infected
Church and Baccharus hurried along dark, twisting corridors with the expectation of an attack at any moment. They had left the vicinity of the Walpurgis's secret hideaway rapidly, and Callow and the Malignos had so far failed to catch up with them. At some point they had expected to come across the Fomorii occupying force, but the lower decks were strangely free of them. Wave Sweeper was still stranded in the same spot, tossing and turning on waves that were obviously being whipped up by the growing storm. Church wondered what that meant for Manannan, whose will alone appeared to power the ship.
At his cabin, he darted inside and then into the wreck of Ruth's room, but there was no sign of her. He threw off the first bolt of despair: Ruth was resilient; she would survive, he told himself.
As they reached the steps up to the deck, they realised how presumptuous they had been. Through the open door, framed against the night sky, they could see the swarming silhouettes of the Fomorii. From their perspective it was impossible to tell how many of the Night Walkers were loose on deck, but it was obvious they had control of Wave Sweeper, and Manannan, if still alive, was probably a prisoner in his cabin. A little guilt crept up on Church as he secretly relished how the Tuatha De Danann would feel at being the prisoners of beings they considered less than bacteria.
Cautiously they retreated along the corridor until they had reached a point where they would not be overheard. Baccharus watched him silently, until Church realised the god was waiting for him to decide a course of action. "What?" he said uncomfortably.
"You are a Brother of Dragons," Baccharus replied, as if that answered everything.
Church shook his head disbelievingly. "Okay, okay." He fidgeted with the sword at his side, then said, "We've got to move soon. Callow and the Malignos could be upon us at any moment. Callow's got a bastard's tenacity; he won't give up until he feels he's paid me back for ruining his life. But we can't go forward. There's no way we'd ever get past all those Fomorii on deck. They'd cut us down before we made one step out there, like… like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid or something." Baccharus continued to wait on his words. Church pedalled furiously. "So… so…"
"We have to find another course of action."
"Exactly." And then he had it. "The first time I was down here I was searching around and I came across another secret room… at least I think it was secret. And there were three Golden Ones in there-Goibhniu-"
"Creidhne and Luchtaine, as they were known in the Fixed Lands. The room was secret, but it would have opened itself to you because of your heritage."
Church felt too weary to question what this meant. "They were making weapons," he said instead. "What was that all about?"
"That must wait until later, when there is time."
"If the room is still there, if the weapons are still there, if Goibhniu and the others are still there-"
Baccharus was already moving along the corridor. Church kept up with him, still amazed to see branching corridors appear as if from nowhere. Five minutes later they passed through the door into the foundry, with its familiar smell of sulphur and smoke. The furnaces were cold, the room silent. Hammers lay where they had fallen. Iron remained partly worked on the anvil. In the gloom beyond, Church could see the mysterious weapons stacked in heaps, untouched.
Baccharus traced his slim fingers along the edge of the furnace. "I do not think the Night Walkers found this place. The three smiths would have gone to the aid of the Master once the interlopers were discovered."
"So it's still just us." Church investigated the first pile of weapons. The uses of most of them were impossible to divine. "Do you know how to use these?"
"Some. I am not a warrior."
Church picked up a sword with twin parallel blades. It was extraordinarily light, made of gold and silver, useless in battle. A blue gem was imbedded at the top of the handle between the blades. Casually, Church brushed the jewel with his thumb and was instantly shocked by a sucking sensation deep within him that rapidly grew stronger until it felt like his innards were being pulled out. The sword jumped like a living thing in his hand, so powerful he could barely control it. Before he could fling it down, he noticed coruscating blue energy crackling between the blades near the base, slowly rising up towards the tip as it grew stronger.
Baccharus stepped in quickly and touched his thumb to the gem. The energy died away and Church's jolted body returned to normal, although he could still feel faint vibrations running through his skeleton. "A Wish-Sword," Baccharus said. "To be used with caution."
"You're telling me." Church placed it back on the pile, wary of touching anything else. "Is there anything a little less apocalyptic?"
Baccharus mused for a moment before pulling out a leather thong with what appeared to be a Japanese throwing star tucked in a fold. The star had six points in the shape of extended teardrops, cruelly tipped with barbs, and was made of the same silvery metal that was a constituent for most of the weapons.
Baccharus weighed the weapon in his hand a moment, then slowly began to whirl the thong around his head. Unnerved, Church took refuge behind one of the furnaces where he could just see Baccharus building up speed. When the weapon was a blur, Baccharus snapped his wrist and the star went flying out of the thong. It ripped in an arc through the air; a primitive if effective weapon, Church thought. But then Baccharus nodded his head towards a heap of unformed metal and the star jumped unnaturally in the air to follow the direction of his gaze. It tore through the metal like it was made of sand. Baccharus moved his head sharply two more times and the star obeyed him exactly, making two more cuts through the pile, which fell with a resounding clatter. The star spun back to Baccharus, slowing and hovering slightly so he could pluck it out of the air with his thumb and forefinger.
"That's amazing." Church snatched the star and examined it closely. There was nothing to show why it should act in such a manner. "Can anyone use it like that?"
"Anyone with a will." Baccharus smiled.
"It's still not going to help us if we have to face the massed ranks of them, but it's a start."
"What do you suggest?"
Church shifted uncomfortably. There was one avenue he had been resisting, but he didn't see how he could ignore it any longer, however detestable it was to him. "The Fomorii corruption your people all sense in me," he began, "has a side effect. The taint was left after the Kiss of Frost almost took me over, and soon after my life was saved by the liquid I drank from the Cauldron of Dagda. Whatever it was gave me some essence of your people too, so inside me I've got Fomorii and Tuatha De Danann fighting it out. The result is that sometimes, when I really try, I can sense what's going on in the Fomorii mind. It's not like I can read thoughts-at least I don't think it's like that. I don't even know if the Fomorii have thoughts. It's more a vague impression. But if I really concentrate on it, I'm convinced I can get right inside their heads to work out what's happening. I have to be in close proximity, though." He winced. "It feels like my head is filled with spiders. But that's not the worst of it." He paused as he tried to find the words to express his fears.
"What is it?" Baccharus obviously saw something in Church's face for he rested a steadying hand on his friend's shoulder.
"I'm afraid I could get lost in there. Somehow… it's like their minds are all linked. Lots of different bodies, but one being. I've only had the briefest hint of what's inside them, but even then it felt like a rushing river. Of oil, black and so cold. It was tugging at me even then."
Baccharus nodded. "I understand. You must do what you feel you have to do. No one will judge you."
Somehow that made things even worse for Church. "I've got to stop being such a wimp. What would Tom say?" He grinned defiantly. "Come on, then. Let's get us a guinea pig."
They crept back to the foot of the stairs that led to the deck, constantly checking for any sound of Callow and the Malignos. A cold, heavy wind buffeted them and through the doorway they could see swirling clouds occasionally lit up by flashes of white lightning. In the storm, the ship pitched so much that Church had to clutch at the wall to remain upright. At least the pounding thunder would hide any noise they made, Church thought.
The view through the doorway was occasionally obscured by a large shape lumbering slowly by. A guard, Church guessed, to prevent any of Wave Sweeper's passengers interfering with whatever was happening on deck. Even though they had discussed the plan-and it was a simple one-tension still tugged at his neck muscles. One mistake and they would bring the whole of the Fomorii force down on them.
"Are you ready?" he whispered.
"Yes." Baccharus's voice was characteristically cool.
Church held the throwing star gently, keeping his fingers well away from the razor-sharp barbs. "You sure you wouldn't be better off using this?"
"You have the ability. And I am faster than you."
"Okay," Church said. "I'm set. Go carefully."
Baccharus smiled shyly, then loped towards the stairs. Church backed off along the corridor and round a bend. His breath was fast, his heart beating hard. With nervous hands he loaded the star in the thong and held it at his side, rolling on the balls of his feet, ready to move in an instant. Despite Baccharus's vote of confidence, he still doubted his ability, even though he'd had several practice attempts with the star. It responded to his thoughts remarkably easily, almost as if it were a part of him, but the Fomorii were fast when they had to be. Were his reactions sharp enough to build up the velocity and release the star before the beast was on him? Before it could raise the alarm?
Don't think, he told himself. Just act.
In his mind's eye, he saw Baccharus sneaking to the foot of the stairs, sliding up them sinuously on his belly, waiting for the guard to pass to the furthest reaches of his path, hoping there were no other Fomorii anywhere near. Tossing one of the coals from the furnace so it rattled on the wet boards just beyond the doorway. Sliding quickly back down the stairs and retreating to the shadows while the guard investigated the sound easily discerned by its magnified perceptions.
Church held his breath and listened: nothing but the wind.
And now Baccharus would be hurling another coal to the foot of the stairs and retreating again. This time Church thought he heard the rattle of the coal. The guard would be advancing down the stairs like the onset of a winter night.
Church couldn't breathe. He shifted from foot to foot as the adrenalin made his body shake with repressed anxiety. Slowly he began to twirl the thong around him, taking care not to clatter the weapon against the walls. Swish. Swish. A gentle breeze.
Another coal tossed from the security of the shadows. This one rolling almost to the guard's feet. Now it had a suspicion of what was happening. But it was not scared. It created fear, it did not know it.
Events happened like a house of cards collapsing. Baccharus appeared round the corner, a blur of gold, not slowing as he approached Church, ducking beneath the whirl of the weapon in one fluid moment. Church suddenly spinning like an Olympic discus thrower, faster and faster until he feared his vision would be too blurred to see the Fomorii approaching. The star singing to him, a plaintive tune. And then the shadows at the bend becoming filled with something even darker than shadows; that sickening stink, the roar of a jet taking off punctuated by a monkey shriek. Something so huge it filled the entire corridor, moving with the speed of a racehorse; a shape that had tentacles, then teeth, then silver knives, fur then scales, then nothing but an absence of everything.
Church whirled one final time, then snapped his wrist to release the star. The weapon was like a glimmering light in the void as it tore through the air. It ripped through where the creature's arm should have been and something heavy fell to the floor. The monkey shriek grew more high pitched.
Church's mind was clear of everything but the star. Back and forth, up and down, he chased the pin-prick of light, tearing the beast apart. Things fell; the floor grew sticky beneath his feet. The smell was unbearable, part of it the odour of his boots being corroded by the thing's essence. His heart zinged as relief flooded in; he was actually doing it. But he had to be careful. Not too good. He had to keep the thing alive, at least long enough for him to get into its head. A pang of guilt hit him at the suffering he was inflicting on another living thing.
The shrieks were cut off and the beast crashed to the floor. This was the most dangerous moment. It was still alive, but he didn't want it so alive it could still kill him with its dying blow.
Baccharus brought up a torch so he had a better view of the sickening havoc he had wreaked on the body. He tried to avert his eyes, but it was all around.
"It is time." Baccharus's words gave him a gentle push, but were at the same time supportive. He steeled himself and stepped forward.
His sizzling boots slid in the grue. A tendril flapped wildly before curling around his legs. In a moment of panic he kicked out wildly. The tendril flew off and continued to judder aimlessly.
He had no choice but to climb on the body, which was sickeningly resilient beneath his feet. His boot slipped into a hole that felt like a sucking bog. He withdrew it with an unpleasant slurping sound.
Finally he reached the point where he guessed its head would be. There was certainly a raised area with what appeared like eyes rolling back and forward in its dying spasms, but they were as black as oil, glinting with an inner light which was inexplicably black too, but of a different quality. Fighting the nausea, he bent down and brushed his fingers against the skin. Although he couldn't begin to describe the texture, it felt so unpleasant his stomach rolled and he truly thought he was about to be sick. When the queasiness had passed, he placed his hands near those shivering eyes, closed his own lids, and concentrated.
He was caught aback by the speed and severity of the reaction. One second he was fighting back his disgust at his surroundings, the next he was sucked violently into a surging river of crude oil, immersed in a vile stench that was part chemical, part excrement, feeling revulsion in every fibre of his being at what his senses told him. It was such a totally overwhelming experience he felt he was living it; the corridor, the Night Walker, Baccharus, all disappeared from his mind.
He was swept along in the black stream, choking, not from a lack of oxygen, but from the sensation that his body was being suffused with such Evil his very spirit recoiled. The abstract was given form by his mind as a complex mix of feelings, strangulation, a feeling that something vile, like human brains, was being forced into his mouth, that his skin was being touched by the innards of a loved one's corpse. The rush was amphetamine-fast, pulled this way and that so dramatically he didn't have a second to think. He was fighting, for his life, for his sanity, sure he would never get out again.
And then he felt the full force of what had only been hinted at before: the awful, alien intelligence that linked the Fomorii. Spiders burrowed deep in his brain. There were no words, no images that made any sense to him, but there was an intense impression of that thing's thoughts. He was swamped with a soulshattering despair as it cruelly disseminated the point of view that there was no meaning to anything, no reason for anything to exist, that it would be better if nothing existed at all.
He saw through multifaceted eyes London cast in negative: bodies piled in the streets and the Thames running thickly, white shadows reaching into buildings and hearts. He glimpsed the world from a hundred thousand eyes, and more, the Lake District, the Welsh borders, the South Coast, the Midlands, moving out with the tramp of an infinite marching army ringing all around.
Even more sickening was that the longer he was in it, the more he could control, picking eyes here, then there. And eventually he saw through eyes that looked out over Wave Sweeper and soaked up the oily impression of intent.
His body prickled with cold sweat. He was Fomorii, and it would never, ever let him go. The vibrations that convulsed him grew stronger and stronger, until he thought he was beginning to shake apart…
He hit the floor hard, driving the wind from his lungs. It took a second or two for the black oil to drain from his mind, but daemonic voices still rang in his ears, even when he saw Baccharus's face above him.
"Jesus." He choked; a mouthful of bile splattered on the sizzling ooze that ran from the now-dead Fomor.
"Find peace, Brother of Dragons."
"I was one of them… I couldn't get away…"
"Your face told me what was happening. I thought I would never be able to break the spell."
Church took several deep breaths, then put his head between his knees, but he couldn't shake the squirming in his brain.
"I know what they're going to do," he gasped.
Baccharus helped him to his feet. "You saw?"
"Saw… felt… whatever." He heaved in another breath, trying to keep the nausea at bay. "Are they really a part of me? Is that it? For the rest of my life?"
"We are all a part of everything, and everything is a part of us."
"That doesn't sound like one of the Tuatha De Danann." He rested on Baccharus as the god led him away from the corpse. "I saw something… a structure… a geometrical shape that seemed to disappear into other dimensions… glowing ruby, then emerald."
"The Wish-Hex." Baccharus's voice was suddenly so dismal, Church snapped alert.
"But it wasn't just that," Church continued. "I got a hint of something about disease… a plague…"
Baccharus turned away so Church couldn't see his face.
"What is it?"
"The Wish-Hex is a construct of unimaginable power. The Night Walkers used it to break the pact and sever the bonds that chained them to the Far Lands. It decimated my people. Some were contaminated by the essence of the Night Walkers, some-"
"… were driven into exile and some fled. I know the story."
"The Night Walkers must have sacrificed much to focus it again." He bowed his head and put a hand to his temple. "But to bind one of the great plagues into the matrix…"
"That's even worse?"
