THE BURNING ALTAR

When Grendel finally began to walk out of the shadows, every head turned, and ice and fire chased down Elinor’s spine.

Even with the terrible skinned face it was easy to see that Grendel’s eyes were glowing with fervour, and he stared at the Burning Altar like a man finally looking on a consummation longed for over many years. Despite the danger Elinor felt an unexpected pang. Lewis’s son, walking towards what might be his own death. Did he know that? Did he sense it with that curious mad intuitive mind? Whatever was ahead, he was certainly going into the hands of people who would use him without compunction.

The Altar had been set up by several of the men, who had dragged it from a dim corner and arranged what looked like clay bricks across the top. They had fired it from beneath – Elinor thought it worked on roughly the same principle as an ordinary garden barbecue – and it was already glowing with heat. Sentinels had been dispatched: two to guard the main outer doors, two more below the trap door into the tunnels, and inside the warehouse a sense of immense expectancy was building, as if the cat-headed people were saying: Nearly there! Nearly time!

Elinor dared not take her eyes from Grendel. He was standing at the Altar’s head, but he was treading a line so appallingly fragile that it might snap at any second and precipitate them all into disaster. The heat burned up suddenly, lighting the macabre distorted face, and a murmur of shock went through the watchers. This is it, thought Elinor in panic. They’ve seen that something’s wrong. They’re realising. Oh God, what will Grendel do?

As if he had caught the thought, Grendel lifted his hands and deliberately and slowly peeled back the grisly mask. It came away stickily, like tearing a bandage off a wound still wet, and beneath it his face was caked and smeary with dried blood. Elinor caught a movement from Ginevra and saw her put both hands over her mouth as if forcing back a cry of horror. There was a moment of appalled silence, and then Grendel seemed to take a huge breath and plunge straight into the centre of it.

‘Behold your ruler!’ he cried, and his voice echoed and spun around the lofty-roofed warehouse. ‘I am the one brought to preside over the Burning Altar of Touaris!’ He paused, his breathing harsh and ragged with emotion, and there was a low murmur of hostility.

‘Yes, I am Grendel.’ He spun round to face Iwane, his eyes showing the red light. Remember that he’s mad, thought Elinor, staring at him. Only a madman would have deliberately walked straight into their midst, so don’t depend on him to get you out of here. But he’s got this far; he fooled Timur and killed him, and although these people are hostile they’re listening to him. They’re not pouncing on him. She sent a quick look to Ginevra and saw that Ginevra was half-kneeling, her eyes fixed on Grendel.

‘Yes. But he was expendable and I am not. I am your ruler.’ Grendel’s voice was logical and calm, as if he was explaining facts to a witless child.

‘Touaris is our ruler!’ cried Iwane, and behind him, someone murmured, ‘Imposter!’ and a snarl of assent went through the others.

‘You are our creature,’ said Iwane. ‘Nothing more. If Timur is dead, I take his place. But you are ours to use as we please!’

‘An imposter,’ said Iwane again. He swung round to face the Tashkarans. ‘And imposters,’ he said, ‘should share the fate of all false prophets!’

‘Burn him!’ shouted the Tashkarans at once. ‘Burn the false one! Feed him to the Altar!’

There was a soaring note of blood lust in their voices and Elinor shivered. On the other side of the warehouse, Ginevra was dragging fruitlessly at her chains. It would be like Ginevra to somehow break free and go helter-skelter into battle, heedless of the consequences, and have to be rescued, upsetting a lot of plans in the process. Blast you, Ginevra, stay where you are! thought Elinor in silent anguish.

The Tashkarans who had stared at Grendel with that cautious respect, were staring no longer. They were circling about him, like monstrous feral cats, and the warehouse was echoing with their shouts.

They began to close in, and the fierce heat of the Altar showered them with glowering crimson.

‘Bring forward the prisoners!’ cried one, and at once the others took up the words, a dreadful rhythmic chant that beat painfully against Elinor’s senses.

