Claws of Evil 1 Page 16

  Mickelwhite brought them to a halt in front of a vast golden throne and then kneeled before it, his head bowed. Ben followed suit, but not before he had taken a good look at who he was bowing to.

  Claw Carter sat upon the throne.

  Ben knew then that he had been terribly wrong to compare this man to his father. Jonas Kingdom was decent and honest and down to earth. Not full of selfish ambition and vanity like the man seated before him.

  How could I ever have wanted to be like Claw Carter? he wondered.

  Although his hands were still tied behind his back, Ben could feel the ache of the Legion mark. He wished that he could scrub it off. Perhaps he could put his hand into a fire and burn it away?

  He thought of the Coin in his pocket and wanted to be rid of that too.

  “I have been informed of your failure,” Claw Carter intoned in a sonorous voice. “I am...disappointed.” Ben guessed that something far worse than a dressing-down was coming their way. “You all know the Legion law...” Ben didn’t, but he couldn’t put his hand up to ask. “You must decide amongst yourselves,” Carter continued. “You must choose which one of you shall carry the punishment, or all face the wrath of the Feathered Men.”

  Carter observed them with a sardonic smile: Ruby Johnson buttoned down tight, while the Legion boys shuffled anxiously.

  And Benjamin Kingdom, looking on with absolute contempt.

  The more chance Carter had to study Ben, the more he could see the possibility that he could be the Hand of Hell. He was an angry boy, strong willed, defiant. Those were all great qualities in a general of the Legion. Provided, of course, that he could be trained to do as he was told. What was the point in having a fighting dog, if it didn’t come to heel when its master snapped his fingers?

  If Ben Kingdom could be made to obey him, then Carter would definitely be able to make a place for him in his future plans. And fortunately, two more bargaining chips had fallen into his lap that night. Both were languishing in the cells. Both were men that were dear to Ben Kingdom.

  Carter wondered how much pressure he would have to put on his captives before Ben capitulated. Was the boy so pig-headed that one of them would have to die first? One of them knew where the Coin was, that was certain. Just as it was certain that they would hand it over to him in the end, beg him to take it from them. Every man had his breaking point.

  In the depths of the dark cathedral of the Legion, at the far end of the long nave, was what Carter considered to be its greatest wonder: the steeple. On the surface, a steeple always stretched upwards, a finger pointing the way to Heaven. Here in the Under, it stretched down towards the centre of the earth. A huge black pit, that even the candlelight could not penetrate, descending through solid rock. Rumours said that there were beings that lived at the bottom that had never seen daylight at all.

  What would it take to break Ben Kingdom? thought Carter. Would it be sufficient to dangle him over the edge? Or would he have to be thrown in and left in the darkness for a while?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Ben said nothing in his own defence. Mickelwhite and Bedlam could hardly wait to point the finger at him and the others fell quickly into line. All except for Ruby, who folded her arms and refused to take part. Instead, Ben took the opportunity to wriggle his wrists free while they were busy settling his fate, letting the rope drop silently to the floor.

  The more time he spent with the Legion, the more he recognized that these people were not his friends. He was more alone here than he had ever been in Old Gravel Lane.

  His mother’s Bible was still in his pocket and his right hand reached for it then. His heart always ached for her at Christmas. He had known her for one day, and he had missed her every day since. He missed Nathaniel as well, he realized. Looking back, they should never have allowed imaginary walls to be built between them; grief should have brought them together, not pushed them apart.

  Ben thought of his father too. His dear, beloved pa.

  Stuff the Legion, stuff the Coin! What was he hanging around here for? He had a family to rescue.

  “Come on then!” Ben shouted. “You’ve picked me, so let’s get on with it!”

  Overhead, one of the Feathered Men shrieked and Ben felt a shiver run the length of his spine as the creature detached itself from its resting place and took to the air. It dived down, its taloned feet reaching out towards him, like a kestrel seizing a hare. The creature screeched as it descended and Ben could see its thin yellow tongue inside the black maw of its mouth.

