فصل 01

CHAPTER 1

THE GATHERING

THE OLD MAN TRUDGED ALONG THE DIRT PATH, pulling his worn coat tighter to ward off the cold wind moaning across the Salisbury Plain. Dusk was near, and the man was glad to see his destination, the village of Amesbury, come into view.

The man glanced toward the cluster of massive dark stones looming in the distance to his left. He had lived near Stonehenge his whole life, and until recently he had considered it an unremarkable feature of the landscape. But in the past few weeks—since the night of the strange lights in the sky—he found that his eyes were drawn to the stones.

The old man turned his head away, disgusted with himself. He was a sensible person; he was not one to believe the stories that had been swirling through the village since that night—stories of evil spirits roaming among the stones, of animals behaving oddly, of people experiencing strange sensations.…

“Rubbish,” the man muttered to himself as he quickened his pace.

CAW! CAW! CAW!

The bird’s cry startled the man. He looked up and saw a large raven swooping across the plain. The man stopped and watched as it passed low in front of him. He was watching the bird, not the ground, so he did not see its shadow pass across his.

But he felt it.

He didn’t know it was a shadow; he thought it was a chill. A shudder went through his body, and he drew his coat even tighter. He felt suddenly light-headed and staggered sideways. Catching himself, he started walking again—but not along the path. He veered to the right, toward a clump of trees. He didn’t know why he did this; he wasn’t thinking clearly.

He reached the trees and saw the strangest sight: animals, a dozen at least—a fox, a rabbit, two dogs, some squirrels, several birds, and a cat. They were lined up in a neat row, perfectly still, ignoring each other, watching the man approach.

The old man stopped about ten feet away; again, he had no idea why. For a moment he stood facing the animals. Then the fox trotted forward, but not directly to the man; it passed by him, such that its shadow crossed his. As it did, two things happened: the man felt another shuddering chill, and the fox looked at him as if suddenly aware of his presence, then ran off.

Next, one of the dogs came forward, and it repeated the fox’s actions—crossing shadows with the man, then running away. It was followed by the other dog and, one by one, the other animals.

Each time, the man felt the chill. But now he also felt something else—a new presence…a presence growing inside him. It was weak, but the man could feel it grow stronger as each animal scampered away, and he understood that whatever it was, it was coming from the animals into him. He understood this, but there was nothing he could do about it except watch, as if in a dream.

When the last animal was gone, the old man returned to the path and, still in his dreamlike state, resumed trudging toward Amesbury. He reached the village as the sun dipped below the hills. But instead of going to his house, where his wife would be cooking his dinner, the man went to the George Hotel, the oldest accommodation in the village.

The old man didn’t enter the hotel; he stopped in front of one of the windows. By the lamplight from inside, the man cast a shadow on the road in front of him. He had stood there for less than a minute when a woman walked past. The two knew each other, but neither spoke. The woman crossed in front of the man, her shadow touching his. The man felt the now-familiar chill. The woman let out a soft gasp, stumbled, then recovered and walked quickly away without looking at the man.

In a minute, another woman came by, then a man, then another woman, then a child, each crossing shadows with the man, then departing quickly into the darkness. Now the old man was acutely aware of the presence in him. It was still weak—wounded, the man realized—but it was also fiercely determined. And angry. Very, very angry.

In his dream state, the man understood somehow that he was not the target of the anger: whatever the presence was, it was only using him as a means to achieve its ultimate goal. The man did not know what that was. Nor did he want to know.

From down the road came the sound of hooves clopping and wheels creaking. The old man turned his head to see the London-bound coach pulling up to the hotel. The driver, a big, red-faced man in a heavy wool coat, reined in the horses, set the brake, and climbed down from his perch. He nodded to the old man, and getting no response, shrugged, then went into the hotel. He emerged two minutes later with a passenger, whom he helped into the coach. The driver was about to climb back up to his seat when the old man felt himself suddenly step forward and to the side, causing his shadow to cross the driver’s.

In that instant, the old man felt the presence rush from him. He staggered back and almost fell, catching himself against the wall of the hotel. He turned from the driver and stumbled away up the street toward his house. He did not look back. He had already decided that he would not tell his wife what had happened to him. He would never tell anyone.

Five hours later, the coach reached the London waterfront. The passengers were confused and angry; this was not where the coach was supposed to take them—their stops had all been bypassed. They had been complaining increasingly loudly for some time now, shouting and pounding on the coach roof. The driver had not responded at all. It was as if he didn’t hear them.

The coach stopped on a street near St. Katherine’s dock. The driver climbed down and walked away, abandoning the coach and its shouting passengers. It was midnight and the docks were quiet, save for the creaking of lines and the slapping of water against the hulls of ships.

The coach driver walked purposefully along the dock to a ship called Le Fantome. He walked up the gangway and boarded the ship. A sailor on watch tried to block his path, but the coach driver, a much larger man, shoved him aside easily. The driver strode to a companionway, descended into the ship, and walked toward the stern along a passageway until he reached a door. With a massive fist, he pounded on it five times.

“What?” bellowed an angry voice from inside the cabin. “What is it?”

The door opened, and there stood the captain of Le Fantome, a man named Nerezza. There was a hole in the middle of his face where his nose should have been. Usually he wore a wooden nosepiece, but not when he was sleeping.

Nerezza stared at the coach driver, his face a mix of surprise and fury.

“Who the devil are you?” he said, his right hand reaching back for the knife he kept on his bedside table.

The coach driver opened his mouth, but no words came out. Something else did come out, however. It looked like a tendril of smoke—thin and wispy at first, but then thicker, darker.

Nerezza froze, his eyes on the man’s mouth. The smoke was billowing out now, forming a thick column, flowing downward toward the floor. Nerezza looked at the coach driver’s eyes and saw terror; the man clearly had no idea what was happening.

But Nerezza did. He stepped back into his cabin, away from the dark thing. In a few moments it had fully emerged from the driver’s mouth. The big man fell backward, hitting his head against the wall of the passageway. The dark thing was now a swirling black cloud on the floor of Nerezza’s cabin. Nerezza stepped carefully around it into the passageway, closing the door behind him. He yelled for his men, and in seconds, several sailors appeared.

Nerezza pointed at the driver.

“Get him off the ship,” he said.

The men obeyed, though it took four of them to carry the coach driver up the companionway. They carried him down the gangway and left him lying on the dock, unconscious. He would awaken the next day with no idea how he’d gotten there, remembering nothing but a vivid, hideous nightmare.

Belowdecks, Nerezza stood outside his cabin door. He dreaded going inside, but he had no choice. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped inside. His cabin was cold now. The dark swirling shape had moved to the corner. It was rising slowly, beginning to take the shape of…not a man, exactly, but a cloak with a man inside. Or something inside.

Nerezza watched the thing rise, watched it take shape, waited.

Finally the thing spoke. Its voice was weaker than Nerezza remembered, but there was no mistaking it—a low, inhuman moaning sound. Nerezza leaned close to make out the words.

“We sail tonight,” the thing said. “For Rundoon.”

“Yes, Lord Ombra,” said Nerezza. “For Rundoon.”