Four of the men stepped forward to snap open the padlocks holding the chains, and Elinor and Ginevra and the young man with her were dragged forward to the searing heat of the Burning Altar.

The brotherhood of the streets had worked with the efficient swiftness that Raffael was coming to recognise, and in just over an hour they had an assortment of tools that Baz said should be enough to knacker the Aswan Dam for ever, never mind break through a half-rusted sluice gate.

They had decided to do this part alone; Baz had said that bringing along the Anchor crowd, never mind that rabble from the Wayfarer, would balls up the whole thing on account of the noise.

He apologised for swearing again, and Raffael said, ‘I think we’d better set the record straight once and for all – I don’t give a tuppenny fuck how much or how violently you swear. All right?’

Baz said all right, thought that people never ceased to amaze you, and got down to work. It was a bit awkward to free the spigot and get down to the wheel-crank itself, and not being able to make any noise made it even worse. There was no trick to the job, of course; you just stripped the wheel down until you reached the turning mechanism. Like picking a lock. He did not say this aloud, however, because some things were best left unsaid.

What with the darkness and the ban on noise, it took longer than either of them had thought, and Raffael was drenched in sweat by the time Baz straightened up and said he thought they were there.

Raffael glanced at his watch: just on ten o’clock. Timur had said the sacrifices would take place at midnight, but there might be all manner of rituals leading up. Ginevra might be facing death even as they stood here.

Baz began to spin the wheel, and at once there was an answering grating of metal which made both of them jump and look uneasily over their shoulders. The ancient sluice gates began to unfold and Raffael said softly, ‘This is where we impose complete silence, I think. Once through those gates we daren’t risk being heard.’

Baz thought about Georgie’s possible fate and Ralphie’s and all the other laddies who had vanished, and he thought about the very classy Ginevra Craven who had gone so enthusiastically into this. He said he would be very happy to disfigure the whole bunch of evil wankers for life, and this time made no apology for his language.

‘Good,’ said Raffael, pocketing the heaviest of the small spanners. ‘That’s what I hoped you say.’

A breath of old sour air gusted into their faces as they moved through the darkness, but there was still a faint thread of light from somewhere. I’m going towards the light, thought Raffael, caught between fear and sudden exhilaration. I’m going towards the light and I’m going towards Ginevra. His hand closed about the heavy-headed spanner in his pocket. Knock out any guards, he had said. If it comes to it, will I really do it? Violence is never justifiable, Father. Yes, it bloody is! thought Raffael.

The tunnels were not as maze-like as he had feared; there was a main passageway with a curved roof and groyned brick archways buttressing it. Small intersections branched off the main tunnel, and several times they had to step over noisome iron grids. At each intersection they paused for Baz to make a faint chalk mark on the walls to keep track of where they were and where they had been.

Even with the thin ingress of light it was still very dark and they did not dare use the torches. The tunnels picked up every breath of sound and magnified it over and over, so that Raffael kept thinking they were being followed, or that they were being watched, or that someone was crouching up ahead waiting to pounce . . .

And then the whispering echoes suddenly coalesced into pounding footsteps, and two men, dark-clad and wearing some kind of nightmarish snarling-cat heads, erupted out of the darkness.

For several seconds Raffael and Baz both stood stock-still, unable to believe their eyes. And then they shared the thought – only masks! -and met their attackers head on.

Baz, child of the East End docks, swung out at once, aiming the wrench not at the protected head, but at the shoulders. There was the sickening crunch of steel on bone and the man yelped and fell back, one arm hanging uselessly at his side. Baz launched forward instantly, ripping away the masked head, the wrench lifted to deal an even more disabling blow.

Raffael had been knocked to the ground, and his attacker had pounced on him, one hand pushing into his throat, the other raised, ready to smash down. Raffael brought his knee up and rammed it hard into the man’s groin, and he gave a grunting sound and doubled up at once, rolling away, clutching himself in agony. Serve you right, you bastard! thought Raffael, but for all that, he was glad that it was Baz who again lifted the wrench and dealt the second blow, aiming at the base of the neck. The man crumpled into unconsciousness, and Raffael scrambled to his feet, slightly shaken, but feeling not the least trace of guilt.

