The Fatal Strand. Robin Jarvis

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СКАЧАТЬ appeared drawn and defeated. In former ages it was she who had severed the threads of life, determining that irrevocable ending which sundered families and lovers with a single, merciless cut. Now a similar parting had been visited upon her and the pain of that loss was something she had not felt since the first days of the world.

      Over her delicately-boned features a fine dew sparkled – perfectly matching the glitter of the jet beads which bordered her black evening gown.

      A cauldron of emotions seethed and boiled within her. Rage and guilt battled with her grief, but she remained erect and alert, steeling herself against the contest that she knew was to come.

      At the bottom of the steps, scattered in a disjointed snarl of twisted bronze, lay the fragmented image of Verdandi. The sightless eyes of that broken, upturned face seemed to stare up at her sister, but the old woman avoided meeting that steady gaze and maintained her unwavering vigil, glaring out into the alleyway.

      She knew exactly what had transpired on Glastonbury Tor and who was responsible for this heinous tragedy. His unseen hand had driven that enchanted blade through her sister’s immortal flesh as surely as if he had gripped the spear himself. In some dank corner her great enemy waited, weaving his evil designs just as she and her sisters had spun the Cloth of Doom.

      Perhaps even now he was watching her, savouring to the full the extent of his abhorrent crime.

      ‘Do you hear me?’ she asked, abruptly snapping the silence, her clipped voice charged with contempt and condemnation. ‘Is this what you have yearned for? Is this the triumphant victory you have sought these many centuries? How pitiable you have become, Mighty Woden! Is this the same god of war who hung for nine nights upon the World Tree? Is this He who fought with axe and sword against the ogres of the first frost? Has the Captain of Askar been reduced to this – murdering a woman too old and too witless to defend herself?’

      Miss Ursula’s pale eyelids drooped closed as she fought to control her anger, fiercely pressing her thin lips together before attempting to speak again.

      ‘What sweetness can there be in my sister’s death?’ she eventually continued in as level a voice as she could maintain. ‘Wallow well in this, the vilest of deeds. If it is still your avowed intent to destroy the remaining daughters of Askar, then you will never succeed. Against the powers which are mine to command you can only fail. The fortress of my museum has, in its keeping, defences beyond either your strength or comprehension. Neither you nor your agents shall ever set foot over this threshold.

      ‘Do you mark my warning? If you desire this war, then so be it, the challenge is accepted. But know this – to the death shall the campaign be waged. The Mistresses of Doom and Destiny will conquer even you in the end.’

      No answer came to Miss Ursula as she stood, dignified and grave upon the step. Before she had time to wonder if her adversary had heard her words, she became aware of a forlorn snivelling behind her and she turned archly.

      Into the main hall, a bundle of dirty washing seemed to be making its clumsy, faltering way down the wide staircase. It paused next to a rusted suit of armour; the pale light which flickered from a small oil lamp lapped over the ragged form for a moment, before the hobbling gait continued.

      Swaddled in a grubby nightgown that was fringed with filthy lace, Miss Celandine Webster stumbled on. She who was once Skuld of the Royal House of Askar was now an old woman. Her face, which normally resembled an over-ripe apple, was wrung into a wizened prune and in her large hands she clutched a mildew-speckled handkerchief.

      ‘Oh Ursula!’ she blubbered. ‘Don’t leave me all on my own. I can’t bear it – I can’t!’

      The figure in the entrance regarded her coldly, her face betraying none of the emotions which churned within her.

      ‘Control yourself,’ she instructed. ‘Histrionics won’t bring her back.’

      Miss Celandine staggered forward, her grimy feet slapping over the polished parquet floor of the hallway. ‘Make it better!’ she beseeched. ‘Bring Veronica back to us. How can she be killed? We don’t die – we can’t! I won’t believe it – I won’t, I won’t!’

      The eldest of the Websters recoiled from this infantile display and returned her attention to the alleyway outside, completely ignoring Miss Celandine’s heart-rending pleas.

      ‘Oh help me, Ursula!’ she wept, dragging the handkerchief over her face and twisting it into her wrinkled eyes. ‘I’m frightened. What’s happening to us? Why did Veronica run away? My heart hurts me so. Please hold me. Make me feel safe.’

      But Miss Ursula had no comfort to spare for her sister. Like a house of cards demolished in the draught, Miss Celandine crumpled to the floor. There she stayed, weeping and sobbing until her voice cracked and the spring of her tears ran dry.

      For an hour they held their positions, one rigid and silent, the other a quivering heap of choking despair, and neither of them could give solace to the other.

      Eventually, the sound of an approaching engine roused Miss Celandine from her pit of grief. Raising her head from the crook of her elbow where she had sniffed and whimpered away the dawn, she saw her sister move on to the middle step as the sound grew closer. Throwing her two plaits of corn-coloured hair over her shoulders, she rose and crept forward – her dry bones crackling in complaint.

      ‘What is it, Ursula?’ she cooed with a fearful voice. ‘Who is it?’

      Pressing close to her sister, she tried to venture on to the topmost step to peer out, but Miss Ursula barred the way and propelled her back into the museum.

      ‘Stay in there,’ she rapped severely. ‘Veronica is returned to us.’

      Rumbling into the alley came an unmarked ambulance with dark, tinted windows. Lumbering as close to the entrance as possible, the vehicle braked in front of the bollards which barricaded one end of the alleyway and the doors opened slowly.

      Clambering from the passenger seat, Neil alighted upon the cobbles – with Quoth in his usual place upon the boy’s shoulder.

      It had been a dismal journey in which few words had been exchanged. Neil had given Chief Inspector Hargreaves a sketchy account of all that had happened on Glastonbury Tor, but soon lapsed into weary silence, snatching occasional moments of much-needed sleep. The eyes he turned to The Wyrd Museum were ringed with grey and he ached for his bed. There was, however, one more duty to be done before then and he gazed at the man who was already closing the driver’s door.

      Chief Inspector Hargreaves stood solemnly before that ugly building to which he and the other remaining descendants of Askar made their annual pilgrimage. For as long as he could remember he had come to this place, to lay an offering of flowers about the drinking fountain in the yard. It was a demonstration of fealty to those who lived within, yet never once had he or any of the others caught so much as a glimpse of the three undying Fates.

      In all his imaginings he had not dreamed that he would ever meet the Handmaidens of the Loom. Now here he was, burdened with this most dreadful of errands – delivering the corpse of the youngest to her sisters, and his soul quailed inside him.

      In sombre silence, he stared across to where Miss Ursula waited upon the steps and bowed reverently. The woman’s thin lips twitched with agitation, but she inclined her head in acknowledgement and gestured for the man to complete the grim task he had undertaken.

      Turning on his heel, Hargreaves led Neil to СКАЧАТЬ