Silvertongue by Charlie Fletcher

led the horses and chariot, which was too low to the ground to be able to surmount the snow where it had drifted deeper.
    George walked beside Edie, but every time he turned to say something, all he got was the side of her face, jaw jutting forward, and an appraising look from the deep black eyes of the bird riding her shoulder.
    He felt a hand on his arm and turned to find the Queen walking beside him. She pulled him back a couple of paces, out of earshot, and spoke low.
    “The glint may not wish to hear it from me, boy, but the truth of things is this: there is something in you, one or both of you, something that has scraped through to the forgotten layers of old England, before it was England even, when it was Albion. Whatever is happening, whatever has followed you here in your quest, is connected with that wilder world, the world of the ancient magic. It goes deeper than I can fathom, but in the depths are black things that are calling to that girl. And if she listens to them and forgets the light, she is lost. And I would have no more girls lost because I failed to speak out and warn them.”
    George looked over at Edie. Now even the Raven was avoiding his eyes. Not a good sign.
    “We are in a place I have never been, boy. And though I know nothing of it, I do know it will be darker before it gets better.”
    “If it gets better,” said Edie, without turning. It was then they heard the screaming.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Love Lies Bleeding
    “S omeone’s hurt!” shouted George.
    “Sounds like a boy,” said Edie, pushing past him and staring eastward.
    They all stood frozen, listening to the distant screams, trying to figure out exactly where they were coming from.
    “Somewhere on Piccadilly,” barked the Officer, starting off in that direction.
    “No,” snapped the Gunner. “South of there. In the park. Look . . .”
    Just for an instant George saw it, above the snow-laden treetops of Green Park. At a distance it looked like three birds fighting, but only for a moment. George’s eyes adjusted to the scale of the winged creatures, and he realized he was seeing two bat-winged gargoyles swooping and tearing at the third winged human figure, like crows mobbing an owl.
    The human figure was flying lopsidedly. He was swatting at the gargoyles with a bow in his left hand as they lunged at him. His right arm dangled loosely, somehow bent the wrong way.
    Then one of the gargoyles folded its wings and dropped like a stone, using all its weight to hammer the boy out of the sky. They dropped below the top of the trees and were lost from sight. But not from hearing: the sound of the impact reached them, followed by a cry of agony and terror, and the sound of something like a terrier snarling and tearing at its prey.
    No one gave an order.
    Everyone ran at once.
    “It’s the Bow Boy. From Piccadilly Circus,” shouted the Queen.
    The statues outran the two children, but even with their added strength and size, running through the thick snow was like running in a dream, the kind of bad dream where, however hard you try, you’re never quite running fast enough.
    George knew those dreams.
    He also knew how they ended.
    He knew they were going to be too late.
    He turned and looked back at the arch. Spout sat on the cornice of snow, quivering like a dog. George saw there was just one chance to save whoever was screaming in the unreachable distance.
    “Spout!” he yelled. “Go! Help the boy!”
    “Taints won’t just do what you tell them; they ain’t . . .” began the Gunner.
    There was an eruption of snow as Spout leaped into the air, his wings unfolding with a sharp decisive whip crack. He powered through the air, accelerating as he went, great wing beats kicking up the snow around them as he passed over and disappeared into the trees.
    “Blimey,” said the Gunner. “Never seen that before.”
    “He’s not going to get there in time.” panted Edie, chopping her way through the snow a couple of paces behind