Page 61 of The Death Wish

‘See, do you see it?’ Charlie’s laughter bordered on manic.

Pitch gave no answer, for only a blind man would not notice the Priest’s Hole. Lalassu peeled back her mane, letting it fan upright behind them, giving them room to finally get to their feet. Charlie found a turn of foot that was impressive, clearing the short distance to the cave first. Scarlet squeaked and chittered like a lunatic, waving them in.

Silas turned to reach for Pitch, who slapped his hand away.

‘Go. Go. I’m right behind you.’

The wall was barely deserving of the name, made from the shale which littered the area, and clearly man-made. Likely a wind-break for any fool who decided to hike this way and found themselves overnighting in the inhospitable landscape. Perhaps the long-dead priest who gave the place his name was the first fool among them.

Charlie slipped through the gap in the wall towards the right hand side of the mouth of the cave.

‘Edward!’ he cried. ‘Edward?’

Pitch did not enjoy the note of consternation he heard. Nor how Scarlet’s colours bounced against the back wall of the shallow cave. This was little more than a shelter carved out by the incessant scrape of the wind. There was no continuation, no tunnel to lead them to wherever this confounded Sanctuary awaited.

‘Charlie, where is Edward?’ Silas had to bend to enter the confines. ‘This is a dead end.’

‘No, I promise you. It’s not.’

The ground rumbled, and shivers of dust fell from the roof.

‘Pitch, get inside,’ Silas said, whilst Scarlet went into a maddened dance which clearly said much the same thing.

‘No, I need to see…oh!’

Lalassu shoved him into the cave, sending him into an undignified stumble from which Silas saved him. The ankou edged them both out of the way, so that the mare too could enter. She barely fit, her head lowering, her heavy breath shifting the dusty floor.

Pitch shook off Silas’s hold and crouched behind the layering of shale. He narrowed his eyes against the dying glare of the last blast. The view, as it dipped into nightfall, was admittedly, stunning; the roll and dip of endless hillsides, barren but no less beautiful for their dominance of the landscape.

A landscape that was streaked with scorched earth: like the markings on a tiger’s back the burns of an angel and daemon’s battle were cut into the ground.

Pitch stood, leaning his hands upon the wall, craning his neck to peer down the slope.

‘Pitch, be careful.’

‘Do you see that?’ He ignored the ankou’s warning. ‘Down there, a horse.’

And a rider.

Flaming. Dazzling. Though rather unsteady in the saddle.

Their fire-hues glanced off the coat of the black horse beneath them.

Silas drew in a breath, and though he did not lean out as far as Pitch, he too strained to catch a better glimpse.

‘Is that Chollima he rides?’

‘Who the blazes is Chollima?’

‘The Dullahan’s horse.’

‘If he does so, he does not do it well.’ Pitch squinted, taking in how precarious the daemon appeared on the horse’s back. His flames were vibrant, splaying from his back in the imitation of wings so many among the elite of daemonkind preferred, but those wings swayed alarmingly, their tips almost touching the ground at times. ‘There is something wrong.’

‘Has the angel struck him, perhaps?’

‘Most likely.’

Behind them Charlie still called on the lieutenant.