Silvertongue by Charlie Fletcher Page A

speak, but the Knight heard the answer in his head.
    The dark of the sun and the fear that walks at night .
    His horse whinnied and tried to walk backward. The Knight tugged the reins and dug his heels in. “Halt!” he thundered, dropping his lance point and aiming it at the approaching animal. Now it was closer, he could see that it had a shadow figure on its back, an indistinct shape made from the same darkness, a hazy rider whose edges and shapes were cloaked in a shifting cowl of black smoke.
    What manner of thing are you?
    The question echoed in his head, though again he couldn’t exactly hear it.
    “I am fate’s champion and the Last Knight of the Cnihtengild, and no man or thing may stop me on my quest, so stand aside!”
    He shook his lance to show he meant business. The Dark Horse kept right on coming through the endlessly tumbling veil of snow.
    What is your quest?
    “I seek the boy maker, the bearer of the light.”
    The Dark Horse still walked toward him.
    Why do you seek him?
    “He has chosen the Hard Way. I must fight him. I must kill him, if I can. So must I kill any who come between me and my purpose. Stand aside!”
    The Dark Horse didn’t falter a fraction as it bore down on him.
    I do not want to stop you. . . .
    “Then stand aside!” roared the Knight, jabbing his lance forward.
    I want to be you .
    And with that the Dark Horse walked straight on to the sharp point of the lance, and as it did so the Knight’s horse shuddered and bucked and turned to flee, despite his attempts to stop it. The Knight was twisted around in his saddle as he kept his tenacious, unstoppable grip on the haft of his weapon, and so he saw exactly what happened as it happened, and what he saw was this:
    The lance pierced the Dark Horse and turned black as the darkness leached into it. The Knight could not tug the weapon free, and his horse became frozen as a tendril of darkness dropped off the lance and poured inside the horse through one of the curving gaps in its metal plates. Very quickly, other tendrils enveloped the horse and the Knight like black creepers, and twined their way inside the gaps, filling the hollow within with the darkness.
    When the Knight spoke, it was not just with his own voice anymore.
    I too seek the boy. And now I am you .
    It was the voice of darkness and the Knight.
    We are the Dark Knight .

CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Cold Light of Morning
    S pout sat on top of the arch on Hyde Park Corner, watching things. Not that there was much to watch. Nothing moved anywhere. Throughout the night he’d seen occasional taints flying past, but he’d kept very still and not joined them. Now in the cold light of morning, the skies were empty. Even the snow had stopped abruptly as the dawn rose. The city remained unpopulated, and no birds sang. In fact the birds seemed to have gone as well, except for one large black bird slowly picking its way along the spiked top of the palace garden wall far below. Maybe all the other birds were still roosting. Maybe it was the cold.
    Edie felt a hand gently shaking her shoulder, and woke instantly. She looked up to see the giant wings of the owl spread wide above her, and then she really woke and saw that the wings were not wings at all, but the smooth sweep of the massive stone arch over her head.
    George was squatting beside her with a ham sandwich in his hand and a big smile on his face.
    “Edie. It’s morning.” He held out the sandwich. “Room service.”
    She sat up and pulled the duvet around her shoulders. She noted sadly that her hand no longer held her own sea-glass heart stone as in the dream, but only her mother’s small earring. Still, it was better than nothing. And the little flicker inside was not just flame, but hope—the hope that said, “She’s alive.”
    She took the sandwich and munched down on it. It was just bread and butter and ham, but because she had not really eaten in a long while, it tasted like the best thing she’d ever had.
    She surveyed