Читать книгу The Raven’s Knot - Robin Jarvis - Страница 5

Prologue

Five miles outside Glastonbury

2.58 am

Brindled with bitter, biting frost, the plough-churned soil of the Somerset levels was bare and black. Hammered upon winter’s icy forge, the earthen furrows were iron hard – unyielding as the great cold which flooded the moonless dark.

Deep and chill were the silent shadows that filled those expansive fields. As sombre lakes of brooding gloom they appeared, pressing and pushing against the bordering hedgerows. Through those twisted, naked branches the unrelenting hoary darkness spilled and the night was drowned in a black, freezing murk that no glimmer of star could penetrate.

Behind the invisible distant hills, shimmering bleakly upon the rim of the choking night, the pale glare of mankind was weak and dim – the countless faint, orange lights trembling in the frozen air.

In that lonely hour, in the remote realm of the wild empty country, safely concealed by the untame dark, a sound – long banished from the world – disturbed the jet-vaulted heavens. Over unlit fields and solitary farm buildings, the noise of great wings travelled across the sky – free at last of the tethers that had kept them bound for so many ages.

All creatures felt the presence of that awful force which coursed through the knifing cold. Upon the shadow-smothered ground, farm animals grew silent and afraid as the terror passed high above.

Horror and dread spread across the dim landscape which separated Wells and Glastonbury. Owls refused to leave their barns and a fox, cantering leisurely homeward, suddenly flattened itself against the freezing ground when rumour of the unseen nightmare reached its sharp ears.

Dragging its stomach over frost-covered furrows, its brush quivering in fright, the fox darted for cover – tearing in blind panic towards a thicket of hawthorn. It lay there panting feverishly – straining to catch the slightest sound upon the winter airs.

But the unnatural clamour that had so alarmed the fox had already faded and a new, yet more familiar, noise was growing.

Through the night a vehicle came, the faint rumble of its engine a welcome distraction from the fear that had so gripped the fox’s heart and yet it remained crouching beneath the hawthorn until daybreak.

Over the icy road the car swept, the broad beams of its headlights scything through the dark veils in front – snatching brief, stark visions of hedge and ditch as they flashed by.

Inside the vehicle the heater was finally blowing hot air through the vents and the toes of the driver and his passenger were thawing at last. Mellow music issued from the radio, colouring the dark journey home with a languid harmony, reflecting the relaxed and sleepy mood of the car’s occupants.

Resting her head upon her husband’s shoulder, a pretty young woman murmured the few lyrics she remembered of the romantic song and sank a little lower in her seat.

Her voice stopped as she felt him tense and she lifted her head in surprise.

‘Tom,’ she began. ‘What is it?’

A frown had creased the man’s forehead and he hastily switched off the radio.

‘Ssshh!’ he said. ‘Hazel, did you hear that?’

Disconcerted, the woman listened for a moment.

‘Sounds all right to me,’ she answered. ‘Probably something rattling around in the boot.’

‘I’m not talking about the car,’ he said sharply.

‘What then?’

‘Outside.’

Hazel brushed the hair from her eyes and stared at him in astonishment. Her husband was doubled over the steering-wheel, gazing up through the windscreen at the pitch black sky, scanning it fearfully.

‘Tom,’ she ventured.

‘There isn’t anything.’

‘There is!’ he said emphatically. ‘Hazel, it was weird – sort of screaming.’

She shifted on the seat and folded her arms as she began to look out of her window at the dark countryside passing by.

‘What...?’ she began nervously. ‘Like a person? That kind of screaming?’

‘There was more than one,’ came his muddling answer. ‘But it wasn’t quite human – it… it was weird.’

‘Oh, well,’ she breathed with relief, ‘if it wasn’t human...’

The golden glow of Glastonbury’s street-lamps was now clear in the distance, with the majestic outline of the Tor rearing behind them – another ten minutes and she could be in bed.

The car had been steadily picking up speed and now the woman noticed for the first time the beads of perspiration glistening upon her partner’s face.

‘Tom,’ she said. ‘Slow down. There’s black ice all over these roads.’

‘We’ve got to get home, Hazel!’ he told her and the urgency in his voice was startling. ‘We’ve got to get home, and fast! It’s too open here. I don’t like it.’