He looked up at Church with liquid eyes. "My people will not be exiled. They will be destroyed, in the worst way imaginable. Eaten away from within."
"They're going to convince Manannan to take them to your high court, and then they'll unleash it there."
Baccharus shook his head. Church thought he was going to break down in tears.
"It's not done yet, Baccharus. The ship is still stationary. They haven't broken Manannan."
They were both disturbed by a scuttling across the wooden floor behind them. They whirled to see a silver spider disappearing into the shadows: a Caraprix, one of the symbiotic creatures shared by the Fomorii and the Tuatha De Danann. It had vacated the cooling body.
"Quick!" Baccharus said.
Church whirled the thong and loosed the star, but it simply raised a shower of splinters from the floor. The Caraprix was already en route to the deck. They both chased around the corner to see it disappearing out into the night.
Baccharus grabbed Church's arm forcibly. "We must flee. The alarm will already have been raised. They will be on us in moments."
As if in answer to his words, a shocking outcry of animal noises tore through the night. It was followed an instant later by the thunder of forms rushing to the lower decks.
Church and Baccharus turned as one and sprinted away along the endless corridors.
The cacophony of pursuit dogged them for fifteen minutes, but Baccharus took them down hidden tunnels which, from the cobwebs that festooned them, appeared not to have been used for years. After a while, the silence lay heavy again and they could both rest against the wall to catch their breath.
"Now they've found their dead comrade they'll be fanning out across the ship," Church noted. "There's no element of surprise any more."
"We cannot hide forever." Baccharus was unusually anxious.
"We're not going to be hiding."
"Then what do you suggest? Two of us, against an army…"
"There're more than two of us, Baccharus." Church smiled at the god's curious expression. "You seem to know the ship well."
"Very well."
"Good. Then there are some places I want you to take me."
Liquid echoes and dancing splashes of light reflected off the oily water below. The stink of rotten fish and seaweed choked the air. Church and Baccharus hurried through the gloom along a wooden walkway that hung shakily over the black, slopping contents of the bilge tanks. They were vast and deep, filled not only with the buoyant seawater, but also the runoff from the kitchens. This was only one of many, but Baccharus had convinced Church it was the correct one.
It was also one of the most rundown sections of the ship. The walkway was creaking and bowing, and in some areas vital planks were missing so they had to jump gaps, or edge along a strut with their backs to the wall.
Two Fomorii who had pursued them down there entered the tank when Church and Baccharus were about a hundred and fifty yards along the walkway. Church felt the chill rippling out from them long before he looked back to see the looming shadows. "This better work."
The Fomorii closed the gap quickly. Baccharus could move faster, but he was holding back to stay with Church. Church was feeling the strain of the exertion; his chest hurt and his legs occasionally felt like jelly. A bout of weakness overcame him just as he was jumping one of the gaps in the walkway; his toes caught the edge, but began to slip back on the slick, broken boards.
"Bacch-" was all he had time to shout before he slid off the edge and plummeted through the gap. At the last moment he jammed out his elbows and wedged himself between the two supporting struts. Peering down, he could see his boots were dangling only two feet above the water. The Fomorii were coming up like a train, now only thirty yards away.
Suddenly there was a frantic splashing in the water sweeping towards him. A second later golden fish with enormous jaws and twin rows of razor-sharp teeth were leaping from the bilge, snapping at his feet. One came within half an inch of his toes; if those monstrous jaws closed on him, the thick leather of his boot would amount to nothing.
He kicked out wildly, but before any more of the fish had a chance to go for him, Baccharus's iron hands closed on his shoulders and hauled him effortlessly out of the gap. Lacking the breath even to gasp thanks, Church drove himself on. He did not have to run far. The walkway came up against the end of the bilge tank with no sign of any other exit.
Church and Baccharus turned to face the approaching Night Walkers, who slowed as they realised their prey was cornered. The walkway creaked beneath their bulk. In their shadows, Church could see armoured plates and bony spikes, constantly shifting. They carried the cruel serrated swords favoured by Fomorii warriors, rusted and bloodstained.
"No way out now," Church said. He didn't take his eyes off the approaching warriors.
Baccharus dipped into his pocket and pulled out a lump of clinker from the furnace, which he tossed over the side. It splashed loudly in the dark waters, sending out ripples and wild echoes.
The Fomorii paid no attention. Church watched as their centre of gravity shifted, ready to strike.
The water beneath them began to boil. Big white bubbles, rainbowstreaked, burst on the surface. Church would have been forgiven for thinking it was more of the razor-toothed fish, but it was soon obvious whatever was rising was much, much bigger.
The Fomorii gave it only a cursory glance. They realised the mistake they had made when they saw the grin break across Church's face. An instant later, a long, rubbery object lashed out of the water at lightning speed, smashing through the walkway between the Night Walkers and Church and Baccharus. The Fomorii teetered on the edge, but before they could regain their balance, the enormous bulk of the Llamigan-y-dur burst from the water on its batlike wings and smashed into them. One of the warriors was clamped in the jaws of the grotesque toad-creature, while the other toppled into the tank where there was the sudden white water of a feeding frenzy.
Church had a brief glimpse of the first warrior being ripped apart by the Water-Leaper, named by Cormorel at the banquet before his death, and then the toad disappeared back beneath the waters. The fish finished their meal soon after, and then there was stillness once more.
"How did you know it wouldn't go for us?" Church said, eyeing Baccharus suspiciously.
Baccharus smiled. "It is not only the Golden Ones who detest the Night Walkers. Low beasts like the Malignos may walk the same path, but most denizens of the Far Lands despise those foul creatures."
Church leapt the gap in the walkway before pausing to look back at the oily waters. "A giant toad. With wings. And a tail. Yes, the Age of Reason is well and truly dead."
They spent the next hour probing the darker recesses of the lower decks. As a member of the Tuatha De Danann, Baccharus commanded a respect amongst the other travellers that Church would never have had alone. Arrangements were made. Some refused; many agreed.
The kitchens were a relief after the stink of the bilge tanks, rich with the aromas of spices and herbs, the smells of cooking meats and roasting fish drifting. The room stretched the size of four football pitches; Baccharus told Church it was only one of several. Clouds of steam rose from abandoned pots bubbling on the iron ranges that crackled and spat from the well-stoked fires roaring in each one. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, releasing scents as they brushed against them, mingling with the wood smoke from the fires. Pots and pans gleamed brightly in the light of scores of torches. The most unnerving thing about the spacious room was the way it magnified even the smallest echo as they crept down the aisles.
They knew it was only a matter of time before the Fomorii found them there, and sure enough, three entered at the same time, two through one door, another on the opposite side of the room. The Night Walkers made no attempt to approach cautiously. They launched into a charge, smashing over bins of vegetables, sending pans and cooking implements flying; the sound of crashing metal was deafening. They didn't waste time following the aisles, instead jumping on to the ranges, filling the air with the stink of their searing flesh.
It was a terrifying sight, but Church stood his ground coolly. He loaded the star in the thong, whirled it round three times and loosed it, taking out one of the pair in a shower of black rain. It was too late to reload for the others who bore down on them with swords raised.
The Afanc rose up from where it had hidden itself in one of the aisles. The half-sea beast had mistimed its entrance so it was too close to one of the attacking Night Walkers. The beast swung its sword in an arc, slashing the Afanc's chest to the bone. It should have been a killing blow, but as quickly as it appeared, the wound closed. Cormorel had been right: the Afanc could not be killed by normal means.
The Night Walker paused in surprise at this revelation. The Afanc grinned, although it was more like a grimace on its extended face. It brought up the strange, twisted spear it had been carrying low and with its powerful arms thrust it right through the Fomor's body, from the gut to the top of the spine. The Afanc backed off quickly while the Night Walker yanked at the spear. Although it looked mundane, it was another item from the secret weapons store. There was a soundless burst of blue light and the spear clattered to the floor as burning chunks of Fomor rained across the room.
Church and Baccharus ducked the smoking missiles as the last Night Walker launched its assault. It leapt on to the range and swung its sword at Church. There was no time to use the star; the Afanc was too far away.
Baccharus grasped a large clay jug from the side and hurled its contents at the warrior. The golden oil sprayed the Night Walker from head to toe, splashing on to the range where the flames licked through the hole in the top. A second later the beast was burning with a furious heat. It fell backwards off the range, then blundered clumsily around as it feebly attempted to damp the conflagration. Before long, it crumpled into the aisle, filling the kitchens with an oily black smoke and an unbearable stench. Church and Baccharus hurried for the nearest door, covering their mouths.
"There are weapons," Baccharus said brightly, "and there are weapons."
"Smokin'," Church added in his best Jim Carrey impression. "You do realise I've got a humorous saying for every eventuality? That won't be very irritating, will it?"
The wine and beer store was cool and musty, long and thin and low-ceilinged, with enormous oak barrels in lines on opposing walls. The floor was stained with a million wassails; it smelled sour and sweet at the same time, reeking of happier times. There were too many deep shadows, too many places to hide. It was perfect.
Church and Baccharus made no attempt to disguise their entry from the three pursuing Fomorii. As they sprinted between the barrels, the echoes of their footsteps took on a strange deadened tone, like nails being driven into hard wood. Halfway along the store, they loitered briefly in a puddle of light from one of the few flickering torches, just to make sure they were seen. Once they had slipped into the encroaching folds of darkness, they dropped to their knees and crawled under the barrels, scraping their hands and face on the rough wood, drinking in the even more potent aroma. As the Fomorii thundered over the boards, they wriggled like snakes under the next few barrels until they reached a point where they could clamber up the back and lie on top of one for a better view.
The Fomorii hadn't seen them. The Night Walkers knocked the taps on several casks as they passed so the beer and wine foamed out into the gulleys. When the two leaders were about twenty feet from Church and Baccharus's hiding place, there was a sigh and a faint breeze. The two Fomorii continued, only now they were missing the top third of their heads. It took them several more feet before they realised this important fact and then they crashed down hard in the aisle, sizzling like cooking bacon where their blood met the beer and wine.
Church was stunned. When Baccharus had described the Whisper-Line's abilities, he couldn't quite grasp how something as thin as cotton could cut through any object. Even the demonstration-remote-triggered from what appeared to be a yo-yo to whisk out and slice an anvil in two-hadn't wholly convinced him. But here it was.
The Night Walker who was a little behind came to a halt when he saw his fellows drop. Slowly it sniffed the air currents, its rough breathing like the rumble of an old engine. Church was convinced the thing knew exactly where they were.
He needn't have worried. The cry that echoed along the store was enough to jar even the Fomor. Part bird, part animal, part human, Church realised the dread it must have invoked when it had been heard echoing amongst the lonely hills of Skye.
From out of the shadows at the other end of the store emerged a large, lumbering, human figure, the torso heavily muscled, the arms like the branches of an oak. Bloody furs of goat and sheep hung from its waist where they were bound by something that Church didn't want to examine, but had definitely started out as human. The smell was as vile as the first time he and Baccharus had spoken to it.
Roaring, the Fomor launched an attack. Unconcerned, the Baiste-nascoghaigh stepped into the light; the lethal-looking horn protruding from its forehead cast strange shadows. It waited, yellow eyes glowering. At the last moment it ducked down beneath the cleaving sword, drove forward like a bull and buried the horn deep in the spot where Church presumed the Night Walker's belly to be.
The battle was furious, the noise of roars and squeals and shrieks deafening. Barrels were smashed, drink flooded everywhere. The Baiste-na-scoghaigh took several nasty wounds to its arms and chest before it smashed the sword in two, but they didn't seem to bother it. The Fomor then proceeded to change shape in the unnerving manner that always reminded Church of stop-go animation, adopting razor-sharp thorns, snapping jaws and at one point what appeared to be giant lobster claws. But the Baiste-na-scoghaigh was so ferocious it simply powered through every offence, tearing with its horn, its enormous fists coming down unceasingly with the force of jackhammers. The Fomor was soon trailing most of its innards, but still fighting on, even when it collapsed. The Baiste-nascoghaigh didn't relent, not even when the Night Walker was unmoving: it proceeded to pound every last inch of its prey into a thick paste.
Church and Baccharus left it there, slamming its fists over and over again into the floor.
Church and Baccharus had considered playing a part in the map room and library, but there didn't seem much point. Instead, they secreted themselves behind some enormous volumes heaped on the floor where they could watch the proceedings unobserved.
Hundreds of torches and lamps lined the walls or sat in the middle of the reading desks, but even the smell of oil and smoke couldn't stifle the warm aroma of old, dry paper and papyrus. After the gloom of the store and the bilge tanks, it was refreshingly light and airy.
The room was oddly detached from the storm that raged without. There had been so many of them in recent times; certainly the Fomorii had something to do with it. Windows along one wall allowed a vista on waves rising up higher than the ship. Lightning filled every corner of the room with brilliant illumination while the rain slammed in a constant, violent rhythm.
Yet the charts and books covering every table, desk, chair, shelf and most of the floor were not thrown around. It was almost as if they were watching the storm from some distant place, which Church suspected was probably true.
The Fomorii came in about ten minutes later. They acted unnerved by the light, wandering around the room with uncharacteristic caution, prodding potential hiding places with their swords. Church was surprised to see that in the glare of the torches they looked diminished; quite literally. They were smaller, their gleaming sable forms no longer holding so many surprises: two legs, two arms, a head.
As one of them passed a bookshelf packed with maps, it didn't notice a column of mist, fading in and out of the light. The haze curled around the Fomor, then moved away as if it had been caught on a breeze. For a second or two the beast froze. Then slowly it threw its head back and released a terrible cry that was immediately and surprisingly recognisable as despair. The Night Walker lashed out wildly, demolishing the bookcase with one blow, then began to run backwards and forwards in a frenzy, tearing at its eyes and ears. Black gunk splashed on to the pristine white of the charts.
"What's happening?" Church whispered.
Baccharus shrugged slightly. "The Spriggan has whispered a secret."
"Christ, what kind of secret?"
"One that can drive anything insane."
What this could possibly be disturbed Church so deeply he decided not to consider it further.
The other Fomorii grew as animated as monkeys in the jungle at their fellow's demise by its own hands, but they didn't back off. Opting for a tight defensive formation, they moved cautiously through the vast room in search of the invisible enemy. Church couldn't identify the Spriggans either, and he had suggested areas where they could secrete themselves. He knew of the legends surrounding them long before Cormorel had pointed them out. The ghosts of giants, supposedly, haunting the standing stones of Cornwall, but in actuality they had the shapeshifting abilities of many denizens of T'ir n'a n'Og. Often they appeared as insubstantial as morning mist, but when they took on substance they were even more grotesque than the Fomorii.
Despite their fearsome reputation, they respected Church for his links with the Blue Fire, which apparently calmed their violent natures.
The Fomorii were growing irritated with their inability to locate the enemy and had taken to hacking randomly at shelving and piles of books. But as they passed near heavy purple drapes flapping in the breeze from one open window, there was sudden movement. The drapes folded back and out of them-out of the air itself-came the Spriggans, now solid, and monstrous in their rage. They descended on the Fomorii like frenzied birds, intermittently fading so the Night Walkers could never get a handle on them.
