He thought he’d see his destination then. Cross the Lea, then make for the gate, Justice had said. He thought he had made it, that reaching the gate now really was possible.
But when his horse crested the bank slope, Will turned cold at what he saw.
There was no gate, only endless flat marshland, where long streaks of black water flowed around islands of grassy earth. A vast, harrowing landscape full of sucking mud and slimy ground where a horse’s hoof would sink or skid.
He had no choice but to drive his horse into it. He tried to keep to dry land, avoiding the glinting water between the patches of long grass. The footpads of the dogs were lighter, and they raced over the top of the marshland without miring. As his tired horse laboured in the swampy earth, the dogs swarmed towards him, narrowing the gap.
The gate, he thought. Make for the gate. But there was no gate; he was alone on an empty marsh with the three Remnants behind him closing in.
How close were they? Could he hold a lead and find his way to cover? Will twisted his head, risking a second look behind him.
The gleaming black gauntlet was stretching out, about to close on him.
Will hurtled himself sideways. His horse screamed and veered with him; the reaching hand closed on air. A second Remnant reached out before he’d even righted himself. He could feel the hot breath of a third’s mount to his right. If he looked sideways, he would see them drawing alongside him.
He called on his horse one last time, a new sound of hooves swelling and breaking around him, his own breath sobbing with the need to escape. His horse gave its last burst of strength as he looked up through the haze and saw that the sound of hooves was not coming from behind him. It was coming from ahead.
Out of the white curling mist rode the Stewards.
A charge of light: twelve Stewards on white horses were galloping hard towards him. They wore the star and carried winged spears like lances, their silver armour glinting in the moonlight. Will gasped as they swept past him, heading right for the Remnants in their black armour.
‘Back, darkness!’ he heard the foremost Steward call, raising a staff with a stone set in its top that seemed to radiate a shield of light. ‘The Dark King has no power here!’
Will turned his horse in time to see the rushing dark of the Remnants seem to hit the barrier that the Stewards drove before them – and break, like a wave smashing against unyielding rock, the horses of the Remnants rearing and cowering back, the tendrils of the dark vanishing.
‘I said back!’ said the Steward as the three Remnants whipped their horses, trying to rally. Unable to pass the barrier, the Remnants were forced to drag at their horses’ mouths with their reins and turn to canter impotently back to the river. Reduced to faltering whimpers, the dogs milled uncertainly with their tails between their legs before finally following the riders, silent shadows moving along the water’s edge.
The Stewards were swerving, surrounding Will, twelve radiant white horses circling around his exhausted black gelding, who trembled, its neck and haunches lathered in sweat.
‘You have trespassed on Steward lands,’ said their leader, a Steward with a commanding voice and a jagged scar stark across the brown skin of her left cheek and jaw. She was hardly older than the others, but marked out by the insignia that she wore on her shoulder, like a captain’s badge. ‘You will tell us the interest those dark creatures have in you before we escort you out of our territory.’
‘A Steward sent me,’ said Will. He thought of the three Remnants riding back to London, where Violet and Justice were alone and vulnerable. ‘He’s still in danger. You have to help him – Justice.’
‘What do you know of Justice?’ said another voice. A younger Steward in pristine armour was pushing forward, his eyes full of hauteur. ‘Have you taken him? Have you taken him the way that you took Marcus?’
The young Steward dismounted, and in the next instant was pulling Will off his horse. Wet and sopping, Will slid off and hit the ground. ‘Cyprian!’ the Steward captain called, but the young Steward ignored her, grabbing Will and pulling up his sleeves roughly. Will barely realised what he was doing until Cyprian made a stymied sound when only Will’s thin wrists were revealed.
‘I don’t have Simon’s brand,’ said Will, revolted.
Cyprian didn’t seem to believe that, his hands pushing up over Will’s wrists as though searching for the truth. In the next second, he took hold of Will’s shirt and ripped it downward. The wet, abused fabric tore open, jerking Will forward. The medallion swung away from his body, exposed. Will let out a cry and clutched at the medallion while his other hand braced in the mud.