Night stole over Whispercove with incredible
suddenness. There was a flare of distant
sunset over the dark sea, reflected and distorted a thousandfold in the black
droplets of the rain, and then the skies plunged into ever deeper darkness
until the only light was that which was made by the city itself - although
somewhat diminished from its pre-Lakhma days and never bright in this silent
district - and an eldritch green glow which ran through the clouds in sinuous
lines: the tentacles of the enemy.
Siren watched it all in thoughtful silence, seated
on the stone floor of the tunnel, her back curved up against its wall and she
remained silent and unmoving for some time after. At last, when she was sure there were no Spectres
patrolling nearby and all was a silent as Whispercove could be, she rose slowly
to her feet and, making no noise, gestured for the others to follow her through
the puddles.
They stepped out into a sort of crossroads in a
narrow backstreet which ran perpendicular to the tunnel, with a stone landing
and steps leading down towards the harbour before them, so much water running
down them now that they were become like a cataract. Siren surveyed them carefully, but quickly
decided that they steps were far too open (not to mention too wet) and that
there would be much to be gained by sticking to the smaller streets for as long
as possible, so, orienting herself to the south, she took the backstreet off to
the left and led the others beneath the overhang of a silent, unlit residence,
and, hugging the walls, followed the murky river of the street.
At first all seemed well. They wove from one backstreet to another,
always sticking on the closest route they could towards the south and
Shalereef, and though it took them maybe as much as twice as long to walk that
first mile than it would have had they not been hoping to move in secret, still
they managed it without any sign of their being detected, or any sight of the
corrupted Knights of Lakhma, or the Spectres of Whispercove. They came to the northern side of the hilly
headland and the still waters of the cove lay to the north-east, and it seemed
that the worst may well be behind them.
Realising this, Siren made them pause in an alcove
at the end of an alleyway to catch their breath and calm their nerves before
they proceeded up the hill and over the headland. She needed a little time to think herself,
wanting to be sure of which path to take and to make certain that they were not
being observed or followed. All of
Whispercove was silent as if dead. Only
a very few buildings had lights glowing within and none had windows left
unshuttered to glare out into the side streets in which Siren's rebel party
stalked.
Since the return of Lakhma and his/her oppressive
rule over the whole of Shadow, many districts of the city had become like this -
shuttered and silent, as if holding their breath and waiting for the dark to
pass, but Whispercove - always a quiet place - seemed more silent still and the
very ease with which they were progressing through it put Siren's nerves on
edge. She didn't like it when things
went too well, not when there was no good reason for it and standing in the
chilling damp air, water dripping from the corners of her hat, she realised she
was waiting for the hammer blow to fall.
"Did anyone 'ear that?" Gulliver whispered
suddenly and all eyes turned his way.
"Hear what?" Siren hissed, her worry and
frustration vented like steam.
"I thought I 'eard..." he trailed off,
listening, "no, there it is again!"
Siren closed her eyes and focused on the sounds
around her. Whispercove was still, but
there were noises everywhere, from the soft drip of the rain to the gurgle of
the black water as it churned in the gutters.
She tried to focus, to filter out the noises that had been with them all
the way and to listen for something new.
And there is was, like a gentle breathing, a soft,
flute-like exhalation, rhythmic, but slow and growing steadily louder.
"I hear it," Siren whispered
nervously. She already knew what it
meant - for what else could it be? - and didn't really want to acknowledge it
aloud. Franck, however, apparently did.
"Spectres," he said. He might have been withholding a grin. "The Spectres are coming."
They gathered together, pressing into the wall of
the residence whose overhanging storeys sheltered them and first Siren, then
Franck, then Gulliver and Rockspark, peered around the corner, down the hill
towards the harbour and the softy, breathy sound.
The street was aglow. Figures of light and air, mist and
nothingness were processing slowly up the hill.
Processing, because that's all it could be - too slow for a march, too ordered
to be a crowd. They lacked detail and
definition, but they almost looked human, with a hint of fine robes and of something
which flanged up around their heads, like a halo, or a crown or some elaborate
headdress - but all of these things might have been part of them. For all Siren knew they were naked. They were tall and their faces were long and
their flute-like breathing came from mouths which stretched down beyond the
reach of the most distended jaw. It made
them look more than sorrowful. They were
creatures of despair.
"No one knows what they are," Franck said,
never missing an opportunity for some exposition, "but they have always
inhabited this cove, sailing in their ghost ships and drifting through the
streets. They cause no harm, unless
someone transgresses against them. They
seem to have a very specific code of conduct and, once people were able to work
out what that was, Whispercove became inhabitable just like anywhere
else." He spoke as one enamoured,
thrilled by his subject and Siren wondered if he ever really let the concept of
immediate peril get in the way of a good academic discussion.
"Rumours say that they are the spirits of an
ancient race which ruled here dozens of millennia ago," he continued,
"but no one knows and the Spectres don't tell."
"But what is that noise?" Gulliver
asked. It seemed to be getting to him.
"It is as much of a mystery as everything else
about them, lad, but some think it might be singing, of a sort."
"A very different sort from anythin' I've ever
'eard!” He sounded disgusted.
The procession continued up the hill without pause
or change, the Spectres staring straight ahead and moving with unnatural grace,
and soon they were passing the corner where Siren and her friends hid. She watched them pass, flickering and
gliding, mouths agape and unmoving as they sang their breathy song.
And then Ellis stepped out from the shelter of the
overhang, and took a step towards them, and raised his arm so it was pointing
at the crowd of pale creatures drifting by, and, as Siren watched, knowing that
she should do something and yet somehow unable to move, he opened his mouth and
spoke.
“I see you,” he said, his voice loud and clear and
yet as if it came from a great distance away, “I know what you are!”
And the song stopped.
The Spectres froze in the middle of their procession
and turned, as one being, towards Ellis and the others. They stared in silence for a moment, pinpoint
eyes widening and growing brighter amid their pale glow. Then their mouths grew longer and wider, and
impossible gape and, in horrible unison, they screamed.
Siren had never heard a noise like it, but it wasn’t
completely unfamiliar either. There was
a hint of the wind of a tropical storm ripping through the rigging of the Ebon Crest and the electric sizzle of
lightning hitting the mast. She could
almost detect the wail of her mother, crying alone the shore – a sound she had
never heard, but it was there nonetheless.
The scream seemed to last for hours before anyone
moved, but somewhere in its midst Siren remembered her legs and she pushed
herself away from the wall and began to take steps back the way they had come.
“Come on,” she shouted, trying to stir the others
from their scream-frozen state, “the knights will come here now. We can’t stay!”
She watched Gulliver and Rockspark shake their heads
and begin to turn, saw Miss Barkcastle and Franck do likewise, and then
realised that Ellis was still standing there, still pointing.
The Spectres moved even as the other began to run,
sweeping forwards like a wave of hate-filled spirit, mouths wide and still
screaming. It was against all instinct
to run towards them, to grab Ellis’ arm and yank him back down the street, but
Siren didn’t even notice she was doing it until it was too late. She felt the Spectres behind them like a cold
breath on her neck as she dragged Ellis with her, just finding the breath to
shout at him, “What is wrong with you?”
He didn’t answer, but he did seem to wake up out of
whatever dreamworld he had been inhabiting, because he found his feet and began
to run with her. If they hadn’t been
running for their lives, she might have found it quite touching.
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