Read Online The Rise of the Iron Moon by Stephen Hunt - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Hunt
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with justice!’
The terrible laughter returned to the room. ‘They only know about the law;
I
shall explain what justice is.’
‘You’re him, aren’t you. The one they talk about.’
‘Look out of the window,’ said the hooded figure. ‘What do you see?’
The farmer stood in front of his shattered window. There was the gang’s ringleader, crawling across the glass on a broken leg, moaning, trying to reach his horse. And a dense fog was forming – seeping out of the woods, fingers of it probing along the ground like the legs of a curious spider. It was a marsh fog. The farmer looked around, but the three corpses had disappeared.
Vanished too was the Hood-o’the-marsh. Only the broken window remained as evidence that the farmer hadn’t dreamt the whole break-in.
* * *
Walking into the woods, the Hood-o’the-marsh allowed himself a smile, shouts from the squire’s mansion echoing behind him as the great house’s retainers spilled into the night, waving their blunderbusses and birding rifles. Someone was yelling to douse the lanterns, more of a hindrance than help on a nighttime pursuit. Not that it would do them any good, any more than cavalry redcoats would be able to help the bloody figure of a county magistrate in a dressing gown, stumbling towards town and the garrison. He owned the night. Not much of a recompense for losing the ability to sleep, to dream.
Which was why the silhouette of the woman waiting at the top of the hill took him by surprise. Nobody could sneak up on him. Nobody. Not since he had found… both pistols were suddenly in his hands as he advanced, treading silently towards the woman. After all these years, could it really be her?
‘Mother, is that you?’
There was no answer. He could feel nothing from her, as if she had no weight on the world. No evil. No goodness either. And there was only one person – if you could call her a person – who had ever registered on the Hood’s senses like that.
‘Mother, if—’
‘I am not the Lady of the Lights,’ said the silhouette. ‘But perhaps you should recognize me anyway, Oliver Brooks?’
He moved closer. There was just enough moonlight to see that the silhouette was wearing what looked like leather armour covered by bronze chainmail – archaic, the very picture of a warrior maiden from the cheap woodcuts of a child’s novel.
‘Enough of this.’ Oliver pointed his two pistols at her but they vanished from his hands, reappearing in her own. The light reflecting from the pistols became twin suns, blinding him. As the light dwindled he saw that the pistols had changed form, one becoming a trident, the other an oblong shield with the crude face of a lion cast on it. The lion of Jackals.
Oliver gaped. ‘They’re mine.’
‘No,’ said the woman. ‘They are mine . As are you, Hood-o’the-marsh.’
‘You are an Observer then,’ said Oliver.
‘No, I’m not one of them,’ said the woman. ‘I’m a local girl. Did you never wonder where those two pistols of yours, so carefully passed down the ages from master to master, actually came from? It is my work you are about, Oliver Brooks.’
‘Is it, indeed?’ said Oliver. ‘Then return those two pistols and I’ll be about it once more.’
‘Time enough for that,’ said the woman. ‘There are more important matters to attend to than corrupt guardians and local magistrates. Have you not felt the wrongness in our land?’
Oliver gazed down at his empty hands. She knew that he had.
‘There is an ache in my bones,’ continued the woman, ‘and I fear what it augurs.’
‘Your bones?’
‘The bones of the land, Oliver Brooks of the race of man,’ said the woman. ‘The bones of the Kingdom of Jackals.’
‘Jackals is a country, not a person,’ said Oliver. ‘It’s my country.’
‘You are half-right,’ said the woman. ‘Jackals is an idea, a dream of freedom that is dreamt by all those who live in the forests and glades of this green land. That is
The terrible laughter returned to the room. ‘They only know about the law;
I
shall explain what justice is.’
‘You’re him, aren’t you. The one they talk about.’
‘Look out of the window,’ said the hooded figure. ‘What do you see?’
The farmer stood in front of his shattered window. There was the gang’s ringleader, crawling across the glass on a broken leg, moaning, trying to reach his horse. And a dense fog was forming – seeping out of the woods, fingers of it probing along the ground like the legs of a curious spider. It was a marsh fog. The farmer looked around, but the three corpses had disappeared.
Vanished too was the Hood-o’the-marsh. Only the broken window remained as evidence that the farmer hadn’t dreamt the whole break-in.
* * *
Walking into the woods, the Hood-o’the-marsh allowed himself a smile, shouts from the squire’s mansion echoing behind him as the great house’s retainers spilled into the night, waving their blunderbusses and birding rifles. Someone was yelling to douse the lanterns, more of a hindrance than help on a nighttime pursuit. Not that it would do them any good, any more than cavalry redcoats would be able to help the bloody figure of a county magistrate in a dressing gown, stumbling towards town and the garrison. He owned the night. Not much of a recompense for losing the ability to sleep, to dream.
Which was why the silhouette of the woman waiting at the top of the hill took him by surprise. Nobody could sneak up on him. Nobody. Not since he had found… both pistols were suddenly in his hands as he advanced, treading silently towards the woman. After all these years, could it really be her?
‘Mother, is that you?’
There was no answer. He could feel nothing from her, as if she had no weight on the world. No evil. No goodness either. And there was only one person – if you could call her a person – who had ever registered on the Hood’s senses like that.
‘Mother, if—’
‘I am not the Lady of the Lights,’ said the silhouette. ‘But perhaps you should recognize me anyway, Oliver Brooks?’
He moved closer. There was just enough moonlight to see that the silhouette was wearing what looked like leather armour covered by bronze chainmail – archaic, the very picture of a warrior maiden from the cheap woodcuts of a child’s novel.
‘Enough of this.’ Oliver pointed his two pistols at her but they vanished from his hands, reappearing in her own. The light reflecting from the pistols became twin suns, blinding him. As the light dwindled he saw that the pistols had changed form, one becoming a trident, the other an oblong shield with the crude face of a lion cast on it. The lion of Jackals.
Oliver gaped. ‘They’re mine.’
‘No,’ said the woman. ‘They are mine . As are you, Hood-o’the-marsh.’
‘You are an Observer then,’ said Oliver.
‘No, I’m not one of them,’ said the woman. ‘I’m a local girl. Did you never wonder where those two pistols of yours, so carefully passed down the ages from master to master, actually came from? It is my work you are about, Oliver Brooks.’
‘Is it, indeed?’ said Oliver. ‘Then return those two pistols and I’ll be about it once more.’
‘Time enough for that,’ said the woman. ‘There are more important matters to attend to than corrupt guardians and local magistrates. Have you not felt the wrongness in our land?’
Oliver gazed down at his empty hands. She knew that he had.
‘There is an ache in my bones,’ continued the woman, ‘and I fear what it augurs.’
‘Your bones?’
‘The bones of the land, Oliver Brooks of the race of man,’ said the woman. ‘The bones of the Kingdom of Jackals.’
‘Jackals is a country, not a person,’ said Oliver. ‘It’s my country.’
‘You are half-right,’ said the woman. ‘Jackals is an idea, a dream of freedom that is dreamt by all those who live in the forests and glades of this green land. That is
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