The Fatal Strand
Timely release of the classic fantasy trilogy by Robin Jarvis in ebook format, following on from the landmark publication of DANCING JAX, his first novel in a decadeIn a grimy alley in the East End of London stands the Wyrd Museum, cared for by the strange Webster sisters – the scene of even stranger events.But something has come to disturb the slumbering shadows and watchful walls of that forbidding edifice. Miss Ursula Webster is determined to defend her realm to the last as the spectral unrest mounts. Once again, Neil Chapman is ensnared in the Web of Fate, facing an uncertain Destiny. Can he and Edie avert the approaching darkness, or has the final Doom descended upon the world at last?The thrilling conclusion to the chilling trilogy.
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ROBIN JARVIS
Contents
Bethnal Green : London 1.30 am
CHAPTER 2: VIGIL FOR THE DEATHLESS DEAD
CHAPTER 3: AN UNHOLY ABOMINATION
CHAPTER 5: AWAITING THE CATALYST
CHAPTER 10: WHITE AND BLACK PIECES
CHAPTER 11: TREADING DESERTED PATHWAYS
CHAPTER 12: IN THE WELL LANE WORKHOUSE
CHAPTER 13: THE HORSEâS BRANSLE
CHAPTER 14: THE MENAGERIE OF MR CHARLES JAMRACH
CHAPTER 17: WITHIN THE GIRDLING MIST
CHAPTER 22: THE JOURNEY TO THE STAIR
CHAPTER 23: THE GLISTERING GRAINS OF TRUTH
CHAPTER 24: THREE TIMES MORE EXTREME
CHAPTER 25: REUNION AND CONFRONTATION
CHAPTER 26: AN ETERNAL EMPIRE OF COLD AND NIGHT
Bethnal Green : London 1.30 am
Shrill screams, raging with grief, echoed throughout The Wyrd Museum. From the rambling attics, where frightened pigeons shuffled uneasily upon their perches, the hideous shrieking blistered. Down, into the shadow-filled rooms it poured, an incessant flood of anguish, streaming from chamber to chamber â until finally it seeped beneath the foundations and babbled through the subterranean caverns.
Miss Veronica Webster â she who was Verdandi, youngest of the immortal Fates â was dead. She who had once measured out the lives of men, who had sat at the ensnaring Loom upon which every strand of existence was woven; she who wielded the ultimate tyranny of Doom and Destiny was no more.
A darkness more profound than the pressing night smothered the museum and the incessant lament endured.
Outside, one of the bronze figures which flanked the main entrance lay shattered upon the ground and the shadows within The Wyrd Museum deepened, swelling the rooms with a solid suffocation of light.
To one neglected niche of the ancient building, the chilling dirge eventually penetrated, ripping through the previously inviolate night. Wretched and racked with pain the dismal chorus tolled, filling every invisible corner with the agony of loss.
Then it happened.
In that choking gloom appeared a soft pulse of light and a new sound was born. Softly at first, a gentle creaking began, like floorboards easing and groaning after a long day underfoot. Gradually, the noise grew louder. Creaks became snaps and the troubled dark rang with the frenzy of splintering wood.
Suddenly, another noise joined the increasing clamour. A panting, rattling breath which rasped and heaved when the rupturing of timber escalated to its height. Then a yelping, pig-like squeal spiked through the black gloom.
With one last, straining effort, the unseen creature was free. A hiss of exultation steamed from its wide mouth and it dropped to the floor.
Clawed feet clattered upon the ground as the small imp landed. For a moment it paused, a pair of large eyes blinking in the eternal dark, its tail switching from side to side. Then, with a gargling gasp upon its lips, the creature leapt forward â gnashing out a constant cacophony of barks and grunts. Through the ebon shadows it scurried, and in that jumble of guttural chattering, repeated a single word over and over again.
âGogus ⦠Gogus ⦠Gogus â¦â
The chill night airs which encircled Glastonbury Tor sliced through the barren trees, crowding its lower slopes and gusting with icy vigour up the narrow track that climbed the shoulders of that steep, ancient hill. The desperate conflict between the hideous forces of Woden and the small group from The Wyrd Museum was over. Upon the Tor a horrible battle had been fought and now, for those few who remained, this was a horrible, grief-filled time.
Standing there in the cold, his school uniform providing meagre protection against the biting breeze, Neil Chapmanâs flesh trembled â but the boy made no other movement.
Upon his shoulder the feathers of a mangy looking raven stirred as the bird considered his young master with its single beady eye.
âGelid doth the blood flow thick and laggard,â Quoth cawed faintly. âCold as a frog art thou, yet the icy breath of the Northern wind is blameless in this.â
Lifting his head, the raven gazed upon the dreadful scene which lay before them and clicked his tongue sorrowfully.
There, lying across the muddy path, was the body of Miss Veronica Webster. By the old womanâs side an eight-year-old girl knelt in the crimson pool which had formed around her, weeping hopelessly. In that macabre mire lay a rusted spearhead which was steeped in blood.
Quoth sniffed and wiped his beak upon one wing. It was a terrible moment and although he racked his decayed brain he could find no words of comfort to offer.
Beyond the sobbing figure of Edie Dorkins, several small fires burned upon the hillside and the raven stared at them thoughtfully. There the last of the enemyâs servants, the