If there had been fewer than the eight Spriggans Church counted, the Fomorii might have stood a chance; as it was the Night Walkers managed to bring down one with a lucky blow while he was solid. But the white-hot rage of the Spriggans drove them on relentlessly. Soon the torn bodies of the Fomorii lay heaped in the centre of the room.
In the light of what he had seen, Church was wary of emerging from his hiding place, but Baccharus was quickly out to thank the Spriggans with a taut bow. They were shifting anxiously around the corpses, as if they were considering feasting. Rather than see what transpired, Church thanked them from a distance and quickly exited.
For the next hour and a half, the attacks proceeded relentlessly. Here the tearing claws of the thing that resembled a griffin, there the ferocity of the Manticore analogue. Losses amongst the ship's passengers were relatively few-a couple of Portunes crushed by a falling Fomor, something that had a body covered with sharp thorns, like a human porcupine-but the Night Walkers were decimated. Once Church and Baccharus had convinced themselves no others roamed the corridors, they moved speedily towards the deck.
They emerged into the face of a gale as sharp as knives. The rain was horizontal, bullet hard, and mixed with sheeting salt water. Lightning tore the sky ragged with barely a break between strikes. Below deck, they had been aware of the ship's movements on the waves, but had somehow been protected from it. There in the open they faced the full force of the wild pitching that almost tipped Wave Sweeper from end to end. Even shouting, they could not be heard above the explosive force of the thunder. Purchase on the streaming boards was almost impossible to find. They skidded from side to side, clutching on to rigging or railing to prevent themselves being thrown overboard. At one point, Church was hanging on by only his arms, his legs dangling out at near right angles to the deck. Strangely unaffected by the yawing, Baccharus hooked a hand in Church's jacket to keep him anchored until the boat began to turn the other way, and then they hurried to the next safe point.
After fifteen minutes, the door to Manannan's quarters loomed agonisingly close. Church clung to a spinnaker, ready to make the final dash. Just as he was about to put a foot forward, lightning painted the deck a brilliant white and from the corner of his eye he caught sight of an incongruous shadow. He whirled and dodged with a second to spare. Talons like metal spikes turned wood to splinters where his head had been.
Another flash brought a face into stark relief only inches from his own: slit pupils turning to a black sliver in the glare, reptilian scales, a flickering tongue, flaring nostrils steaming in the storm's chill, the bone structure of the skull ridged and hard.
Church thrust hard and the Maligna flew on to its back and rolled down the deck. But he was not alone. The lightning flashes created an odd strobe effect, freezing then releasing, before freezing again, as the rest of the Malignos attacked. It was a surreal scenario, the creatures leaping like lizards from railing to rigging, caught in the light, untroubled by the wild swings of the ship. And at the back, clutching the jamb of the door that led below deck, was Callow, his face as furious as the storm.
The Malignos were flitting shadows until the lightning caught them, and then it was apparent why they were so feared. Their bodies were lithe yet packed with muscle, efficient machines with only one brutal purpose in mind. The speed with which they moved made it impossible for any prey to avoid them in open pursuit, while their reputation as flesh eaters made them even more fearsome.
Church was caught between running for cover and standing and fighting his ground, but in the violently tossing ship it was impossible to do either; the most he could do was hang on to the spinnaker for grim life.
There must have been six or seven of the Malignos, but it was impossible to pin down the exact number because of the speed of their movement and the force of the storm. They were coming at him from both sides, but shifting around rapidly to confuse him like a pack of hunting wolves.
Baccharus was yelling something, but Church couldn't hear above the wind. In that instant, the Malignos struck. A ball of flailing, wiry limbs slammed into Church head-on. He lost his grip on the spinnaker and went down hard. Another Maligna flashed by just close enough to rake him with its talons. Warm blood seeped out through the tears on his jacket. The first one planted itself astride him, raising up one arm ready to tear out his throat. Church frantically tried to throw him off, but the creature was too strong. The talons curled; the arm came down.
Baccharus caught the Maligna with the back of his hand, a blow of such force Church felt the vibrations in his bones. The beast flew down the deck. Baccharus managed to get Church to his feet. The god was still trying to tell Church something, but before Church could decipher it, another Maligna crashed into his back. The deck tipped, his feet left the boards and he was flying down the length of the ship, careening off the rigging, bouncing off the railing, inches from going overboard into the savage sea. He slammed into the wall next to the door leading below deck, and for a second lost consciousness.
When he came to, Callow was over him, a rusty razor blade clutched between thumb and forefinger, ready to slice into Church's jugular. His hideous face glowed white in the lightning, the black veins standing out in stark relief. Church suddenly flashed to Callow's attack on Laura in the back of the van, to what he had done to Ruth in Callendar, and he was overcome with fury.
Church came up sharp, catching Callow on the jaw with the top of his head. Callow stumbled back; the razor blade was washed away. Spinning round, Church faced the Malignos and knew what Baccharus had been telling him to do. From his side, he pulled up the Wish-Sword that he had been saving for the final assault on Manannan's captors; Baccharus had warned him the effect it had on his spirit would mean he could only use it once in a day, but there was no other option. He thumbed the gem in the handle and waited as the blue fire crackled between the twin blades, building from the handle towards the tip.
The Malignos were almost upon him. They leapt as one from different directions, but they were a second too late. The energy leapt from the blade in a sapphire flash; lightning brought down to earth, it jumped from one Maligna to the other, seizing them in a coruscating field so bright Church had to look away. When his eyes cleared, all of the attackers were gone, with not even the slightest remains to indicate they had ever existed.
Weary, Church slumped back against the wall. He felt as if a vital part of him had been lost, but Baccharus had told him the debilitating sensation would pass.
Nearby, Callow was shakily making his way to his feet. Church didn't know if he would have the energy to repel another attack.
When Callow saw Baccharus approaching, his expression grew sly and he pointed accusingly, mouthing something over and over. The insistence in his face suggested the importance of his unheard words, but they were snatched from his lips the moment they were born. Church was drawn magnetically to the shaping of that mouth, divining the syllables. Again. And again. He almost had it…
The wave must have been twenty feet high, the water as grey and hard as stone. It came down with the force of an angry god swatting flies. Church grabbed hold of the door jamb the moment he saw it rushing towards him, screwing his eyes and mouth shut tight. For a brief moment a new universe closed around him and he was convinced his arms were going to be torn from his sockets. He held fast while his fingers felt like they were breaking, and when the rush passed and he opened his eyes, Callow was gone.
There was little point searching overboard; even if Church could spot him in the turbulent waters he would have had no way of getting him back on to the ship. He didn't feel any sense of victory at the loss; he didn't feel anything at all. The weariness that had afflicted him since using the Wish-Sword reached into his very bones and although it had eased slightly in the passing moments, he wondered if he had any reserves left to face what lay ahead.
They paused at the door to Manannan's quarters briefly before stepping inside. There was no guard waiting for them; the remaining Fomorii still expected their forces to be swarming on deck.
A moment later they stood outside Manannan's private room. Through the thick wood came the muffled growls of the Fomorii, but there was no other recognisable voice. Church wondered if Manannan was still alive, and Niamh too, but his real thoughts were for Ruth.
"Give me the Wish-Sword," Baccharus whispered, pulling Church a few paces back from the door.
"What am I going to do?"
"Rest, and watch my back. What I can provide the Wish-Sword will not be as powerful as you, but it should suffice."
"So, what? We just barge in there?"
"An act of surprise may win the day."
They exchanged a look that underlined their mutual respect and trust, paused to gather their thoughts, and then rushed the door.
The scene inside the vast cabin was shocking enough to take the edge off their charge the moment they crossed the threshold. The Tuatha De Danann had been herded to one end of the room, where they were guarded by several prowling Fomorii. The Golden Ones were on their knees, humbled, eyes fixed dead ahead. The scene reminded Church of old pictures from the Second World War, of Nazis guarding brutalised POWs. Niamh was at the front, pale and worried, but there was no sign of Ruth.
The attention of the gods was fixed on Manannan-at least Church presumed it was Manannan-and at the glowing geometric shape he had seen when he had probed the mind of the Night Walker. Three Fomorii had Wave Sweeper's Master bound across the enormous desk, where several monstrous implements appeared to have been used to torture him. It was impossible to tell the exact use of the instruments, which resembled bear traps and hand drills, but they had obviously had a profound effect on the Master. He had lost his familiar shape. The body was blurred and pulsing, leaking light in dazzling beams, and the face was like a running mixture of oil and water.
Church couldn't believe the Fomorii had overwhelmed Manannan, one of the most powerful of the gods. The only explanation was that he had been forced to succumb because of the Wish-Hex; yet he had still patently resisted attempts to coerce him to take Wave Sweeper to the Court of High Regard.
Even to glance at the Wish-Hex made Church feel queasy. It looked like a system of interlocking cubes and triangles and pentagons made of light, hovering in midair, but at some point all the elements seemed to disappear into a different dimension.
By the time he took this in, the Fomorii were aware of their presence. Five of the Night Walkers rushed at once, the others preparing to follow.
Church looked to Baccharus to use the Wish-Sword. To his horror, he saw the god's thumb wavering over the gem. Why is he holding back? Church thought until a shocking thought ripped through him. Perhaps Baccharus was a traitor. In the pay of the Fomorii. He was going to give Church up to the enemy. Was that what Callow had been trying to tell him?
At the last moment, Baccharus did thumb the trigger. The blue fire built quicker than it had with Church, but it did not burn so brightly. It surged through the Fomorii, creating a chain of blue balls of light where it passed through the Night Walkers' chests. Four, five, six, all writhing in the brilliant arc light. But with each one it possessed, the light grew a little dimmer, and then Church realised Baccharus's strategy: he had been waiting for the Fomorii to get close enough for the force to strike them all. Eight, nine, ten. The light dying now.
Come on, Church prayed silently. Only five more.
Twelve, thirteen. But after it had passed through the fourteenth, the light faltered, then died. The corpses of the Fomorii fell to the ground, crumbling into a black dust.
The single surviving Night Walker was already moving. He reached the Wish-Hex before anyone in the room could react.
Niamh dashed over to Manannan and loosed the shackles. As she helped him up, his body and features gradually returned to the form Church knew, but his body was still leaking too much light. He didn't have the strength to help.
The Night Walker positioned himself with one arm on either side of the Wish-Hex. Church removed his sword and weakly moved forward, hoping he didn't look as impotent as he felt.
"Hold." Baccharus waved Church back frantically. "The foul beast will trigger the Wish-Hex if you approach."
"It can't hope to get anything. What's it going to do? Commit suicide?"
"It will destroy us all, and itself, in the blink of an eye. But it does not want to waste the Wish-Hex. The Fomorii will not be able to create another one in the near future."
"A standoff."
"We will never take this foul beast to the Green Isles of Enchantment." Niamh was speaking with pride. "We will see ourselves wiped from the face of existence first."
The Night Walker appeared to understand her words, for he brought his hands closer to the Wish-Hex. It began to throb; the light turned scarlet, then black. A faint tremor ran across Niamh's face, but she did not back down.
The Wish-Hex glowed brighter and brighter. The unease it radiated became more intense, turning Church's stomach, making him inexplicably want to cry. This is the end? he thought in disbelief.
And then the strangest thing happened. The Night Walker tripped backwards. The light surrounding the Wish-Hex began to die. The Fomor fought to get back to the weapon, but it stumbled, and then it propelled itself in the direction of Church.
In that moment, the empty space where the Night Walker had been was suddenly occupied. Astonishingly, Church realised he was looking at Ruth, her face anxious, fearful, but with a rising note of triumph.
The Night Walker turned at speed to rush back to the Wish-Hex. Church didn't even think. He drove his sword into the base of its skull, cleaving the beast's head in two. And then when it hit the floor, he waited for a second before splattering the Caraprix the moment it left the corpse.
A cry rose up from the assembled Tuatha De Danann-not just triumph, but also gratitude, directed at him, and Ruth. Directed at Fragile Creatures.
He threw his steaming sword to one side and rushed over to Ruth, throwing his arm around her waist.
"Well, aren't you Mr. Testosterone." She held her head back from him, grinning. "See, even the sensitive ones can't wait to let it out."
"What was that all about? How did you do that? Where did you come from?"
"I am a woman of many talents and great fortitude and you are very, very lucky to have me."
While the Tuatha lle Danann tended to Manannan's wounds, feeding him the strange drink Ruth and Church had sampled earlier, the two of them sat next to the window where they could watch the storm.
"It was something the familiar taught me," she said as she cupped his hand loosely between hers. "To avoid being seen in plain sight. But you can't keep it up for long, and it doesn't really work if anyone is actively looking for you, but-"
"How much more have you got in your bag of tricks?"
"I don't really know." She fixed an eye on him. "What's the matter? Scared?"
"Should I be?"
"I'ni scared."
"That's understandable-it's powerful stuff. But Cernunnos and his partner wouldn't have invested it in you if they didn't trust you to do a good job with it."
This comforted her a little. "We're all becoming something, aren't we?"
"I think we're achieving the potential we always had. I think everybody has great potential, but necessity is the greatest motivator for discovering it."
"Stop it. You're starting to sound like an optimist." She smiled shyly. "I was worried about you."
He gave her hand a squeeze. "It's made things worse."
"What do you mean?"
"Before, I had only myself to worry about, and let's face it, I didn't worry too much. Now I can't stop worrying about you. All the time."
"You're saying that's too much of a price to pay?"
"No. I'm saying it's given me even more of an impetus to find some way out of this mess so we can get back to our lives." He felt a deep yearning for the normality he had once taken for granted. "I want to lie in bed on Sunday morning with you, wander out for a lazy lunch. I want to feel what it's like just to do nothing with someone you love."
She looked surprised. "Do you love me?"
"Yes." And he realised in that moment, for the first time, that he truly did, and that it was a feeling as potent as he had had for Marianne.
"Brother and Sister of Dragons." The interruption came from Baccharus, who was bowing formally. "The Master requests your presence."
"Oh, we're back to requests, are we?" Ruth said under her breath. From the colour of her cheeks and the brightness in her eyes, Church could tell he had touched her deeply.
Baccharus led them to Manannan who rested in a large, high-backed chair. The light no longer broke out of his form, but his face had a weary cast. Even so, he brightened perceptibly when he laid eyes on Church and Ruth. It was strange to see any emotion on that normally impassive face, never mind something as subtle and human as gratitude.
"Brother and Sister of Dragons, you have my thanks for the part you have played this day. Amongst the Golden Ones there is a hard-held belief that we are the pinnacle of creation, a part of the fundament of existence. And with that belief is the certain knowledge that all other creatures lie beneath us. Some would argue this is reason enough to treat all other races with contempt. They are beasts of the field, and we are shepherds. But you have shown this day that Fragile Creatures are not so fragile, that you have the facility to climb the ladder of existence, even to rub shoulders with the Golden Ones. The signs are true. No more the centre path. This is my belief. And I mark it with this." Manannan beckoned them forward, then gently took their hands in turn. His fingers felt like cold light; insubstantial, ghostly. There were faint sounds of surprise from some of the gathered gods, but when Manannan levelled his heavy gaze slowly around the room, the murmurings died away sharply.