Before she could respond, something tapped lightly upon the windscreen. It was only a twig but Tom’s reaction to it was surprising.

‘Where’d that come from?’ he demanded, his voice rising with mounting panic.

The woman gaped at him in disbelief. ‘Where d’you think it came from?’ she laughed. ‘It’s a twig! Please, Tom, slow down.’

‘There are no trees on this stretch of road,’ he replied gravely.

Bewildered, Hazel threw her head back. ‘The wind blew it, a bird dropped it – I don’t know! I don’t care – but you’re driving too fast. Listen to me!’

But Tom hardly heard her. All his senses were focused upon the road ahead, yet not one of them prepared him for what happened next.

From the night it tumbled, out of the blind heavens it dropped – hurtling down with ferocious force and by the time he saw it, it was too late.

Into the bright light of the headlamps it fell – a monstrous, massive bough. Raining insanely out of the sky, the mighty limb of ancient oak came plummeting towards them.

With a tremendous, violent crunch of metal, the huge branch slammed into the bonnet of the car and the windscreen shattered into a million tiny cubes.

Screaming, Hazel threw her arms before her face as the vehicle bucked and shuddered beneath the vicious impact, and she braced herself as the tyres skidded upon the icy road.

His face scored by the twigs which had come whipping and flailing in through the splintered window, Tom gripped the wheel tightly and struggled for control as the vehicle shot into a wild, careering spin. But the windscreen was utterly blocked and all he could do was shout to Hazel to hold on.

‘NO!’ the woman yelled, clinging to him frantically as the car flew across the road and burst through the hedgerow. Into a field it thundered, with the branch still wedged upon the bonnet, and over the frozen furrows it charged.

Then, with a lurch, the spin ended and after one final jolt, the terrifying madness was over.

Gingerly, Hazel unfastened her seat belt and reached across to Tom. His hands were still clenched about the wheel and, when she held him, she discovered that he was shaking as much as herself.

Neither one of them spoke, both pairs of eyes were fixed upon the enormous branch that had dropped so unexpectedly and so illogically from above.

‘It might have killed us,’ she whispered, apprehensively reaching out to touch the rough, glassstrewn wood. ‘But where...? Where did it come from?’

Tom made no reply, his heart was pounding in his chest and his eyes widened as he stared upwards.

‘My God...’ he whimpered.

This time Hazel heard it too and her hands clasped tightly about his.

High above them the sky was filled with a terrible yammering, a foul screeching cacophony that grew louder with every awful instant.

‘The engine!’ Hazel cried. ‘Tom, start the engine – quickly!’

Her partner fumbled with the ignition but the car merely coughed pathetically whilst, overhead, the dreadful shrieks mounted steadily.

Down the nightmares swooped, bawling and squawking at the top of their voices – down to where the puny chariot struggled in the frozen mire. They crowed their hideous delight at the prospect which awaited them.

‘Lock the doors!’ Tom cried. ‘Don’t let it inside.’

‘But what is it?’

‘I don’t know!’

Screwing up his face, he tried the key again and the engine turned over.

But it was too late. With a great down-draught and a clamour of high screeching voices, they were caught. There came the beating of gigantic wings and the roof buckled as large dents were punched in the metal beneath the weight of many descending objects.

Then the enormous branch was flicked from the bonnet as easily as if it were a piece of straw. The yammering was deafening now and Hazel’s own voice joined it as she let loose a desperate scream.

Into the car, curving under the roof, there came a great and savage claw which gripped the contorted metal and the vehicle was shaken violently.

A piercing clamour ensued as the vehicle was punctured and talons stronger than steel began to rend and rip. Like a tin of peaches the car was opened, until the two stricken occupants were staring straight up through the torn, jagged rents and knew that their deaths had come.

For a moment, as they were seized and dragged into the upper airs, Tom’s and Hazel’s scream’s equalled the vile, raucous laughter of the foulness which had captured them.

Then the two human voices were silenced and, once the feast was over, the night was disturbed only by a slow, contented flapping as dark, sinister shapes took to the air.

Across the Somerset levels all was peaceful again, except for one remote field just outside Glastonbury, where the engine of an empty, wrecked car chugged erratically and the radio played soft, romantic melodies.

A force dormant for centuries was loose once more – the first of the Twelve were abroad and in the days that were to follow their numbers would increase.