‘What now?’ said Baz, staring down at the two prone bodies. Raffael was bending over his attacker, but he looked up and grinned briefly.

‘They’ve given it to us on a plate,’ he said. ‘We don their identities. We put on the cat heads and we go into the lions’ den.’

As the Tashkarans made to fall on Grendel, Ginevra started forward as if to help, but Elinor dragged her back.

‘If we try to escape now they’ll tear us to bits and throw us on to that thing!’ said Elinor in a furious whisper.

‘Oh.’ Ginevra swallowed and collected herself. ‘Er – this is Georgie. He’s been helping us—’

‘Good,’ said Elinor impatiently, without looking at the boy, her eyes still on Grendel.

It was then that Grendel began to speak, and at his first words the Tashkarans froze. The hair prickled on the back of Elinor’s neck.

‘Clio sings of famous deeds and restores the past to life.

Euterpe’s breath fills the sweet-voiced flutes.

Thalia rejoices in the careless speech of comedy

While Melpomene cries aloud with the echoing voice of gloomy tragedy.

Terpsichore with her lyre stirs and governs the emotions.

Erato bearing the plectrum harmonizes foot and song in the dance.

Urania examines the motions of the stars.

Calliope commits heroic songs to writing;

Polymnia expresses all things with her hands and speaks by gesture.

The power of Apollo’s will enlivens the whole circle of the Muses—’

Grendel paused, surveying the Tashkarans, and for the first time there was amusement and arrogance in his expression. When he resumed the strange, apparently patternless chant, he did so with cool deliberation.

‘But Touaris, fiery cat-blooded Touaris, dons the masks of them all:

Taurt she is and Apet; Hesamut she is and Smet;

Shapuit she has been and Hathor she will be.

She sits with Horus, with Thoth at her right hand and Osiris at her left,

And consorts with Khnum and Ptah, the creators.’

He stopped again and the Tashkarans stared at him, apparently stunned into silent immobility.

‘It’s some kind of key,’ said Ginevra softly. ‘Elinor, it’s a – a password of some sort.’

‘Whatever it is they recognise it.’ Elinor looked around the warehouse frantically. Was now the time to make a run for it? She glanced towards the trap door. Could they be down the stairs and through the tunnels and out into St Stephen’s Road? No, a watch had been posted. Even with the thought, she saw the trap door lift, and the two guards stepped up into the warehouse, and stood on each side of the open hatch. Don’t want to miss any of the fun, thought Elinor bitterly, and turned back to Grendel.

Grendel was facing Iwane and he seemed to be waiting. The silence stretched out and when Iwane finally spoke his voice was slow and unwilling. He said, ‘You have the race-memories of our ancestors.’

‘I have. The exodus from Egypt, the building of Tashkara’s first city in the valley that stands beyond time . . .’ He paused, and again the fearful murmur brushed the watchers. ‘The city gates that were ranked alongside Artemisia’s mausoleum at Halicarnassus and the lighthouse of Alexandria and the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus,’ said Grendel, softly, and then said, clearly quoting, ‘“We shall raise up our city in the wilderness, and there we shall pursue the worship of the One True Religion and the blasphemies of the world shall never prevail against it . . .”’

‘“We will build two gates to the city,”’ said Grendel, and now the soaring note of exultation was unmistakable. ‘“And one will be of sawn ivory and one of horn . . . And where the ivory gleams there will be my people and my truths . . . And where the burnished horn shines, there will be my enemies and their falsehoods.”’

He smiled at Iwane. ‘You see,’ he said. ‘I know what is written in the Chronicles of my people. And I know the secret chant of the goddess. As you have just heard.’

‘There might be ways—’ Iwane stopped and then said very deliberately and very slowly, ‘Are you the messenger that stands before the face of the gods?’

‘I stand at the door and knock,’ said Grendel, and a ripple of emotion stirred the watchers.