"You will have my support in your undertaking, Brother and Sister of Dragons. My voice carries weight. The Golden Ones shall heed your call. This is the day the seasons have turned once more. This is the time. The Night Walkers shall be cleansed from existence."
He spoke with such authority, Church almost believed him.
chapter thirteen
all stars
his is crazy! We can't sit here forever!" Laura hurled the empty baked beans tin across the warehouse.
The Bone Inspector winced at the clattering echoes bouncing around the vast, empty space. "What do you suggest, then? Going out there and asking them nicely if you can go home?" He snorted contemptuously, wiping the bean juice from his mouth with the back of his hand.
Laura paced around the embers of the fire, her irritation turning to curiosity at the unfamiliar emotions growing inside her. For months she had been arguing with the others about running away from their obligations; now she couldn't do it even if she wanted. "The responsibility's on us to find a way out," she said firmly. She realised the Bone Inspector was watching her with a strange expression. "What?"
"Nothing." He slurped some more beans. "I always thought you were the weak link who'd bring everything down."
"You and me both." She wandered over to one of the dirty windows. Smearing a patch clear, she watched the Fomorii scurrying along the banks of the Thames as they went about their mysterious tasks. The view was sickening, but strangely hypnotic. In another moment or two, though, another notion began to creep in. She turned to the Bone Inspector with a confident smile and said, "Okay, here's the plan."
The river had the dank, sour smell of rotting vegetation. Under the night sky, the water looked almost black as it lapped languidly against the creaking wharves. A hint of frost sparkled all around; it was the coldest night so far. Laura lay on the sodden boards and held out a hand so the Bone Inspector could steady himself. It had taken them three hours to find something they could use. The boat was holed and filled with a couple of inches of water; it looked like it had been abandoned for months. But it was big enough for them to lie in the bottom while it drifted in the strong currents out of the city and towards the sea.
After ten minutes of splashing and cursing, the Bone Inspector finished plugging the hole with the oily rags they had brought from the warehouse.
"Do you think it'll hold? I don't fancy swimming in this weather."
"How should I know?" he snapped. "I'm not a shipwright."
"No. What you are is-"
"Just get in the boat."
She lowered herself down to the tiny pebbly beach where plastic bottles and old ropes formed a trail along the water line. She was still amazed they had managed to avoid the Fomorii. They had encountered several large groups of them moving silently through the dark streets, but had always had time to find cover. She hoped it was a sign luck was on their side.
Once they had baled out as much as they could, they pushed the boat out into the freezing shallows, then jumped aboard. Water had already started to trickle into the bottom.
"We should stay near the banks," the Bone Inspector said.
"There'll be too much chance of being seen."
"This river has powerful currents. If we go down in the middle of it, we won't stand a chance."
"All right. But if we get caught, I'm blaming you."
They guided the boat into the current with a broken plank and then lay down in the bottom, watching the stars pass overhead.
Manannan recovered quickly enough to take back control of Wave Sweeper and soon they were speeding on their way. By the time dawn was breaking the sea was calm, the sky poised to turn a brilliant blue, free of even the smallest cloud. Soon the gulls were clustering around the mast and a cry was rising up from the watcher in the crow's nest. The Green Fields of Enchantment came up quickly on the horizon, a sunlit haven of rolling, emerald downs dotted with crystal streams and cool woods.
From his position at the prow, Church watched in growing wonder. There was something breathtaking about the place that went far beyond its appearance; it was in the air, in some too-subtle signs that only his oldest senses could perceive, but it left his nerves singing and his stomach filled with tremors of excitement. Some deep-seated part of his mind was registering recognition of one of the oldest archetypes: a place of miracles and peace. Heaven.
Wave Sweeper sailed into a small harbour built of gleaming white marble. There were no other ships in sight and the dockside was deserted, apart from two of the younger gods manning the jetty. They took the ropes Taranis's men threw out and fastened them to iron spurs, but Church had the feeling Wave Sweeper would have waited there like a faithful dog anyway.
The Tuatha lle Danann were allowed to disembark first, while the other strange travellers congregated below deck ready to begin their search for some meaning in their lives. Church and Ruth, however, were given pride of place at the front of the column with Manannan and Niamh.
They marched along a dusty road, baking in the heat, which wound briefly along the golden beach where the blue sea broke in white-topped waves before ending amongst the soothing shadows of the trees. Flowers bloomed in clusters of blue, red and gold. It reminded Church of Andalucia, or Umbria, an unspoiled rural climate designed for dreaming.
Manannan was borne on a gold chair carried sedan-style by four young gods. He was still weak, but he cocked his attention to Church and Ruth often enough for them to know they lay heavily on his mind. Niamh watched Church surreptitiously from beneath long lashes; it was impossible to tell what she was thinking, though her praise in the aftermath of the rescue had been fulsome, for both Church and Ruth.
The Court of High Regard lay in a shallow valley beyond the wall of soaring black pines, surrounded by pleasant grassed slopes where the breeze moved back and forth soothingly. If the first sight of the island had taken Church's breath away, the Court of High Regard was a hundred times more affecting. Tears of sheer awe stung his eyes; it was in the very fibre of the place, majesty in every atom.
Unlike the Court of the Final Word, it was more of a town-if not a citythan a court. The buildings were all white stone, so that the whole was almost impossible to view in the sun. In the architecture, Church glimpsed touches of the Middle East, of ancient Greece and Rome, Japan and the heavy Gothic stylings of mediaeval France. There were domes and towers, cupolas and obelisks, Doric columns and piazzas and sweeping boulevards where fountains tinkled pleasantly. Clusters of cultivated trees provided shade to talk and think.
"It's beautiful." Ruth blinked away her own tears. "Now I know why the stories said visitors never wanted to leave."
They entered through gates of ivory and glass. Once within, the Tuatha lle Danann dispersed into small groups conversing quietly but intently.
Church and Ruth were left alone next to a statue that resembled the god Pan, but every time Church looked at it, it had a different face. "Now what?" Ruth said.
After ten minutes Baccharus returned with a tall, thin god with flowing black hair and sculpted bone structure who resembled an aristocrat in his late twenties. "The Master has already announced your presence to the court," Baccharus said. "A decision will be announced soon on when you may make your case. In the meantime, I have discussed your needs with Callaitus, Provarum of the sector of Trust and Hope, who will make the arrangements for your stay."
Church took his hand and shook it. "Thank you for everything you've done for us, Baccharus."
Surprisingly, Baccharus appeared humbled by this. "I will be along shortly. There are other matters-"
"I understand," Church said knowingly. "We'll talk later."
Callaitus took them to a light and airy chamber, far removed from the cramped quarters of Wave Sweeper. At the window, the most delicate linen blew gently in the breeze. There was a large bed covered with sumptuous cushions and deep, soft blankets. A small wooden table held a bowl of fruit and a crystal decanter filled with sparkling water.
"Married quarters," Ruth said, looking round at the furniture and space.
"What?"
"On the ship they put us in adjoining cabins. Here we've got a room together. How very presumptuous of them," she added with mock affront.
"They're good at looking beneath the surface."
She eyed him studiously, remembering his words on Wave Sweeper, saying nothing.
"I wonder where I'll find the Pool of Wishes." He threw himself on the bed and slipped his hands behind his head. The soothing atmosphere made him feel instantly sleepy.
"I wonder what you'll find there." A dark note rang clearly in her voice.
"What are you inferring?"
"You know how these things work. Everything comes with a price. You want to get rid of something big. That's got to be balanced out."
He threw an arm across his eyes. "I don't think I can take any more sacrifice."
"Let's have none of that." He felt the bed give as she climbed on. There was a rustle of clothing, more movement, and then she straddled him. He looked up to see her naked to the waist. She laughed silently at his expression. "Remember your mantra: Life's good as long as you don't weaken. So stop thinking about all the sacrifice and suffering. Focus on the good stuff. That's a rule for living, Churchill." She slowly ground her hips on his groin, smiling now, gently teasing.
Sleep was going to have to wait.
When he woke, dark had fallen. It was still warm, and fragrant with woodsmoke and the heady perfume of night blooms. There was a sense of magic in the air. He eased his arm out from under Ruth, who stirred and muttered, but didn't rouse, then dressed lazily before stepping out. The evening was alight with flickering torches gleaming off the white buildings. Faint, melodic music drifted across the jumbled rooftops, and somewhere he could make out the excited chattering of many voices. He leaned against the doorjamb and breathed deeply, enjoying the peace.
Across the piazza, a shadow stirred, then separated from the surrounding shadows. Baccharus made his way over from the bench where he had been sitting patiently.
"You needed to rest," he said by way of greeting.
"Have you been waiting long?"
"It is not waiting if you are engaged in something important, and I was enjoying my time here in the Court of High Regard. I could have sat there until light."
"You missed this place?"
"It is where I feel comfortable." He placed a hand on Church's shoulder. "Come, there is much we need to discuss, and this is not the best place."
The streets wound round and back on themselves, diverged, became vast boulevards, then a network of interlocking alleys; briefly Church felt like he was back on Wave Sweeper in the endless corridors. He mentioned this to Baccharus, and for a second or two he had the odd impression he was lying on his back looking up into a brilliant, phosphorescent light. It faded into a gentler luminescence that flickered over a studded oak door. Baccharus pushed open the door and beckoned for Church to step through.
It was an inn, low ceilinged, straw on the floor, lots of tables and stools nestling in the comfortable shadows of nooks and crannies. A large fire roared in the grate despite the summery warmth, yet the temperature remained agreeable. The drinkers were a mixed group. Church recognised many of the travellers he had seen on Wave Sweeper-some of them even nodded to him as if they were old friends-but there were many strangers.
"None of your people?" Church said.
"This place is for the benefit of others. The many who come to visit us, seeking the gratitude of the gods, seeking direction or redemption."
There was a raucous group of muscular men with red beards, so they headed to a quiet table under the overhang of a staircase. It was pleasantly dark and secluded. Baccharus returned from the bar with two pewter mugs filled with ale that frothed over the edges.
"Given freely and without obligation?"
"This is a place for visitors," Baccharus replied. "Everything here is given freely and without obligation."
Church took a sip. It felt like light and colours were streaming down his throat; a faint buzz of exhilaration filled his veins. "You're trying to get me drunk before you tell me what you have to say?"
"No. This is the drink of welcome, to put you in a receptive frame of mind."
"That's what I said." Church took a long draught, then looked Baccharus directly in his deep, golden eyes. "What's the true story?"
"That is unanswerable. You strip away one story and another lies behind, and another, and another. You will never find the true story that lies behind it all, for there lies the truth of life. All is illusion, each illusion as valid as any other, until you reach that final level, and to find that is to know how everything works. To know the mind of…" His words trailed off and he ended his thought with a gesture suggesting something too big to comprehend.
"You're as bad as Tom. Ask a simple question and you get a philosophy lecture."
"The Rhymer is a good man."
"That's not the point. In this story"-his sweeping arm took in the whole of the bar-"there are a lot of illusions, and now it's time for the truth. Like why you murdered Cormorel."
Church expected some kind of surprise from Baccharus, or guilt perhaps, or even anger that he had been uncovered, but there was nothing. "I pay a price every day for that act."
"You were friends."
"More than that. To lose Cormorel was like losing part of myself. My existence is forever tainted."
"Then, why?"
"How long have you known?"
"Don't change the subject." He softened slightly when he saw Baccharus was telling the truth about his hurt. "It came to me just before we disembarked. No blinding revelation. Just a gentle understanding that that was what must have happened. You were arguing at the banquet just before he died-"
"Cormorel and I held contrary positions of a kind that you would find hard to grasp unless you were a Golden One."
"Try me."
Baccharus finished his beer, then signalled for the barman to bring over two more. "Then I will tell you of the things I brought you here to understand. Of truth, of a kind. Consider: the view held by the Golden Ones of Fragile Creatures."
"That we're the lowest of the low."
"There are many of my kind who would disagree."
Church was taken aback by this. "I know some of you are closer to us than others, but I thought all of you at least vaguely held the same view. Veitch defined it: you're like aristocrats looking down on what you consider the lesserborn. Some of you despise us, some of you hold us in contempt, some of you mock us, and even the ones of you who think we're okay still think we're way beneath you."
"I can understand how you might think that, for that is the view of some, but not all. No, some of us believe the Fragile Creatures are in an exalted position; even above the Golden Ones in the structure of existence, for in their arrogance the Golden Ones have embraced stagnancy, while you Fragile Creatures continue to rise and advance. Within your kind lies tremendous potential. The Golden Ones no longer have potential. This view, as you might expect, is tantamount to blasphemy in some quarters. Indeed, the Golden Ones are riven. But for those of us who are concerned with the great sweep of existence rather than the narrow perspective of our kind, the future of the Fragile Creatures is very important indeed."
At the bar, the red-bearded men had started to punch each other hard, while laughing heartily. Some of the other drinkers were moving away hesitantly. "That would be quite a turnaround. Riven, you say. Like a civil war situation?"
"It is very close to that. The Golden Ones have always seen our position as unassailable. Yet to suggest we are not all-knowing, all-powerful, would weaken our position and allow us to be supplanted. A contradiction that gives the lie to the former. I think the latter is not only inevitable-for it is the way of existence -but also to be desired, again, in terms of existence."
"I remember the first time we met you and Cormorel at the campfire," Church mused. "The two of you had a disagreement about whether humanity could ever evolve into gods."
"At that time, Cormorel did not know the extent of my beliefs, although he was aware of the fractures forming amongst my people. I was influenced by others who have had more contact with the Fragile Creatures across the turning of the ages."
"Niamh?"
"And the one you know as Cernunnos, and his partner. Ogma. And many more."
"The three smiths on Wave Sweeper? Were they preparing weapons for a civil war?"
"Perhaps." Baccharus was uncomfortable. "Or for a war against the Night Walkers. We would have launched one independently, if necessary. It was, as you pointed out, inevitable. To pretend otherwise was the height of arrogance."
"Goibhniu wasn't very pleasant to me."
"He is new to our beliefs, brought round by Niamh, who knew he would be an important asset to our side. He accepts the way things are, but he finds it hard to break from past feelings for Fragile Creatures."
Church stared into the dark depths of his beer. "Tom knows about all this?" Comments Tom had made, which at the time had been cryptic or just plain strange, suddenly fell into a new perspective; Baccharus nodded. "So this isn't just about saving humanity from a big threat, it's about preserving the future of life, everything?"
"True Thomas knew the Golden Ones would have to be resisted as much as the Night Walkers if you Fragile Creatures were to prosper. He is an adept at politics." Baccharus smiled. "I like him immensely."
What had been a quiet conversation about Baccharus's motivation for murder had suddenly taken on a terrible significance that he couldn't absorb all at once. "What are you saying exactly?"
°I am saying you are all stars. Each Fragile Creature bursting with the potential of a god. Given the right situation, that potential could easily blossom, and from what I have seen of you and the other Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, you could far surpass the Golden Ones. You could all become greater than everything that ever existed. For you love and cry, you are tender, and caring-"
11 -and hateful and murderous."
Baccharus shrugged. "It is there within you. The light burns very brightly. Brighter than my own."