  A moment of panic flooded Ben’s chest and he realized that he hadn’t returned the Coin to its hiding place in his hat. Could the Feathered Man smell it on him? he wondered. Did he stink of Roman silver?

  Thinking on his feet, Ben thrust his hand into his pocket and whipped out the battered Bible, holding it out in front of him like a shield. In the stories that he loved, vampires were repelled by garlic and werewolves by the touch of silver; perhaps this might have the same effect on these nightmare creatures? Ben fancied that he saw fear in its cold avian eyes and it shrieked all the louder as it recognized the holy book. The Feathered Man pulled out of its dive at the last instant, but not before it had ripped the Bible from Ben’s fingers and scattered its pages across the floor.

  So this is it then, thought Ben. Whichever way he counted them, the odds of getting out alive were just too great. He was trapped beneath the ground, surrounded on all sides. Alone and unarmed.

  Mickelwhite was laughing. The Feathered Men were screaming.

  Claw Carter was clapping, his hand slapping against his claw in great amusement. “Bravo!” he said. “I like a boy with spirit.”

  “Oh really?” said Ben, Carter’s arrogance proving the spur he needed to keep on fighting. “Well you’ll love this then.”

  Looking round for inspiration, Ben grabbed one of the metal sconces, ripping off the fat candle to reveal the sharp iron spike beneath. Then, holding it in two hands like a spear, he began to edge his way towards the door.

  Carter continued to applaud.

  Schulman made a lunge for Ben but only succeeded in colliding with Mickelwhite, sending them both sprawling when Ben jabbed with his makeshift weapon. Valentine tried to work his way behind Ben but, swinging the heavy sconce like a club, Ben brought him down.

  Carter snapped his fingers then and made an ugly rasping sound, which the Feathered Men clearly understood to be an order. Ben watched as they responded. Three more Feathered Men dropped down from the roof and began to circle him in the air, like vultures waiting for the moment to fall on their prey. Meanwhile, Bedlam began to close in, grinning manically. Ben spun, managing to keep him out of arm’s reach with the sconce, but he was getting tired and they all knew it.

  Without warning, one of the Feathered Men swooped down and grabbed hold of Ben’s weapon with its clawed feet and then, with a single beat of its wings, yanked it out of his grasp, leaving him defenceless. The other two foul creatures didn’t waste their opportunity, diving down and knocking him to the ground, their talons piercing Ben’s flesh as they half-carried, half-dragged him back before the throne.

  One of the Feathered Men hopped onto Ben’s chest, punching all the air from his lungs, and pinning his arms to the ground. It studied Ben with its huge eyes; unblinking, unfeeling. It opened its beak and rasped a shrill cry in Ben’s face. It was like looking into the face of a nightmare, thought Ben. Everything that was dark and evil had come to visit him.

  The sanctuary fell silent.

  “Where were we?” said Carter with fake forgetfulness. “Oh yes, I remember. You have chosen the victim to pay the price for your failure.”

  The Feathered Men handed Ben over to Bedlam and Mickelwhite, and they bundled him across the stone floor until he was standing on the edge of a precipice. Although Ben resisted and dug in his heels every inch of the way, there wasn’t much he could do against their kicks and shoves. Bedlam pressed his bruised and swollen face against Ben’s and rasped in
his ear: “Got anything clever to say this time, mate?”

  Ben’s feet dangled half on and half off the lip of a hole so deep that no light could reach the bottom. The slightest push from behind would send him tumbling. Above his head, the Feathered Men squawked their approval, their shrieks as sharp as a razor’s edge. Ben was right out of witty comebacks.

  Carter could see the fear in Ben’s eyes as he gazed into the pit. It was a delicious moment, and Carter savoured it. If Ben Kingdom was to become the Left Hand, then his rebirth was destined to be a painful one; the ancient texts were clear on this. Betrayal, suffering and torment would all be required if Ben was to be stripped of every last shred of goodness that might remain within him. The Left Hand would be a creature governed by hate, bitterness, and spite. This young man, who rolled with the punches and came back smiling, would have to be put to death, and replaced by a new Benjamin Kingdom, who looked at the world with resentment, not excitement.