And again Grendel responded: ‘I will raise up a Table in the Wilderness and my people shall hunt the gods and feast on them and therefore feast with them.’

It was like a dark catechism or a travesty of a religious litany. Question and answer. Challenge and response. And whatever it means, he’s giving the right responses, thought Elinor. And it’s shocked them.

‘You could not know that,’ said Iwane, staring at him, ‘not possibly. Not unless—’

‘Not unless I had the spirit of the goddess reborn?’ Grendel smiled and began to advance on Iwane, and Elinor heard Ginevra gasp. She looked back at Grendel and her stomach churned with fear. Grendel’s face, bloodied and slimed as it still was, was unquestionably changing. The dark slavering thing surfacing . . . Like this he’s a match for Iwane, and he’s probably a match for any of them. But he’s still chained . . . Oh God, I’d forgotten that he was still chained . . .

Grendel leaped on to Iwane, the curled fingers of both hands reaching for his throat. The chains jerked taut and Iwane flinched and tried to pull away but it was too late; Grendel had caught him, and the nails of both hands were gouging deep into his jugular veins. Blood spurted, spattering Grendel’s face.

‘Doubter!’ screamed Grendel. ‘Disbeliever!’ His nails tore into the thin cloth of Iwane’s shirt, and ripped it aside in maniacal fury, and with a cry of triumph he pushed Iwane back on to the Altar. The most appalling scream Elinor had ever heard tore through the warehouse, and then there was a fierce hiss of heat as Iwane fell into the centre of the fierce glowing heat.

The Tashkarans surged forward at once, holding out their hands to pull him clear, but the heat was too intense, and they flinched back, throwing up their hands to shield their faces and eyes.

Iwane was lying on his back across the Altar’s surface, his face contorted, his hands flailing helplessly at the air as he struggled to get free. His mouth was stretched in an endless scream and his eyes were starting from his head, the whites suffused with crimson. Hissing curls of steam rose up all around him, enveloping him. This is the moment, thought Elinor wildly. If ever the attention was away from us, it’s away now. She looked about her. To run to the main doors at the far end? But that meant going straight through the centre of the Tashkarans. And behind them, although the trap door was open, it was guarded. Elinor stared at it in despair and at the two guards. Had she imagined it, or had the nearer of the two made a small, almost imperceptible gesture of beckoning? No, there it was again.

At her side, Ginevra said in a whisper so low that Elinor barely caught it. ‘Elinor. Start edging back to the trap door.’

‘All right. But slowly. Inch by inch. Keep your eyes on what’s happening and if anyone looks our way, freeze.’

The Tashkarans were still grouped about the Altar, vainly trying to reach the squirming dying Iwane, and Grendel was raising his fists above his head in maniacal triumph. Madness, stark and wild, glared from his eyes, and he began to laugh, great insane peals of terrible mirth tearing through the crimson-lit warehouse. He’s covering us, thought Elinor, suddenly. Dear God, I believe he really is! He’s forcing the madness to the surface so that we can get free! Here we go. I hope Ginevra’s right about this guard being Raffael.

Holding hands, they began to retreat towards the waiting square of darkness, going so slowly that Elinor found herself wanting to scream to them to hurry, because at any minute the Tashkarans could look up and catch them. She fixed her eyes on the scene before her, and concentrated on moving slowly and noiselessly.

Grendel was still in the red glare from the altar, exulting over the dying Iwane. ‘Scream!’ he cried. ‘Scream until your throat bursts! Scream until your lungs shred and you vomit them on to your cooking body! When you are done, I will feast on you, I will eat you, shred by shred! And then I will rule from my mother’s throne!’

Elinor saw the shudder go through the watching people. But in another minute they would remember their prey . . . How near to the trap door are we? Ten paces? I think we’re going to make it.

And then they were there, and the two guards who were not guards at all, were grabbing them and almost throwing them down the stair.

As Raffael reached up to pull the trap door down over their heads, the last thing Elinor saw was Grendel standing over the squirming screaming body of Iwane, still laughing with demonic delight.

Chapter Twenty-nine