"You're talking about a long period of time-"
Baccharus lowered his head so shadows pooled in his eyes; a skull in the play of light and shade. "These events you find yourselves in are a catalyst that could propel you-all of your kind-into the next phase of development. My people know thissome will deny it, but they know it somewhere within themselves-and they seek to prevent you achieving your destiny. You will have to fight for your future."
"That makes a change." Church pushed his stool back on two legs and rocked, tipsy now. "So, trickery and deceit right the way down the line. Situation normal."
"There are manipulations ahead," Baccharus continued. "You need to know what is at stake so you can act accordingly; when lies are told to you, when seemingly simple choices are asked of you. Do not allow anyone to make you believe you are lesser, unimportant."
"I never did."
Baccharus smiled. "I always admired your confidence, Brother of Dragons."
"I saw some of the splits on Wave Sweeper. Many were angered that Manannan offered us his support."
"The Master had always steered a calm path between the troubled waters. I felt his sympathies lay with you and your kind, but with his position amongst the Golden Ones, to openly endorse our stance would have caused too much upheaval. "
"But now he's going to do it?"
Baccharus nodded slowly.
"This must be the first time that gods are servant to the people who worshipped them."
"All should be in servitude to others, and all should be free."
"But this split amongst your people… is it really so bad?"
Baccharus gave a thin-lipped smile. "If there is to be war amongst the Golden Ones, you will find many fighting for the future of the Fragile Creatures."
"You'd do that? Against your own people?"
"This concerns much more than one severely limited perspective, even if that vista belongs to the Golden Ones. We are all servants of existence, and we must do what we can to ensure the best possible state for all."
"So let me get this straight-humans have the potential to become gods-"
Baccharus winced at the description, waved it away with a lazy hand.
– greater, then. Than we are now. To achieve the massive potential-"
"-encoded in your very make-up." Baccharus nodded emphatically. "You were made with the powers of stars inside you. All sentient creatures are formed to rise and advance. That is the reason for all this." He made an expansive gesture.
"The Golden Ones have stopped advancing, for whatever reason. Some fatal flaw. But they don't want to be supplanted by Fragile Creatures and so they will do everything they can to keep us down. To prevent us achieving our destiny." Church looked dreamily towards the bar where the red-headed men were still punching each other, though their laughter was now more forced.
Baccharus smiled proudly at Church's expert summing up of the complex matters he had raised. He raised a finger. "One more thing: the lie is given to my people's assertions of superiority by the mere existence of the Court of the Final Word."
Church grew cold at the mention of the Tuatha De Danann court supposedly devoted to healing, but where more sinister things happened in its deepest recesses. "What do you mean?"
"For many generations of your people the Court of the Final Word has been investigating mortal children." Baccharus pronounced the word carefully. "My people wish to know what innate part of Fragile Creatures is the key to their advancement."
"So they can steal it for themselves!" Church grew rigid at the repercussions that spun out of Baccharus's comment. "That's why Tom's Queen was so adept at taking him apart and putting him back together!"
"Oh, my people know every component part of Fragile Creatures. They know how every molecule interlocks with every other molecule. But they have still not found the source of your potential." His eyes sparkled. "And they never will."
"This is too much for me to take in right now." Church held up the beer. "This doesn't help. But you're right-it puts me in the correct frame of mind. I thought I'd get everything laid out in my mind about what we were fighting for. Now it's even bigger stakes. Not just survival, but our… evolution? Crazy."
"These are monumental times."
"You're telling me. Wait till Ruth hears about this." He leaned forward once more and peered back into his beer. "Now tell me about Cormorel," he said quietly.
Baccharus stared at one of the flickering torches for a long time. "It is said my people feel nothing like you Fragile Creatures feel. But I loved Cormorel. I think, once we see things from your perspective, we learn to be how we perhaps once were."
"Then how could you kill him?"
"It was not my intention at the time, but in the instant before I acted, I knew it had to be done. Cormorel had discovered there was a conspiracy afoot. That is his word. Conspiracy. Niamh, myself, certain others, had taken the decision to confound those who attempted to block the chances which might come the way of the Fragile Creatures on their path to enlightenment. Niamh and I had formed an alliance with some of the other creatures on Wave Sweeper-"
"The Portunes."
"And others. And in the eyes of my people, associating with such lowly creatures against our own kind was the ultimate crime. Cormorel was preparing to expose us. The Portunes and all the others would have been eradicated. Niamh would have been despatched to the Court of the Final Word, where she would have suffered. Immeasurably." He bowed his head even further. "I pursued Cormorel on to the deck during the upheaval of the attack-"
"That was the Fomorii's first strike, right? Not you?"
He nodded. "I was pleading with him. He would have none of it. In fact, he took great pleasure in the pain he saw he was causing me. For all that he considered himself above the emotions of Fragile Creatures, he was filled with cruelty."
"How did you do it?"
"There is a manner known only to my people." Church wouldn't have dreamed of asking, but Baccharus added, "It cannot be revealed to any outsider."
"And the Walpurgis was caught with his hand in the biscuit tin, having a final meal."
"Destroying the evidence. If he had succeeded, my people would have believed Cormorel was simply washed overboard during the attack and would have turned up sooner or later."
The weight that lay on Baccharus's shoulders was palpable. Church rested a supportive hand on his forearm. "You did the right thing. Under the circumstances. There was too much at stake."
"But that does not diminish the pain I feel, for I committed a crime against existence itself. While striking a blow for existence. I have wrestled with the conundrum every hour since then and still made no sense of it. Did I do the right thing? Can an act of such terrible negativity create something worthwhile?"
The questions were not rhetorical; the weight of emotion in Baccharus's voice showed he was asking for guidance. The fact that he felt Church somehow had the wisdom was shocking; how could Baccharus possibly perceive him as someone who had a grasp of such things? "Time will give you the answer to that, Baccharus." He hoped it didn't sound like too much of a platitude.
They were disturbed by a blast of warm air as the door swung open. Ruth walked in, looking around curiously. Church called her over.
"Typical. First chance you get, you men are straight down the pub," she said in a faux-chiding voice.
"How did you find us?"
"A little bird told me." She wrinkled her nose as she looked round at the raucous activity at the bar. "So let me guess. I've got a choice of beer, beer or beer."
"I'll see if I can get you a lady's glass." Church dodged away before she could hit him. She turned to Baccharus. "So what were you two talking about so seriously?"
"Death. Conspiracy. The rising and advancing of the spirit."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, how we laughed."
"It could have been worse." Veitch huddled closer to the fire. In his weakened state, the chill October night bit deep into his bones.
"In what way could it have been worse? The Grim Lands were a particularly unpleasant experience." Shavi took a sip of the bright green absinthe they'd picked up in a deserted off-licence before passing the bottle on to Tom.
"I could have had to give you the kiss of life."
"And how would that have been worse?"
"Because you'd still be lying there!" Veitch chuckled.
"Well, you seem to be getting better." Shavi eyed his friend warmly. He had been worried Veitch was going to crack under the shock of losing his handcertainly the first few hours after their return from the Grim Lands had been very hard-but since then he had regained much of his equilibrium. However, there were still too many worrying signs for Shavi to relax: a wildness in the eyes, exaggerated movements, overreactions. He hoped the Blue Fire would work its magic before things started to fall apart.
Veitch took the absinthe from Tom.
"You know you're not supposed to drink it neat," Tom said, with a little too much contempt. "You mix it with water, a spoon of caramelised sugar. They say you'd have to have half a brain to take it without watering it down."
Veitch grinned, waving the bottle in front of Tom's face before taking another slug.
Tom gave him a sour stare. "It's got hallucinogenic properties, you know. The active ingredient from cannabis."
"Oh yes… you're right." Veitch pretended to waver. "I can see things! It's amazing! You look… almost human!"
Tom snorted and waved him away.
Veitch let his chuckles die away before rubbing his hand thoughtfully over his three-day stubble. He looked over at Shavi curiously.
"What?"
"How you doin'?"
Shavi gave a questioning shrug.
"You died, or nearest thing to it. That must have done your head in. How do you come back from something like that?"
"So you do care."
"Just checking you're not going to go psycho with an axe in the middle of the night." His smile gave the lie to his words. He threw another log on the fire; it cracked and spattered, sending sparks shooting up with the smoke.
"I actually feel better than I did before I died." Shavi pulled the blanket tight around his shoulders, his breath white. Winter was not far away. "You may find that hard to believe. But I have made my peace with Lee. I have seen the other side of death and returned to talk about it. I have been reborn, bright and new in the world. It was a redemptive experience, highly spiritual, uplifting."
"Yeah, but can you still get a stiffy?" Veitch leaned back against his rucksack, laughing drunkenly.
"Don't be talking to him," Tom said sternly. "You won't be getting any sense out of him tonight."
"You are implying I get sense out of him at any time." Shavi didn't see the boot coming; it hit him on the side of the head.
"Yessss! One-nil!"
They had embarked on a meandering route west after leaving Wandlebury Camp, careful to keep a good distance from London. The darkness in the south was growing with each hour, like night eating the day. The cinders in the breeze were more pronounced, and there was an overall sense of despair hanging in the increasingly cold wind. The world was winding down.
With Samhain approaching rapidly, a deep anxiety had gripped them, amplified by the certain knowledge that there was nothing they could do alone. They needed Church to succeed in his mission. They needed Ruth and Laura too. Sometimes it was almost too hard to hope, and that was when the depression set in.
But their abiding friendship, forged through hard times, kept them going and ensured the evenings around the campfire were filled with light talk and humour, lifting spirits dampened by the day's sights of deserted villages, frightened people hiding in their homes, or children and old people begging for food.
It wasn't as if they had any plan except to find Church and Ruth and Laura. That lack of direction left Veitch feeling strained and irritable. He was not a person who coped well with inactivity, particularly with time running out, when there was so much that needed to be done.
Shavi, however, guessed Tom knew more than he was saying.
"Do you think we'll find them?" Shavi said, breaking the rule of keeping the conversation light. Next to him, Veitch snored loudly in a drunken sleep.
"I think there is always hope." Tom enjoyed a joint as he stared into the fire.
"But you are True Thomas. You can see the future. You must know something."
"I try not to look. What will be, will be."
Perhaps it was the drugs or the drink affecting him, but for the first time Tom's cool exterior was not impervious. Shavi caught a glimpse in the Rhymer's face of all the things Tom was not saying, and he was uncomfortable with what he saw.
"What if you really did see everything?" Shavi suggested. "What if you knew exactly what was going to happen, bar a few minor hiccups here and there. What if you knew who lived and who died?"
Tom raised his head sharply to fix a stare that was so cold Shavi felt a chill in his bones. "Then," Tom said, "my life would be damned."
At the heart of the Court of High Regard stood an enormous tree with a trunk as far around as an office block and a top lost high overhead. All around it spread an area of distortion that left Church continually disoriented; buildings were never quite the same each time he looked at them. Some were substantially altered, one moment a sweeping dome like St. Paul's, the next a thrusting tower of Middle Eastern design. At times Church would glimpse rapid movement from the corner of his eye, the hint of crystal birds flapping across the sky, but when he looked there was nothing. People came and went as they crossed a piazza, or appeared in a haze on a corner, while the dead appeared to be everywhere, dazed, beatific, unthreatening.
"This is where our heart beats, the closest to the fabled home of our deepest memory." Niamh's voice trembled with awe. Church was struck by how young and girlish she appeared, not alien at all. Now Baccharus had explained the distinction amongst the Tuatha De Danann, Church was amazed he hadn't seen it before. It was as simple as those who felt and those who didn't.
"Have you always been like this?"
She looked at him curiously with her large, innocent eyes. "No," she said after a moment's thought, "once I was a true daughter of the Golden Ones, one of the confirmed rulers of all existence, above all else."
"Then why did you change? When you hold such a position, it must take something phenomenal to turn you around."
"I was taught, over what your people would consider a long period of time."
"Who taught you?"
She smiled a little sadly, but did not answer.
They continued their tour in silence for a while, until Church broke the restrained mood by asking about the enormous tree.
"It is the World-Tree," Niamh said, looking up into the distant branches. "It is at the heart of all worlds. Its roots go down, its branches reach up."
"Linking Heaven and Earth. This is an amazing place." And it was. Wonder brought every nerve alive, just breathing air, looking round at the fluid scenery. It was filled with magic, the thing his life had always lacked.
"Once the Fixed Lands had the same power. Everything was alive, constantly changing. But your brethren stopped believing, or believed in the wrong things. You wished your world to be something lesser."
Church examined a fountain where the water turned into tiny diamonds. "I keep hearing that phrase, about wishing the world a certain way."
"Nothing is truly fixed. The Fixed Lands are only such because they are sleeping. All is illusion, and all illusion is fluid. Belief is a powerful tool. Creatures great and small-life-is at the centre of everything, and they can shape things as they see fit. Nothing has to be accepted."
"If you just wish hard enough," he mused. "I was never happy with how things were in my world. There was always something lacking. And it was get ting worse. The people I didn't like, the ones interested in money over everything, and personal power, they seemed to be driving things their way. It wasn't a world for people like me."
"You gave up your responsibility, Jack."
"What do you mean?"
"The people you despised were wishing harder, setting the world the way they wanted. They are the Night Walkers, whichever form they take. People like you, Jack, people who truly believe, have a responsibility to take a stand and wish the world the way it should be. To wake the land, to dream it real. Belief is stronger than anything the Night Walkers have."
The crystal birds were still flying around the edges of his vision and there was faint music on the wind, still powerful enough to make his emotions soar. What Niamh was saying echoed deeply inside him. He realised she was staring at him intently, and when he turned to her he was shocked to see tears in her eyes.
"I have made my peace with the way things are, Jack."
He took her hand, concerned. "Don't cry. What's wrong?"
"The Golden Ones have always used their power without responsibility. They have achieved their ends by force. I would never do that, for I have learned it would be valueless, and the thing I strive for has too much value to be wasted. I see now we will never achieve the love that has filled my thoughts since the darkest days of the Fragile Creatures." She gazed into the middle distance, her eyes full. "I had hoped, once it came to this time, your heart would have opened to me, as mine did to yours so long ago. But I see clearly now your love for the Sister of Dragons is true; that indeed it is worthy of a love that transcends all time."
Church felt truly sorry for what he saw in her face. "We can still be friends, Niamh."
She smiled wanly. "And that enriches my existence, but if you only knew what lay before this point…" Her words drifted away.
"What do you mean?"
Her smile became a little brighter, to hide her thoughts. "I will always love you, Jack, and in time you will understand where that love comes from." She cupped his hand in hers. "I have always had your best interests at heart, but from this moment on I dedicate myself to helping you achieve your aims, whatever it may cost me."
He gave her hand a warm squeeze, overwhelmed by the level of emotion that was being expressed. "You're a good woman, Niamh."
"Now, come, I have many sights to show you. Wonders beyond your imagining." She brushed her tears away, her smile gleaming. "These days will stay with you always."
The tour was indeed as amazing as Niamh had predicted. Some of the sights were so startling his mind could barely cope within them, and within the hour the reality of them began to fade until they took on the warmly comforting but intangible quality of dreams that would haunt him forever.
But even though time meant nothing in that place, he was acutely aware of events running away from him. The real world seemed so far gone, but what he might find when he returned filled him with dread. Each moment wasted could mean another death, another life filled with suffering. And it felt like he had been gone so long.