  Carter allowed his own eyes to explore the depths of the pit and he shuddered. There was no question that Ben would come out a different man.

  Carter glanced at his pocket watch. “It is now almost eleven,” he declared. “We shall meet again at midnight and make good this act of contrition by casting your sacrificial offering into the pit.”

  That would be me then, thought Ben soberly.

  He gazed down into the endless black until he began to feel dizzy. Was it his imagination or could he hear scurrying and whispering in the depths?

  Apparently, when the clock struck twelve he would be finding out.

  After Carter had issued his decree, Ben was marched away. Although he had just hours to live, he was grateful nevertheless to get out of that hateful place.

  Naturally it was Mickelwhite and Bedlam who were given the task of taking Ben to the cell where he would wait until it was his allotted time to die. The other members of the brigade had all seemed as relieved as he was to get out of the sanctuary and had slunk away into the Under as soon as they got the chance. Ruby Johnson included, Ben noted.

  So this was it then, Ben realized coldly as he arrived at the dungeon door. Ladies and gentlemen, Ben Kingdom stands before you under sentence of death.

  “Hope you like your new accommodation,” said Bedlam, opening the stout wooden door and propelling Ben inside with a shove that sent him falling face down on the floor. With his hands tied behind his back again, Ben had no way of saving himself and he landed heavily, his face slapping against the flagstones, his mouth tasting rotting straw and stale urine.

  Ben wanted to say something to prove that they hadn’t beaten him, but his mouth was full of blood and his heart was full of fear. In the end, he managed to scramble up onto his knees and spit at Bedlam’s feet, forcing out a hollow laugh.

  Bedlam reacted in a flash but Mickelwhite was quick to restrain him and hold him, snarling, in the doorway.

  “Patience,” urged Mickelwhite. “Let’s see if he’s still laughing when we throw him in the pit.”

  I wouldn’t count on it, thought Ben as the cell door slammed shut and the heavy key turned in the lock. He listened to their footsteps receding into the distance.

  The only light in the cell came through the grilled window in the door, but the rattle of claws on stone told him that he was not alone. His flesh crawled. Rats.

  He watched a filthy rodent as it scuttled out of the shadows and made its way towards him. Ben backed away. “Get out of it,” he hissed, kicking straw in the rat’s direction but to no avail. He knew it was irrational – it was only a rat after all – and yet with each twitch of its whiskers, each jerk of its pink naked tail, each flash of its long yellow incisors, Ben could feel his calm being gnawed away.

  Then a sudden movement from the inky black at the far end of the cell caught Ben’s attention and he turned to see a missile whistling through the air. The stone struck the rat hard enough to make it yelp and then scuttle quickly for the safety of its bolt-hole.

  “Good shot,” said Ben. Then, his back wet with nervous sweat, he searched for his rescuer in the gloom.

  “Come here, boy,” said a familiar voice from the darkest corner of the cell. “Let me get those ropes off you.”

  “Mr. Moon!” said Ben, delighted. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “Welcome to my world,” said Jago Moon. Ben wasn’t entirely sure whether he was joking.

  Gratefully Ben turned his back and let the blind man set him free. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and he rubbed his wrists where the ropes had chaffed his skin raw. Overwhelmed with questions, he slumped down on the straw beside Moon, not sure where to start. “So you’re a prisoner too then?”

  “Aye, lad.”

  “So does that mean that you’re one of the other lot, a Watcher?”

  “Aye, lad.”

  “And you’ve known about the Legion all along?”

  Moon nodded.

  “And you never thought to tell me about any of this?” Ben sounded indignant.

  “You were a silly boy, always lost in your books.”

  “Books that you sold me!”

  “Always dreaming,” Moon continued. “Always answering back. Never listening.”

  “Well, I’m listening now,” said Ben petulantly.

  “Good,” said Moon, “because if we are both about to be executed, there isn’t time for me to repeat myself, so pin back your lugholes and keep that mouth of yours shut.”

