Page 130 of The Simurgh

The darkness answered the ankou’s call.

Ravens screamed, somewhere in the cave that hid its true depths.

Not a caw, or cackle, or any sound those wretched birds should make, but a mind-numbing scream. One Pitch knew. It had been there at Goodrich Castle, when he broke the spirit of the forest free from the Blight-filled prism.

A bellow of blackness shot forth from the darkness that spread before Silas, a huge conglomeration of dark wings and sharp onyx beaks. Murder upon murder of ravens.

Silas stepped towards them.

And then he was lost. The ankou disappeared beneath a thrashing, writhing cloak of beady eyes and snapping beaks.

Pitch’s heart pounded, and gods he was so close to moving. Running into the fray. Burning every single one of those bastards that set upon the ankou to ash.

In a heart’s half-beat there was a small mountain where Silas should be. Wriggling, gleaming night, gnashing beaks and claws in a horrific frenzy.

Stay back? Was the ankou mad? The Herlequin was horrid enough, but being forced to simply watch this carnage was too much.

‘Fuck, fucking, damn you…fuck.’ Pitch shoved the fingers of his free hand into his hair, the knots catching at the ring . Why was the ankou not using his scythe?

He turned about, his heels grinding on a coarse sand bed beneath the water. Pitch pulled at his hair, welcoming the pain. A distraction from the misery here. Good gods, it was putrid, this scent of shared nightmares. The waft of a losing army upon the battlefield. He felt it upon him like sodden clothes of the thickest weave.

The dark sea broiled, the glint of pale green amongst the jet black feathers. A sable smoke crept through the screeching calamitous pile that covered Silas.

Death was despicable. How often did Silas endure such emotions?

‘Silas, I cannot wait. I will not.’

Pitch turned to face the horror. He took a step, and was raising his foot to take another when the wrench came at his hand. A tight clench about his ring finger, as though someone grabbed him and pulled tight.

Pitch whirled about and sent a torrent of flame forth, an expulsion of fire that moved like a viper strike.

Striking empty air.

There was nothing but a merciless pull upon his ring finger.

The ring. The fucking ring.

‘Let me go,’ he yelled, stupidly, at his hand. ‘Let me go, or I shall cut you off.’

A move that would be painful, but needs must. And hemustget to Silas. Pitch lurched forward, towards that hill of feathers and knifetips, towards the idiot he adored trapped beneath.

He was snapped back, the shield of fire lifting skyward. Pitch landed on his back in the water, submerging briefly before he righted himself, spitting rage and dirty water.

‘Silas, you bastard. Call off this blasted scythe.’ Pitch leaned into his efforts to strive forward, like a work horse with a plough too heavy to budge. His arm stuck out behind him, immovable in the air. He used every curse he’d learned in four hundred years, aiming them all at the scythe that held him back from where he ought to be.

Pitch dropped to his knees, the water cold as ice against his chest. He breathed hard as a raced horse but had made no ground. Maybe he could send the flame into the churn of avian bodies. The scythe could not stop him doing that, surely? And he doubted those flying rats would be resistant to Dominion flame.

Pitch punched at the water, barely causing a ripple in the queerly still pool.

There was a chance he’d hit Silas, and leave him writhing in a new agony.

The despair in the cave stabbed at Pitch anew, gorging on his own helplessness.

‘Enough, this is too much. Let him fucking be.’

He wasn’t sure who he was screaming at. The birds? Or the goddess who stood by while her ankou suffered? Perhaps Satine and Lucifer and all those who led them on this merry fucking dance?

Or Silas himself?