But when he returned to his chamber, Baccharus informed him that approval to enter the Pool of Wishes had been granted by some higher authority. It was finally time to act.
As twilight fell across the Court, thousands of torches sprang into life like summer fireflies. Baccharus, Niamh and Ruth gathered in the main piazza with four horses. The beasts were powerful, snorting and stamping loudly on the shimmering marble; at first glance they appeared normal to Ruth, then she noticed the hint of Otherworld in their eyes where a disturbing intelligence burned.
Church had spent the previous hour in his room preparing himself; he had enjoyed the tranquillity after spending so long with Ruth discussing the shocking repercussions of what Baccharus had told him in the inn. Baccharus had also warned him that the Pool of Wishes was not something to be taken lightly, as if anything in that realm was. He would be forced to journey deep inside himself to locate the taint of the Fomorii, Baccharus said, and if he was not at ease with himself, the experience would drive him mad.
And so he spent the time thinking of his life, of Dale and his friends in London-where were they now?-of Marianne and his love for her, of the terrible grief he had felt at her death, of his parents, and his studies, his dreams and fears, of Laura and Niamh and Ruth, and at the end of it, it still didn't make any sense.
Finally he was ready. The other three were already mounted when he took the long walk across the piazza, his footsteps echoing solemnly. Their greeting was just as serious, a simple nod, a faint smile, and then they were away through the labyrinthine streets of the Court towards the green countryside beyond.
Baccharus led the way, with Church behind, then Ruth, and Niamh taking up the rear. As they passed, Church glimpsed strange faces watching him from the darkened windows, some of them golden and alien, some of them terrible and dark. The buildings grew more solid as they approached the outskirts, jumbling tight up against themselves like the oppressive weight of ancient habitation that lay crushed within Jerusalem's walls.
Once the Court was behind them, green fields lined by thick, old hedges rolled out. They passed intermittent copses and trickling brooks that made their way through culverts under the rough road. But then the country became wilder, the trees taller and darker, pressing hard against the roadside, forming a roof above their heads. Baccharus held up a lantern as they rode and they were all grateful for the flickering golden light that flooded ahead.
Church occasionally heard movement, although in the thick shadow it was impossible to discern what was amongst the trees; some seemed too large for any animal he knew, others were small and fast, some came far too close to the circle of light, which increasingly felt insignificant. Eventually the road all but disappeared and the trees came up so hard they could have reached out and touched them on either side if they had so wished. Church spent so much time attempting to probe the woods on either side, he nearly ran his mount into Baccharus on more than one occasion. The undergrowth was thick with bramble and bracken, which would have made the going hard if they had strayed from the path.
To Church's relief, as the going became steeper the wood eventually gave way. When they finally emerged from the trees, he realised they were on the foothills leading up to snow-capped mountains, although he couldn't recall seeing them from the ship as they approached the island.
"Are we going right to the top?" Church asked.
Baccharus put a silencing finger to his lips. "There are things around here that appreciate silence," he whispered.
The road-now barely more than a track-became rocky and the horses had to step slowly. Boulders piled up on either side, cracked and patchworked with moss. The air was much cooler. Church pulled his jacket around him, oddly wondering what the weather was like back home.
After a little while longer, Baccharus reined in his horse and nodded towards a group of pine trees separated from a thickly forested slope by a rocky outcropping on three sides. A distinct path wound its way into the centre of the copse.
"In there?" Church asked quietly.
Baccharus nodded once more.
Church jumped down and advanced several paces before he realised the others were not behind him. "From here your journey must be alone," Niamh whispered in reply to his quizzical expression. That brought a sharp chill to his spine.
In the trees, it was even cooler, but the air was beautifully scented with pine and the tang of the mountain snows. Overheard, a stunning full moon glowed white and misty butterscotch, framed by icy, glittering stars. His breath bloomed; a shiver ran through him. Thankfully Baccharus had allowed him to bring the lantern to keep the shadows at bay, although his movement made them jump and recede as if they were alive. Pine needles crunched underfoot, but beneath them the path was oddly well made, with large flagstones worn by age.
The first thing he noticed when he entered the copse was the soothing sound of tinkling water. The path opened out on to a broad, still pool, black and reflective, with trees all around it. On the opposite side was a jutting rock, face down, over which white water cascaded, churning the pool just beneath but obviously carried away by some underground stream before it sent waves lashing out across the surface. The air was heavy with a feeling of deep tranquillity, but as Church stood and drank in the atmosphere, it changed slightly until he sensed something jarring uneasily just beneath it. As he gave in to his instincts he could feel a dim electricity in the air, waiting to be awakened. This was the place.
He played the lantern back and forth and noticed the stone flags disappeared around the back of the waterfall. With anxiety tight in his throat, he stepped cautiously around the edge of the pool, half expecting something to leap out and drag him in. He paused briefly next to the waterfall before darting behind.
It was like crossing over into a place completely detached from the other world. It was a grotto, with barely formed stalagmites and glistening walls where the lantern made a million sparkles dance, and reds, greens and yellows shimmered in the wet brown of the rock. It was small, barely a couple of car lengths across, and within lay another pool, a mirror image of the one without, only without the waterfall the water was even darker. The flagstones gave out to a small, rocky path that ran around the edge, at some points barely wide enough to walk around. Echoes of gently lapping water rolled off the walls, distorting but peaceful. He set down the lantern and kneeled to peer into the depths.
He expected to see the pebbled bottom of the pool easily, at least around the edges near the lantern, but the black water appeared to go down forever. He didn't really know what to do next. Baccharus had told him simply to wait, stressing that "the pool would see" and know what was needed. Yet the surroundings felt so normal it felt silly sitting back waiting.
There was a certain odd oiliness to the quality of the water, so he reached out a hand to stroke his fingers across the surface. At the last moment he withdrew; something was sending alarm bells ringing in his head. He slumped back against the wall, hugged his knees and waited.
It was less than a minute later when he perceived-or thought he did-some activity deep below. Now on all fours, he pressed his face close to the water's surface to get a better look. Something was swimming. The perspective it gave him was shocking, for the pool went down more than twenty or thirty feet, and even then he couldn't see the bottom. Whatever was there was striking out for the surface. The lantern light brought reflected glints from its skin, at times silvery, at times flesh tone. It was certainly a trick of the distorting effect of the water, but it gave him the impression that the pool's inhabitant kept changing back and forth from a fish to a human. Or was somehow both at the same time.
And still it rose, until it was obvious it was human, long arms reaching out, feet kicking, but the face was still obscured by shadows. It covered the last few feet very quickly, but stopped short of coming completely out of the water. Instead, it hovered patiently, looking up at him, only an inch or two beneath the surface, and in that instant he was overcome by a deep dread. The face he was looking into was his own, his long hair drifting in the currents, only it was changed very slightly, in the way the features were held or in some sour experience that had left its mark, so that it was darker in essence.
For long seconds they were locked in that connecting stare, and then there was a flurry of rapid movement in the water. The Other-Church's arms shot out of the pool, clamped on Church's shoulders, and before he could resist, dragged him under.
In the shock, he didn't have time to grab a breath of air. The cold water rushed into his mouth and up his nose before he clamped his lips shut and struggled frantically to push his head up above the surface. But though he fought wildly, turning the pool into a maelstrom, his other self was far too strong. Further down it hauled him, and down even more, until the light from the lantern was too dim to illuminate the water and his lungs seared from the strain. He struck out futilely a few more times, the blows so weak they barely registered, and then his mouth jerked open and the water flooded in, filling his throat, his lungs. Fractured thoughts flared briefly in his mind, but the abiding sense was that it wasn't supposed to be like that.
Except that one minute later, he realised he was still breathing; inexplicably. His brain fizzed and sparked, somehow found a state of grace that allowed his thoughts to grow ordered once more. He wasn't dead; he was breathing water.
The Other-Church released his grip, although his face still had that mean cast; Church thought how much older and unattractive a state of mind could make him look. He signed for the Other to tell him what was happening, but it gave an expression of slight contempt before turning and swimming away. Church had no choice but to follow.
The experience had the distorting feeling of a hallucination. Briefly he wondered if he was dead and this was some final, random activity in his dying brain, but then he noticed a strange sheen across the whole of the pool that resembled the skin of a bubble. The Other swam into it, and through it; Church couldn't see anything on the other side. He hesitated, then followed suit.
The bubble gave slightly as he touched it, then eased over his body, finally accepting him with a slight give. Emerging on the other side, he was shocked to realise there was no water at all; he was in midair and it was dark. Suddenly he was falling, the water shooting out of his lungs. The sensation lasted for only a few seconds until he found himself standing on a broad plain covered in stubby grass, beneath a star-studded night sky and ringed by black mountains. Before him was a pile of rocks fused into a pillar that rose three feet above his head. The OtherChurch stood on the far side of the pillar, the same distance from it as he was.
"What is happening here?" His voice resonated strangely in the wide-open spaces. As he spoke, the Other-Church mimicked him silently.
The pillar of stones began to hum with a low, bass note. Church couldn't take his eyes off it; the atmosphere was heavy with anticipation. As the OtherChurch continued to glower at him, movement became visible within the pillar and gradually a figure stepped out of the solid rock.
Church's stomach flipped. Marianne looked exactly as she had when she was alive, not the gaunt, spectral figure sent by the Fomorii to torment him. His shoulders sagged; conflicting emotions tore through him: doubt, terrible sadness, a touch of joy. "Marianne."
She smiled at him weakly.
"You're another hallucination of this place." He rubbed a hand across his face, but when he looked back up she was still there.
"I'm here, Church. At least, a part of me, a part they couldn't get to. An echo."
Tears flooded his eyes. "Really?"
"Really."
He made to move forward, arms outstretched, but she held up a sudden hand to warn him back. She shook her head strongly. "We can't."
"Why not?" Almost a plea.
"There are rules, Church. Things going on that you can't imagine, beyond what you see here, or there, or anywhere. I can't tell you… can't explain. I'm not allowed."
"Not allowed by whom?" Her face grew still. She took a step back towards the pillar. "No! Okay, I won't ask any more about that!"
She smiled, brighter this time. "It's good to see you, Church."
For a brief while, he couldn't see for the tears. "Thank you," he choked as a delaying tactic, "for the contact you made in the house… on Mam Tor… The writing…
"I had to do something, Church. I couldn't bear to see you so broken."
"You could see me?" No answer. "Okay… the part of you the Fomorii have-"
Her face darkened; she hugged her arms around her, a mannerism he recalled her doing when she was distraught; when she was alive. "It feels like it's tearing my heart out."
His voice grew rough and fractured. "I'm going to save you, Marianne."
Her expression was, if not quite patronising, then certainly pitying.
"I am." Reassuring at first, then defiantly: "I am."
His emotions felt they would break him in two. He wanted to ask her about her death, about who had killed her, how bad it had been, whether she had really suffered as he always imagined, but looking into her face where the Marianne he loved still resided, he couldn't bring himself to do it. There were a thousand questions, but his overwhelming desire was for the one thing every bereaved person wished for above all else, but could never, ever achieve: to tell her how he truly felt.
As he was about to speak, she silenced him with a raised finger. "I know how you feel, Church, and I always felt the same about you. You were the only person I ever loved."
He covered his eyes.
"I know your thoughts now, Church. I know your hopes. And that's a good thing, truly. In the days that follow, remember that. And I know about Ruth, and that's okay. She's a remarkable person. You've made a lot of silly mistakes since I died, but she was the right one. You stick with her, she'll stick with you."
A sob choked in his throat. "I miss you."
"I know. But you should have learned a lot of things by now. That nothing is truly fixed in the Fixed Lands." Her use of words he had heard before brought him up sharp. He blinked away his tears and started to listen. "You see things from your own perspective, but in the broad sweep of existence, things look very different. When you know the rules, everything changes. Things are switched right around when they're put in context: what seems a bad experience becomes good, good, bad. I can't explain better than that at the moment, but you can't judge now, Church. Just accept things, and know there's something more."
"I know, I do."
"But sometimes it's hard."
He nodded.
"Feel it, don't think it. The Age of Reason is long gone."
"I feel so tired, Marianne. I want a rest from all this."
Her smile grew sad. "There won't be any rest, Church."
"I heard that before."
"It's true. No rest. But there'll be a balance. You'll know why there's no rest, and though it'll be hard, it'll make you feel good to know that what you do is valuable."
"Life's good as long as you don't weaken."
She laughed, and he was surprised at how wonderful it sounded, even in that place. "That's the kind of person you are, Church. A good person. Someone for people to look up to-"
"You haven't been watching very closely over the last few months, have you?" Church moved around the circle a few paces to get away from the glowering stare of the Other-Church, but it matched him pace for pace.
– you shoulder your burden and still focus on what's important in life. It won't grind you down. Life's too good."
He shrugged. His surroundings had started to intrude and so he asked, although he didn't want to, "What are you doing here, Marianne?"
"You called me."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you just don't know you did."
He turned his thoughts over rapidly, trying to make sense. "I'm here to get rid of the Fomorii corruption that's eaten its way into me from the Kiss of Frost that you-that Calatin made you-give me. That's why I'm here. At least, I think that's why. Nothing makes sense any more. Nothing ever has."
There was movement in the shadowy distance, high above the mountains, against the sky. At first he thought it was clouds, but it looked briefly like a Caraprix, only enormous, hundreds of feet larger than the tiny creatures the Tuatha De Danann and the Fomorii carried with them. It was gone so quickly he could easily have dismissed it as a bizarre hallucination, except that he was convinced it had been there. The part of his back brain that always attempted to make sense of what was happening told him he had glimpsed something of a much larger truth, although what it was, and why the Caraprix felt so at home in that place, was beyond him.
"Church." Marianne called his attention back. "The symbolism is bigger than the reality. In the wider sweep of existence, symbols tell the truth. I'm the cause of all your misery, Church. I'm what's holding you back from achieving your destiny. The stain of the Night Walkers is minor compared to that, and it wouldn't even be there if I wasn't holding it in place."
"What do you mean?"
"Do you want to talk like smart people?" Her expression was teasing. "Or shall we carry on as we always have done?" He motioned for her to continue. "Thanatos, the death urge. When I died, you were consumed by it. That's what infected you. It made your days black, your thoughts worse. You couldn't see life, you couldn't see yourself. You've pulled away from the worst part of it, but it's still there, a little black cancer of the soul. A mess on that Fiery Network that makes up the real you, stopping the true flow. Making something so vital and powerful grow dormant. You have to wake the sleeping king if you want to save the world."
"All that Arthurian stuff is a metaphor. For waking the Blue Fire in the land. Nothing to do with me."
"As without, so within. This whole business is about celebrating life in all its forms, Church. Seeing death as part of a cycle: life, death, rebirth. You've been through the damn thing yourself, as have most of your merry little group. Haven't you got the picture yet?"
"I have to let go of you, is that what you're saying?"
"You don't have to forget me. Just remember the good parts. Don't let death rule your life."
The Other-Church's expression was even darker now, murderous. "Am I really seeing you?" Church asked. "Or is this some hallucination, some part of my subconscious speaking to me?"
"You should know better than to ask questions like that by now."
