. He counted half a dozen or so cloud-built battleships, but they were accompanied by destroyers and cruisers, as well as tenders, troop ships and dozens of lesser craft. It was a skyborne fleet.
Even in his shock, Aubrey’s mind was whirring, trying to work out the principles behind such a formidable, such a bravura, such a showy display of power.
A burly worker leading a horse and cart was coming along the road toward him. He smiled and tipped his cap to Aubrey. ‘Make any runs?’
‘A few,’ Aubrey said faintly.
The man looked behind him, following Aubrey’s gaze, and the grin faded from his face. ‘My sainted aunt.’
Aubrey was glad. He wasn’t the only one who could see the skyborne fleet. ‘We’re under attack.’
The worker swore. ‘Don’t stand there, son. Find cover.’ He urged his nag on and hurried along the road out of town.
The cloud-built battlefleet surged nearer. They rose over the Torwell Hills to the north of Greythorn as if they were cresting huge waves, rolling down the other side in formation. Aubrey tried to count them, but lost track after four dozen when he realised a second rank of cruisers and destroyers was following the main line of battleships.
He could feel the magic even at this distance, like ice flung ahead of a storm.
He gripped the stone parapet of the bridge, then turned. No-one at the cricket match was looking to the north. All attention was on St Alban’s spirited revival. The music played, dogs barked and the observers in the tethered balloon bobbed gently.
Alone on the bridge, Aubrey wished that a battalion of trained magicians stood with him.
It was up to him to do something, one of those moments that aroused equal parts terror and exhilaration. Sometimes he felt as if his entire life was a series of trials, each an opportunity to fail spectacularly or to succeed with glory. He preferred the latter and was deathly afraid of the former.
He twirled his cricket bat. He was dwarfed, outnumbered and unprepared. He was dressed in cricketing whites. He had lemon squash all down his arm.
Apart from a case of fright that’d choke a chicken, he thought, I’m in fine shape.
With a roar that set the church bells ringing, the battlefleet swept over the town.
Aubrey was knocked off his feet by the gale that accompanied the fleet as it thundered overhead. By the time he picked himself up, spitting road dust from his mouth, the ships had rumbled over the cricket ground. Pandemonium erupted. Tents were uprooted and whirled into the air. Spectators staggered every which way, some being flung off their feet as the stormfleet bore down on them. Dogs went berserk, running in circles and barking. The hot air balloon was wrenched from its moorings, and the last Aubrey saw it was streaking away to the south, white-faced passengers clinging for dear life.
With fumbling fingers, Aubrey unbuckled his pads and slung them away. He sprinted for an oval that had become a riot, feverishly flicking through his accumulated store of magic lore, trying to find something that could help.
The sun had disappeared, swallowed by the stormfleet as it circled, but the change in the weather had brought no rain. Instead, the cricket ground and its surrounds had become a howling cauldron. The wind was coming from all directions, so those seeking shelter could find no leeside on the pavilion or under the few trees that hadn’t been shredded by the force of the storm. A plucky motorist drove off, heading for the main road, his motorcar crammed with passengers. He parped his horn as he passed Aubrey, but a few yards away, where the driveway to the cricket ground reached the main gate, the motorcar shuddered.
Aubrey stared. The motorcar hadn’t just stopped – it had been slapped sideways, its front wheels wrenched into the ditch on the side of the driveway by an unseen force.
With some difficulty, the motorcar backed out of the ditch, then accelerated again toward the gate. This time, the vehicle was violently jerked to the right with the sound of breaking glass. The driver was flung out, but even as Aubrey hurried up, the young man had picked himself up and was dusting himself off. ‘Oh, I say!’ he shouted over the howl of the wind. ‘My hat!’
His boater was a mess. Aubrey shrugged. ‘What happened?’
The young man’s passengers staggered out of the motorcar. They milled about uncertainly. ‘No idea, old sport. Ran into the gatepost, I suppose.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Aubrey shouted. ‘Look.’
Just a few feet away, the air had taken on a greasy, shimmering aspect. As Aubrey peered at it, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the upraised dust, he could make out that the air was moving, vibrating and rushing past at a dizzying velocity, enough to blur the scene on the other side. It made the trees and the town beyond look as if they were smeared with oil.
‘Watch!’ He bent and picked up a small stone. Squinting, he threw it at the barrier of moving air. Then he ducked as the stone shot back at them. It hummed past his head and smashed one of the headlights of the motorcar.
‘Sorry,’ he shouted, but he was apologising to no-one. The young man and his companions were scurrying back toward the pavilion.
Aubrey looked up to see that the stormfleet had blockaded the cricket ground, surrounding it in a swirling wall of cloud that extended from the heights right down to the earth. The magical warships were circling, patrolling the tight confines of this small area. The roar of their great guns punctuated the howling of the wind. Lightning tore at the dark grey, churning mass and made the gloom momentarily lighter with its ghastly, harsh radiance. The people trapped within the wall of cloud were starting to cluster in the middle of the cricket ground, near the pavilion. Anyone foolish enough to try to find a gap in the spinning cloud wall was twisted aside or knocked to the ground as soon as they touched it.
Aubrey decided he wasn’t achieving anything where he was. He had to find Caroline and George.
He struggled toward the panicked crowd, battling the wind that tore at him. Each step was an adventure, for the wind was coming from all directions, but as he neared the building Caroline appeared. Even windswept, she was composed. ‘Where did you disappear to?’ she cried over the shrieking of the wind.
‘I went for a stroll! Lovely day for it!’
The look she gave him plucked at his heart. He was acutely aware of her presence, even more so since their agreement to remain good colleagues and fellow adventurers rather than anything more. Her movements, her subtle grace, her laugh, were more irresistible than ever and yet he was honour bound to do nothing about it.