  “How can you be so calm about all this?” Ben was exasperated.

  “Because I understand and you don’t, Benjamin Kingdom,” Moon barked. “Now pay attention and listen to me!” His tone brooked no discussion. “I don’t know what lies Carter has already filled your head with, but you need to know about the Watchers if you are going to start making some better decisions.”

  “The Watchers are spies, ruled over by a hag,” said Ben. “Or that’s what I was told, anyway.”

  Moon sighed. “The Watchers are like lighthouse keepers. We warn of dangers, we shine a light in the darkness, we keep a constant vigil for those in peril of being drowned or washed away. We guide the shipwrecked to the safety of the shore. We save the lost.” Moon sighed. “There is terrible evil in the world, Ben, and though the history books don’t say so, through the generations there have always been Watchers who have fought to keep that evil in check.”

  “So if the Watchers are like a lighthouse, who are the Legion then. Pirates?”

  “No. The Legion are the waves, tearing away at the foundation stones of society, day by day and drip by drip. They sweep up the unwary and the unwise, dragging them down into the slime and filth in the darkest depths. They are the black tide, as unrelenting and without mercy as the cruellest sea. And if you dare to stand against them, they will dash you to pieces upon the rocks.”

  It was beginning to sound to Ben as if taking the Mark hadn’t been his best decision. “But where do I fit into all this?” he asked. “Why is an angel with a sword looking for me?”

  “Because you have been chosen, Benjamin Kingdom.”

  “Chosen? No more riddles, please,” Ben demanded. “Chosen for what?”

  “Chosen to die,” Moon said matter-of-factly, as if he were discussing the price of eggs.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Ben snapped. “I can even tell you what time I’m gonna snuff it, if you like!”

  “What did I say about listening?” Jago Moon paused, until he was sure that Ben was concentrating again. “The sacred prophecies of the Watchers tell of a young man who will become a great leader, called the Hand, and will guide his people to victory. Just as you can decide what to do with your own two hands – whether to use them to hurt or to heal, to give or to take – so the boy must decide which side he will fight for: Watcher or Legion, good or evil. He must choose for himself whether to be the great and powerful Right Hand of Heaven, or the wicked and spiteful Left Hand of Hell.”

  “And then die,” Ben added glibly, trying to distract himself from his inner tur
moil. It was so much to take in. This great leader couldn’t really be him, could it? How could he be expected to lead an army when he only made it through each week with bluff and bravado? And then his right hand began to throb in answer to his own question. The Hand. He really was different to the other boys on Old Gravel Lane, after all.

  “Yes, and then die,” Moon replied. “But not as you understand it. The Hand of Heaven will die. He will die to himself, set aside all his own worldly ambition, and live for others. If you choose to follow the Watchers, then that is the future you face, Benjamin Kingdom.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so before?” said Ben, rising to his feet.

  In the cell next door, Jonas Kingdom drifted in and out of consciousness.

  He was more tired than he had ever been in his life. He had forced himself to go without sleep for several days. How could he rest when he hadn’t found Ben?

  The places he had been... Through the rookeries, all around the deadly Tiger Bay district, peering into the frightening places of the city. He didn’t have a photograph to show people what his lost boy looked like – they had never had that sort of money – but he could describe him vividly. Ben was the absolute spit of the amazing woman who had carried him, right down to the fiery red hair and the lopsided smile. Eventually he came across someone who claimed to have seen him, a Chinese man who told him that a boy fitting that description had visited his laundry a few nights before.

  And it was when Jonas stepped outside that laundry that the Feathered Men had attacked him. It was almost as if they had been waiting there to capture him and drag him away to this dungeon. But he hadn’t gone with them easily. That was why his body was so battered and bruised. Tentatively, he put his hand to his face, exploring the lumps and swellings around his eyes and across his jaw. He turned over on the straw, trying to find a way to rest his body that didn’t cause him pain. Then he shut his eyes.

  He was probably dreaming, because he thought that he could hear his son’s voice drifting though the wall.