"Then what do I have to do? It's one thing saying I won't obsess about death, but it's a subconscious thing-"
"Just wish, Church. Wish so hard it changes you from inside out. Kids know best how existence works. We unlearn as we go through all those things the Age of Reason saw fit to throw at us during our formative years. The Celts never had that, all those ancient people who shaped the world. You know I'm not some stupid, anti-progress Luddite. But the truth is, we took a wrong turn and now it's time to get back to how things should really be. A time to feel. The world's been waiting for this for a long time."
"For all the death and suffering?"
"No, of course not. It's your job to minimise that. But it's not your job to take things back to the way they were. You've got a bigger destiny than you ever thought, Church. It's all down to you to make things better."
His lips attempted to form words, but nothing would come.
"Just wish, Church." A whisper. "Just wish."
He closed his eyes. And wished; not with a thought, but with every fibre of his being, and he found power was given to that wishing from somewhere else, either deep within himself, or without, in the distance where strange things moved against the sky.
And when he opened his eyes, Marianne was smiling. "If you could only see yourself as I see you. We're all stars, Church. All stars." She drifted back towards the pillar of stones.
"Is that it? Have I done enough?" His question was answered by the OtherChurch, who began to fade, slipping back into the shadows that had gathered around the area until he was no longer there.
"From here it gets hard. Harder than anything you've been through so far. Pain and death and suffering and sacrifice and misery. It'll be a trial, Church, but you always knew that." Parts of her became misty, merging with the rock. "If you stay true, you'll see it through. Have faith, Church, like I have faith in you."
The tears were flooding down his face now; he had never cried so much since he was a child. "Thank you." His voice, autumnal. "For this, and for everything else you gave me. I'll never forget you."
"Until we meet again." The smile again, filled with long, beautiful days, fading as she was fading. And then she was gone.
It was like a rope tied around his waist had suddenly been attached to a speeding truck. He shot straight up into the air, that strange place disappearing in the blink of an eye, the sky and the stars whizzing by, rocketing so hard he blacked out.
And when he woke, he was sitting on the edge of the Pool of Wishes.
He made his way back along the worn path in a daze, trying to separate reality from hallucination and to make sense of the true weight of what he had learned.
When he reached the others, Ruth said curiously, "What's wrong?"
"What do you mean?"
"You've only been gone about five minutes. Isn't there anything there?"
His smile gave nothing away. He climbed on his horse and spurred it back down the slope, feeling brighter and less burdened than at any time before in his life.
The Palace of High Regard lay at the centre of a confusing geometric design of streets, laden with symbolism. Church and Ruth's winding progress along the route was an intricately designed ritual, affecting their minds as well as their hearts; it was an odd sensation when simply turning a corner resulted in a flash of long-lost memory or insight, a fugitive aroma or barely heard sound. By the time they reached the enormous doors of ivory and silver, it had worked its magic on their deep subconscious so their heads felt charged with a disorienting energy, as if they were about to embark on a drug trip.
Baccharus was waiting to admit them. He carried a long staff carved from black volcanic rock. When Church and Ruth paused ten feet away, as they had been instructed, he tapped the doors gently with the staff. The resultant echoes were so loud Ruth put her hands to her ears.
The doors swung open of their own accord. Within was a hallway flooded with sunlight from a glass dome a hundred feet above. There were columns and carvings, niches filled with statues and braziers smouldering with incense. The floor had an inner path of black and white tiles, but on the edge was a pattern Ruth remembered from the floor tile at Glastonbury, with its hidden message that had pointed them towards T'ir n'a n'Og.
They waited for an age at the second set of doors, eventually being admitted to a room so large it took their breath away. It resembled the Coliseum in size and layout: rising tiers of seats in a circle around a vast floor area that made them feel insignificant. There was enough distortion of perception around the edges that Church wondered what it really looked like. The power of the Tuatha De Danann was focused there in all its unknowable, fearful glory. Ahead of them, the highest tier of gods was obviously seated, but the golden light that came off them was so forceful Church couldn't look at it. At the centre was the being the Celts had called Dagda, the Allfather, and around him others of the oldest and most powerful branch of the Golden Ones. On the perimeter he could just make out the ones the Celts had characterised as Lugh, and Nuada, whom he had first met on Skye when he had been brought back from the dead.
The air was crushing down on his shoulders and deep vibrations ran through him. It made him feel queasy, and he didn't know how long he would be able to endure it; it was apparent Fragile Creatures were not meant to be in that place, or to spend time in close proximity to those potent gods.
They waited, uncomfortable beneath the oppressive attention of the Golden Ones; the weight of all those fearsome intellects focused upon them was almost palpable. The debate started soon after. Nuada rose to deliver a speech to the assembled mass, although they couldn't understand a word he was saying; it sounded like a song caught in the wind, lilting and beautiful, with occasional threatening notes. Others spoke: some from the rank of the highest, many from the lower levels. Back and forth the discourse ranged. It felt odd to be under the scrutiny of such powerful beings, having hopes dissected with the very fate of the world hanging in the balance, but Church refused to be cowed by it. He held his head high and looked every speaker in the face.
Eventually Manannan rose, but instead of making his speech from the tier of the highest, he descended to the floor and stood beside Church and Ruth. He spoke with a passion and belief not previously visible in his reticent nature. Standing next to him, his ringing, incomprehensible voice resonating in the cavities of their bodies, they had an even deeper sense of the power around them.
Though Manannan never acknowledged their presence in the slightest, they knew he was arguing their case powerfully. The Tuatha De Danann hung on his every word, and when he finished speaking, a ripple of obvious disagreement ran around the arena. The tension in some of the comments that followed suggested that even Manannan's involvement might not swing the Golden Ones' support behind humanity.
But when the notes of dissent threatened to become a tumult, a hush suddenly fell across the arena. It was eerie the way it went from noise to silence in the merest moment. Church turned, searching for the source, and saw a large shadow fall across the arena. Cernunnos strode forward, his partner at his side. As she moved, her shape changed from that of a young, innocent girl, to a round-checked, middle-aged woman to a wizened crone and back again.
They stopped beside Manannan, and when Cernunnos spoke in a clear, booming voice it was in words Church could understand. "No more. The seasons have turned. The days of holding on to faint beliefs have long since passed. Some of us have been wiped from existence for all time. Is this not a sign that it is time to act? How many more Golden Ones must lose the shining light before a reckoning comes? You have heard my brother speak of many things, of the warp and weft of existence, of reasons and truth and change, of the rising and advancing of spirits. Yet at the last, it must come down to this: do we sit proud and true and wait for the Night Walkers to bring their foul corruption to our door-even to this hallowed place itself-or do we fight as we have done in the past, for what is ours and for our place in the scheme of things? We aid these Fragile Creatures in their task, and thereby aid ourselves. The greater questions that trouble you need not be considered at this time. This is about the Golden Ones, and the Night Walkers, and the age-old history of lies and treachery and destruction that lie between us."
He paused as his voice continued to echo around the vast chamber. There was no other sound; every god was listening intently to what he had to say. A swell of hope filled Church's heart.
"The Golden Ones have always been fair-minded, and we have always come to the aid of those who have aided us," Cernunnos continued. "These Brothers and Sisters of Dragons freed us from the privations of the Wish-Hex, and they prevented an even more heinous crime being inflicted, one that might well have wiped all of us from existence." Mutterings of disbelief ran round the hall. "They acted freely, and without obligation, and the Golden Ones should repay that debt. There is no longer the taint of the Night Walkers upon this champion. We are free to act at his behest." He paused once more and looked slowly round. Briefly his appearance wavered and instead of the creature that Church saw as half animal, half vegetation, there was something almost angelic, but it was gone in an instant.
"I stand here with my brother, the two of us shoulder-to-shoulder. We say the old ways of noninvolvement must end now. Risen and proud, the Golden Ones were always a force to be feared. The time is right."
Complete silence followed his plea. Church's heart fell; his words had not stirred them at all. He looked around frantically, wondering if he should speak himself, but before he could decide, Baccharus had gripped his arm and was leading him and Ruth out of the hall. "The case has been made," he whispered.
They were deposited in an annex where a crystal fountain gently tinkled. Baccharus refused to answer any of their questions, but they had only to look in each other's faces to confirm their private thoughts: they had failed.
Baccharus returned to them an hour later. At first they couldn't read his face, but when he was close it broke into a broad and unlikely grin. "They will ride with you. The Night Walkers have been designated a true threat, and the feeling is that an agreement of cohabitation is not enough. It is time to eradicate them completely."
Church jumped to his feet and hugged Ruth. "We did it!"
"We need to thank Cernunnos and Manannan," Ruth said.
"There will be time enough for that later," Baccharus replied. "The decision has been reached. The Golden Ones will act swiftly and we must be away at dawn. But first there is a ceremony to be enacted."
"What ceremony?"
Baccharus ignored Church and motioned to the door. In the chamber, Cernunnos and Manannan waited patiently on the floor, but around them were gathered some of the highest of the gods, with only Dagda and those whose form was most fluid still remaining in their old place.
"Your hearts are true, Brother and Sister of Dragons," Cernunnos said. "An agreement has been reached that rings across existence. Not since the most ancient times of your people has the like been seen."
He raised his right hand and the crowd parted to admit Lugh, leading four of the younger gods. Each carried one of the ancient artefacts Church, Ruth and the others had located to free the Tuatha De Danann from exile: the Stone ofFal, the Cauldron of Dagda, the Spear of Lugh and the Sword of Nuada Airgetlamh. Lugh himself carried the Wayfinder, the lantern with the flickering blue flame that had pointed them in the direction of the mystical objects.
"The Quadrillax," Cernunnos intoned, "are yours once more. Use them well and wisely."
Church could barely believe what he was seeing. The four objects were so powerful, such a part of the traditions of the Tuatha De Danann, that he could never imagine an occasion when they would have freely given them up. But he could tell from the way the other gods looked to Cernunnos and Manannan that he knew who to thank.
He bowed. "The Brothers and Sisters of Dragons thank you. And we shall use them well and wisely."
Barely able to contain himself, he walked over to the sword that was resting on a cushion of strange, shimmering material. He had once seen it as a rusty, crumbling artefact. Now it gleamed as if it were made of silver and gold, and looked as sharp and strong as if it had just been forged. A shiver of anticipation made him pause before his fingers closed on it. But then it was in his hand and once again the power rushed through him; it felt warm and alive, comforting, against his skin. "Now we'll see some justice," he said in hushed tones.
Church sheathed the sword in a leather scabbard presented to him by Baccharus, while Ruth took the spear that she had used to such good advantage when freeing Cernunnos from Fomorii control in South Wales. The other artefacts were placed in a golden box that the young gods would hold until directed by Church.
Once they were on their own in their room, Church dragged Ruth on to the bed and hugged her tightly. "A result," he grinned, "on every front."
"So where's that familiar pessimism? Come on, you're the man who manages to drag misery from every victory."
"I'm still pragmatic-I know it's still going to be near impossible. But at least we have the two things we need: the support of the Tuatha De Danann and the Quadrillax. That's a chance, and I'm going to seize it with both hands."
"Oh, get away from me. You're not the real Church. You've been possessed in that mysterious pool." She playfully attempted to push him away, before relaxing so he could fold into her. "Go on, there's got to be something on your mind." The flicker across his face gave her answer. "Spit it out."
"Okay, there's one thing that worries me, and it's a big thing." He rolled over so he was lying next to her, staring at the ceiling. "Everything was tidied up nicely on the ship, except for one thing. You've seen the Tuatha De Danann. You know what they're capable of. And now they have the Wish-Hex."
chapter fourteen
like a serpent
play'd before them
ater began to flood in around Laura as she shivered in the cold beneath the insipid dawn light. The Bone Inspector attempted to force the rag back into the hole, but it only made matters worse. "We're going to go down like a brick," he hissed.
"I can get a bit further if I throw you overboard." She leaned up just enough to peek over the rim. They hadn't even made it as far as the Dartford river crossing. Nearby, gleaming mudflats lined the bank. There was no movement anywhere, nor was there any sound, not even birdsong. The stillness was unnatural.
"If we drag it over to the side, we might have a better chance of plugging it up again," she hissed.
The Bone Inspector grunted before rolling over the side into the waist-deep water; he appeared oblivious to the cold. Laura allowed him to drag the boat close to the flats before she jumped out to help it across the last few feet.
Once they'd beached it, the water drained out and the Bone Inspector could attempt the repairs a little easier. But it was soon apparent why the previous owner had abandoned the craft. As the Bone Inspector worked the rag in tightly, his hand went right through the bottom, taking out a chunk of rotten wood about a foot square.
"You ham-fisted git!" Laura slapped a shaking hand over her eyes. "Now what do we do?"
The Bone Inspector ignored her attempts at blame. Quickly surveying the area, he pointed toward some streetlights beyond an expanse of waste ground. "The Fomorii may not have spread this far out of the city. If we proceed cautiously, it would be quicker to use the road to put the city behind us."
Laura wrapped her sopping arms around her. "All right. But you go first."
The wasteland had been used as a dump. Burst dustbin bags lay around amidst broken bottles, empty milk crates, a burnt-out car and decaying furniture. It smelled of chemicals and excrement. The road beyond was deserted, apart from a jackknifed petrol tanker.
"Looks safe," Laura mused after ten minutes in the shadows of the hedgerow. "Shall we chance it?"
"No choice." The Bone Inspector sniffed the air, then stepped out on to the pavement.
They'd gone only a few yards down the road when Laura experienced a prickling sensation. Looking back quickly towards the city, all she could see were a few birds swooping in the grey sky. She attempted to dismiss the nagging feeling, but if anything it was growing stronger. She took a few more paces and only then realised that since she had woken in the charnel house she had not seen any birds at all. With a shiver of dread, she turned back.
The dark smudges had moved much closer in the seconds between looks, and now she could see they were far too big for birds. Their uncanny speed held her rapt for a few seconds and by then she could see they were winged Fomorii. "Shit. I didn't know some of them could fly."
The Bone Inspector turned at her strained voice, before grabbing her arm to propel her back the way they had come.
"Away from them!" she yelled.
"There's no cover." His voice was remarkably calm, although his body had dropped into a low, loping posture that reminded her of a hunting wolf.
He was right; their only chance was to attempt to hide and hope the Fomorii couldn't see where they were going, but there was hardly anywhere in the flat open landscape.
The only place in view was the jackknifed tanker. It offered little protection, but if they could crawl beneath it they might be able to scurry into the ditch beyond where the Fomorii would have trouble reaching them. In the heat of the moment Laura didn't have time to consider how sickeningly short-termist that was.
The Fomorii had the terrifying speed of jet fighters. The tanker was still yards away when the wash of driven air buffeted Laura and the Bone Inspector. There was a smell like rotting meat and what sounded like a power drill. Their peripheral vision was filled with constantly changing horrors; a deep, arctic shadow fell across them. The Bone Inspector knocked Laura to the ground and threw himself across her.
They both felt the breeze as the Fomorii tore through the space where they had been. Despite his advancing years, the Bone Inspector was on his feet in an instant, hauling Laura up behind him as if she weighed nothing.
