Page 57 of The Simurgh

‘There, that is where I need to be, Lalassu.’ She pranced beneath him, snorting softly. ‘No,’ he said, sensing the unspoken question. ‘You stay here. I will go on foot, it is not far.’

And he would be far less obtrusive if not on a massive pale horse, whose coat only shone brighter with the curious illumination.

The mare circled about, turning to face back towards the long expanse of fields and a singular winding road that wove into the distance and disappeared over a swell of hills. There was no sign of any travellers, neither on the ground nor sky-bound.

‘Wait for them, and keep watch.’ Silas dismounted, touching at the ground with practised ease. ‘You have a decent line of sight for miles here. Warn me if you see anything untoward.’

Like an approaching storm, or a giant rider upon a flare-footed stead.

Silas resettled his coat, jerking at the dull brown lapels that did not overlap to his liking. The coat did not sit so finely as the Inverness Pitch had gifted him. The coat’s loss in Sherwood Forest bothered Silas immensely, a small thing amongst larger matters, sure. But it did not feel so small to him.

He headed off, down the gentle slope they had stopped upon, towards an orchard that lay to the western edge of the village. It might afford him enough cover all the way to the churchyard if he was reading the lay of the land right.

‘He’s here, he must be here.’ That was his mantra as he attempted a stealthy approach to the village. A difficult task when one was built such as he. Built like a Nephilim.

At least he’d not been made so monstrous as the Herlequin, who had been dealt a severe hand indeed. Silas was still a considerable man, but he could exist in this world without sending people running screaming into their homes and locking the doors.

He kept on through the orchard, grateful that his coat, if not comfortable to wear, was a less conspicuous style than the Inverness, with its elaborate swathe of royal-blue and black trimmings. He at least looked to be a traveller, on the road for some time. And if caught, he could weave a story of needing rest.

Silas moved through the orchard, pausing every now and then to observe the way ahead so he might choose the most useful trees, but it was near Christmas. The trees had shed their foliage, most of them reduced down to naked, skeletal things, and most too slender to conceal his bulk, even if he were able to dart unseen between them.

Late as it was, the quietness was nevertheless disturbing. The place had an air of unnatural stillness.

He brushed off notions that maybe the ghost of Ernest Weatherby had sent him into a trap, retribution for having stood by and watched as Lucifer did his worst.

So be it. Let the Morrigan send their ash-men again, or renew their Wild Hunt, let the bloody Herlequin himself come. Silas would not be so careless to leave any adversary alive this time.

He strode across the damp ground, vaguely aware that his boots were heavy with mud. He reached a low cobbled wall that separated the churchyard from the orchard, and the ring tightened about his finger.

Silas easily negotiating the low height of the lichen-whitened stone. He stepped one foot upon the graveyard’s soil and the echo of a great torment struck him. Silas staggered, careening into a solid carving of stone, a cross whose arm dug into his ribs. The stone shifted in the wet soil with the pressure of his weight.

Ghostly cries rang out, making his shoulders bend with their loss and hurt and anger.

Silas searched the graveyard, readying to see hordes of teratisms creeping out from behind the gravestones.

But he was alone. No hint of a nefarious horde, or even a simple church grim.

And as surely as the sound commenced, it faded away.

‘Christ.’ His heart was pounding at the base of his throat. That horror was not new to him.

He’d felt it when the teratism had showed him the cave of wretched souls being fed upon by the ravens.

‘This is the place,’ he whispered –to hear his own voice, to ground himself.

Somewhere here, very close, was that terrible cavern the teratism had shown him. But was it also where Pitch was held?

Silas turned to face the church.

And saw at once what he searched for.

The eye to ward off evil.

A simple carving, oval of course, set a third of the way up the tower amongst white mortar and tawny stones. It was hardly bigger than the bricks themselves.

The ring clenched again, and he sucked in his breath at the sense of urgency.

Silas ran up to the chestnut doors of the church. He grabbed at the tarnished door knobs. The church was locked. He grabbed the iron rings at each of their centres, and threw his weight forward. Whatever bolt had held them in place snapped now. The thick panels swung wildly inwards, slamming back against the walls. Not exactly a clandestine arrival, but if his enemies awaited, then let them come, let him be done with them and move on.