Page 52 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

Ravens.

A great flock perched on the rocky crags of the dolomite wall that stood behind the altar. Dark stains against the paler stone.

Silas’s soundless world rippled with movement. The ravens rising as one.

A teratism, a spindly creature with one arm missing and deep, terrible lacerations upon its face, climbed onto the altar. It laid itself out on its back.

The birds descended as one, wings clashing as they fought to reach the altar first.

The teratism was covered in a writhing mass of beaks and claws. Torn to pieces before the creature Silas shared eyes with could look away. His teratism cowered, bracing, as though sensing what was to come.

The wave of anguish hit hard. And Silas’s silent world was ripped open by a terrible chorus of death notes. So many, many death notes, caught up in the screams of the ravens as they devoured the unfortunate teratism.

The hatred, the rage, the utter desperation embedded in the cries of the birds could crack holes in the earth with their wretchedness. But those terrors of emotion did not belong to the flock.

Silas cowered along with the teratism. Understanding dawned, a fragile flower beneath the cloud of grief.

Macha had been gathering souls, but not purely to create an army of teratisms. That was part of it, but hardly the whole.

The Fulbourn was only ever meant to hold your ghost and corpses, it was never meant to be a battleground.That was what the Alp had said when the sorceress refused the order to evacuate the collapsing Sanctuary. The Fulbourn had been a holding facility for whatever bloody, loathsome hell this was.

The dead were being offered up to the ravens. But for what purpose?

Silas.

Pitch’s voice came from a distance, unpicking the threads that wove Silas into the teratism.

Silas. Damn you.

Pitch’s voice was like a blade glancing against him. Demanding to be heard. Fighting to keep itself from wavering.

But as desperate as Silas was to relieve the daemon of his concern, he wanted the secret of this cavern almost as much so. What Macha was doing here was a tragedy of unspeakable proportions.

Silas, please, wake up.

Not Pitch this time, but an equally familiar voice. Charlie was frightened, his fear sitting in the cracks between his words.

Open your eyes.One of those cracks split wide open with a sob.You need to wake up now.

Silas, damn it. Come on now. That’s enough.Sybilla’s deeper notes struck at the ties that bound Silas.Don’t you dare bloody leave us… The daemon will not survive it.

Her words– the very last especially– severed Silas’s ties with the teratism unequivocally. He slid free of the bone-crushing horror of the cavern.

And came around to a world blazing bright. He blinked. Bloody hell, his chest ached. Silas squinted up at the pair of concern-wrinkled faces hovering over him.

‘Oh my god, Silas.’ Charlie collapsed onto him, burying his face into his shoulder in a hug that was far more painful than it ought to be. Silas dragged a breath between his teeth, his chest on fire with the pressure. ‘You scared the bloody hell out of us.’

Silas could barely answer for the pain. ‘Charlie,’ he rasped. ‘Can you…’

‘Come now, give him room to breathe.’ Sybilla was on her knees on Silas’s other side. The leather of her coat creaked as she moved to extricate Charlie from his vise-grip on Silas. ‘Charlie, let him go.

‘I’m sorry.’ Charlie settled back on his heels, wiping his sleeve across a damp nose. ‘I’m sorry, Silas. You were just so…you were so still. I truly thought you were dead.’

The poor creature didn’t know the half of it. ‘Not yet.’

Sybilla eased her hand in between Silas’s shoulder and the ground, applying gentle pressure as she helped him up.

‘Oh shit.’ Silas grabbed his ribs, eyes watering. ‘My chest…did I fall on something?’