Amidst the frantic activity and danger, Laura was surprised to find an area of deep serenity in which she could step back to observe herself. What she saw surprised her: just weeks ago she would have been paralysed by fear. Instead she felt calm and focused and, if it hadn't sounded so incongruous, brave.
She was thrown out of the moment by a hard impact to her right shoulder. Relieved that the Fomorii had missed clubbing her to the ground she continued a pace before an object came flying past her to skid across the road. It was an arm. Her arm.
The shock of the sight brought her to a halt. Her vision wavered a second; impressions rushed towards the front of her mind, but didn't coalesce. She was dimly aware of several shapes converging on her.
The Bone Inspector was in her frame of vision, yelling something she couldn't hear. A second later she was being lifted across his back as he ran the final few yards. They dived beneath the tanker as the road erupted at their heels.
Laura came out of her daze, aware of a dull ache at her shoulder. She didn't look at all. Shards of metal clattered across the road as the Fomorii tore frenziedly at the side of the tanker to get at them. "Keep moving," she croaked. "I'm fine."
The Bone Inspector cast a searching eye across her face, and then scurried into the ditch. Laura followed, keeping low, feeling brambles tear at her face and hair, not really caring.
The Fomorii continued to attack the tanker. "Stupid bastards," Laura said under her breath.
The two of them had managed to crawl three hundred yards away when the inevitable happened. The tanker went up in a massive explosion that rained burning debris all around them. They had just crawled in a culvert that ran beneath the road as the hedgerow disappeared in a blur of flame; trees turned to charcoal and the field beyond disappeared in red and yellow smoke. For a second or two, Laura couldn't breathe, until fresh air rushed in to fill the vacuum. Her ears rang from the blast.
She slumped back against the culvert, suddenly convulsed in tremors. The Bone Inspector was at her side in an instant, ready to bandage her shoulder with his shirt. When he paused suddenly, she gasped, "I know. Green blood."
"And not much of it." He pressed the shirt against the protruding socket joint and torn arteries. Despite his comment, it quickly grew wet.
"It had to be the right one," she said miserably. "Now I'll never beat Veitch at darts." Her attempt at humour sounded pathetic. She let her chin slump on to her chest, listening to the roar of the inferno.
"We'll rest here for a while," the Bone Inspector said. "We'll start moving again when the fire dies down."
"Good idea," Laura murmured. "I feel so tired." She closed her eyes and drifted away.
"I'm just saying it's bad strategy, that's all." Veitch finished up the last of his plate of rabbit stew hungrily and eyed the black pan on the old range with a measure of hope. Through Tom's judicious herbal treatments, he had recovered from the shock of the amputation and appeared back to his old irascible self, a piece of white cloth he washed obsessively was tied around his stump.
"Ryan is our strategist, after all." After his dinner of steamed vegetables, Shavi gnawed on a raw carrot, his dessert, much to Witch's disgust.
Tom furiously dunked his homemade bread in the last dregs of gravy. Before he could launch into a bad-tempered tirade, Davenport, the farmer who had taken them in earlier that day, poked his head round the door. He was wearing a dirty, shapeless hat and old coat, protection against the evening chill as he finished up the last of the jobs around the farm. "Everything all right, lads?"
"It was a very enjoyable meal, Mr. Davenport," Shavi said. "Our compliments to your wife. And we offer you our thanks for feeding us, when we have nothing to offer in return. We know there are shortages-"
Embarrassed, Davenport waved him quiet. "We've got enough to go round. I'd be worrying if I was one of the big boys. They won't know what to do now they can't get hold of their pesticides and chemical fertilisers. But I've been organic for a few years now, so, cross fingers, we should be all right for a while."
His wife, Rowena, pushed in next to him. She was in her late thirties, attractive, though weary looking. "Go on, Philip," she said, nudging her husband in the ribs, "ask them."
"I'm not going to ask them." Davenport shifted uncomfortably.
"If you don't, I will."
He sighed with irritation. "The wife wants to know if you're the heroes-"
She slapped him on the arm. "Don't say it like that!"
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "If you're-"
"Oh, get out of the way!" She pushed past him. "People are talking about a group of men and women going round the country trying to put right this awful thing that's happened. The farmers have been talking about it for weeks. They keep saying how some of these people helped out a farmer down in the West Country who'd got one of those spooks or goblins or whatever in his house. That's the story, anyway. But then we heard it from somebody else… a woman in the village. She's part of this parish pump news grapevine that's being set up to let everyone know what's going on. And one of the stories passed down the wire was about this group up in the north somewhere who fought against all those horrible things and saved an entire village. And they were doing all sorts of other… " Her voice faded away as she realised she was starting to ramble. She looked at her husband and added, "And yes, they did call them heroes. Said they could do things no other people could do. Said they were special."
Veitch tried to appear nonchalant, but he was fighting against pride. The woman noticed his fidgeting. "It is you, isn't it?"
"We are not special," Shavi said. "Not really. We are simply trying to do the best we can in a very difficult situation-"
"I told you they were the heroes," the woman said to her husband. She turned back to them excitedly. "What are you-"
Her husband pushed her out with undue roughness. "They don't want to be bothered by us!" He shuffled around uncomfortably. "We'll leave you alone now, lads. I know you'll have important stuff to talk about. But if you've got a moment before you take your leave-"
"We'll fill you in, mate." Once he'd gone, Veitch said conspiratorially, "Can you believe that? They're talking about us!"
"One should never believe one's own publicity, Ryan," Shavi said wryly. He eased back in his chair and sipped on his boiled water.
"Yes, control your ego before your head explodes." Tom collected the plates together and put them in the sink. "It's not important-"
"It's important to me. Nobody's ever called me a hero before."
"And this lot wouldn't either, if they knew you," Tom snapped. "To get back to the matter at hand-"
"Your strategy's all wrong."
Tom picked up his chair and banged it down in irritation. "So you said. Then what do you suggest?"
"You're the big bleedin' psychic. Shav here can talk to the birds. Can't you find out where the others are-exactly-so we can link up with them? We haven't got the time to keep wandering around. I want to be there the moment they roll up, ready to ride on London."
"And do what? Shake your stump at them?" Tom recognised it was a cheap shot the instant the words had left his lips but he refused to be contrite, although he wouldn't meet Veitch's eyes.
Veitch wasn't upset. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table so he wouldn't look so combative. "You know I'm talking sense here. We need a plan. There's only a matter of days until Hallowe'en… Samhain… that's all. There's not even a guarantee Church and the others are coming back."
"Then we're lost," Tom said sharply. "Separately, we are nothing."
"Sometimes you're so bleedin' pathetic."
"They will be back," Shavi said. "I have faith."
"Then we can get down to the fighting." Veitch adjusted the cloth around what remained of his wrist.
"You all appear to be forgetting something vitally important." Tom spun the chair around so he could lean on the back. He looked at Veitch accusingly. "Church will not have forgotten."
"What?" Veitch looked from Tom to Shavi.
"The land," Shavi said.
"Exactly." Tom took out his tin and made a roll-up with his dwindling supply of tobacco. "Wake the land. The primary mission, encoded for generations in myth and legend. There will be no defeating the Fomorii, no future for Britain-or the world for that matter-unless the land is woken from its long sleep."
"Like Church did in Edinburgh," Veitch said, "when the Fire helped blow those Bastards in their lair to kingdom come. But, yeah, it helped. Why's it so important?"
"The Tuatha De Danann would not have beaten the Fomorii before if the power in the land had not been vibrant."
"I do not remember you telling us that before," Shavi said suspiciously.
Tom sucked on the roll-up a few times to get it alight. "The power in the land, at its height, weakens the Fomorii. The Blue Fire-and what it represents-is the antithesis of the Night Walkers, and what they represent."
"So it's everywhere-" Veitch began.
Tom had no patience left. "It is powered by belief and faith and hope, by humanity and nature in conjunction. By all that is good in us. And for generations it has been slowly growing dormant. Several hundred years ago humanity took a wrong path. We gave up all that was most important for the promise of shiny things, home comforts, products. There was a time we could have had both, to a degree. But the ones who shape our thoughts, in politics and business, and the fools who invested their faith in science alone, convinced us to trade one off for the other. And without the belief of the people, the energy slowly withered, like a stream in a drought. Not gone for ever, just sleeping."
"But you know how it can be woken," Shavi said. "You have always known."
Veitch watched Shavi's face and then turned his narrowing eyes to Tom. "Another thing you've kept from us. You can't be trusted at all, can you, you old bastard? We could have done it weeks ago and saved us all a load of trouble."
"The time was not right then. Church was not right. The Fomorii corruption in him would have brought failure. And to fail once would have meant failing for all time."
Shavi watched Tom carefully. "What else do you know?"
"More things than you could ever dream." Tom was unbowed. "Some have to be learned through hardship and ritual-they can't be imparted over a quiet cup of tea. Others, well, the telling of them could alter the outcome of what is being told. I ask you to trust me, as I always have."
"We do trust you," Veitch said irritably. "That doesn't mean you don't get on our tits half the time."
"At least we have some common ground," Tom said acidly. The strain of events was eating away at all of them.
"Then what needs to be done?" Shavi asked. "And can it be done in the time that remains?"
Tom sucked on the roll-up thoughtfully; they couldn't quite divine his mood: dismal or hopeful? "The energy in the earth crisscrosses the globe, interlinking like the lines of latitude and longitude, only not so uniform. The Fire is not a straight line thing. It splits and winds in two strands around a central point, so that from above it resembles the double helix, the map of life, or perhaps the caduceus, the ageold symbol of two serpents coiled around a staff. Imagine, if you will, powerpoints where the energy rushes in, or is refocused and driven out into the network. The Well of Fire at Edinburgh was one, and Stonehenge and Avebury and Glastonbury Tor. The last three are important for they all fall on the divining line for Britain."
"The St. Michael Line," Shavi noted. "A ley running from Carn Les Boel at Land's End to St. Margaret's Church at Hopton on the east coast in Norfolk."
"Along that line are many of those powerpoints. They feed the whole network. For the land to come alive with the earth energy, the St. Michael Line must be vibrant and powerful. But it is fractured in part, sluggish in others, a trickle in many places."
"And to wake it?" Shavi asked.
"On the tip of Cornwall there is an ancient and mysterious place known as St. Michael's Mount. It is the lynchpin of the entire line. I have spoken in the past about the Celts and the other ancient races encoding great secrets in the earth itself. At St. Michael's Mount is the greatest secret of all. Locked under that place, Church-and Church alone-will uncover the key to bringing the line, and the land, back to life. Or he will find death."
Veitch tapped out a monotonous beat on the kitchen table with a teaspoon. "They'll have the place well defended," he said, staring into space. "Those tricks and traps they lined up to guard the spear, sword and the rest of it were bad enough. If this is their biggest secret-"
"Exactly," Tom said.
"Then," Shavi said, "we need to get Church to St. Michael's Mount as soon as we can."
In a quiet orchard at the back of the farmhouse, with the yellowing, autumn leaves glowing spectrally in the moonlight, Shavi sat cross-legged and listened to the sound of the night. Amongst the surrounding vegetation, eyes glittered-a fox, a rabbit, a badger, several stray cats-all of whom had come to see the shaman at work. The ritual, his first since leaving the Grim Lands, had been wearying, necessitating some of the tricks of concentration he thought he had become too experienced to need. But it had worked.
A few feet above the ground, the air was boiling as what appeared to be liquid metal bubbled out and drifted down; it was accompanied by the familiar smell of burnt iron. Behind it came one of the bone-white, featureless creatures Shavi had summoned before, a human-shaped construct used by one of the denizens of the Invisible World. It pulled itself forward and hung half in and half out of the hole in space.
"Who brings me to this place?" Its voice was like the wind on a winter sea.
"It is I, Brother of Dragons."
"I know you, Brother of Dragons. Have you not learned your lesson, of reaching out to the worlds beyond your own?"
"I know my place, and I know yours. I seek guidance."
"You did not heed our words before." The creature put its head on one side in a faintly mocking style.
Shavi recalled the prophetic message one of these creatures had given him about his murder at Callow's hands, but it had been couched in such cryptic terms he had not realised its meaning until it was too late to do anything about it. "I chose my path. And I am here to hear your words again."
"There is a price."
Shavi ran a thumb over the rough pad of his left hand, now crisscrossed with a score of tiny scars, chose a spot, then slit it with a knife. The blood dripped on to the damp grass.
"You give freely of your essence, Brother of Dragons." An underlying note of warning.
"Another Brother of Dragons, our leader, known as Church, is currently abroad in the Far Lands. Firstly, how does he fare?"
"He fares well. You have achieved all that you desire, but what you desire may do more harm than good."
Shavi noted this subtle warning, knowing there was no point attempting to get the construct to elucidate. "Then he will be back shortly. My second question: where will he arrive?"
"He will return to the Fixed Lands at the point from which he departed, where Merlin's Rock marks a doorway between worlds."
Shavi didn't recognise the name, but he guessed Tom probably would. "Then I thank you for your guidance. Return safely to the Invisible World." He paused. "No final words of warning?"
Although the construct had no features, Shavi was convinced it was smiling. "No warning would ever do justice to what lies ahead for you and your Brothers and Sisters."
And then it was gone.
Tom and Veitch sat around the range in the candlelight, drinking homemade beer. They were used to Shavi's ragged appearance after making contact with the Invisible World, but were eager to discover what he had learned. As he had expected, Tom knew the location instantly.
"Mousehole," the Rhymer said gruffly. "Then he joined Manannan's sick crew."
"Where's that, then?" Veitch swilled the beer down rapidly; six large mugs in a quarter of an hour.
"Cornwall." Tom stared at the red coals in the open door of the range. "In the furthest tip. The part of the country where the Celts buried their greatest secrets, and subsequently the most spiritual part of the land."
"Bloody hell, it's going to take us ages to get down there." Veitch took another swig, then looked up suddenly. "You could make another jump."
Tom waved him silent, his eyes still fixed on the fire, deep in thought. Shavi asked what Veitch meant and the Londoner spent the next five minutes attempting to explain how they had slipped into the energy flow between Scotland and Wandlebury Camp. Shavi was enthused by the entire concept and excitedly questioned Tom about it.
"Didn't you hear me say the St. Michael Line is fractured?" he snapped. "If we attempt to travel along it and hit a dead spot we will be unceremoniously spewed out into the world. Perhaps over a gorge or a cliff face or above a river in torrent. Now what good will that do?"
Veitch examined the deep lines of Tom's face, the fix of his eyes, until Tom could no longer pretend he hadn't seen him. "What?"
"You're thinking about it."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are. I can see it in your face, you old bastard. And I know exactly what you're thinking. You're thinking it's too much of a risk for all three of us, but one of us needs to try it because we're running out of time."
Tom was particularly irritated at Veitch's sudden insight.
"I'm right, aren't I?"
"Oh, shut up." Tom rose from his chair and went over to the window to peer out into the dark. "It has to be me because only I can give Church the guidance he needs. Only I can point him towards St. Michael's Mount." A few beats of silence. "And the two of you are too valuable to risk. Five of you are needed to put this square. Any less… if any of you don't make it through the next two weeks…" He made a dismissive gesture.
"Then what should we do?" Shavi asked.
Tom was already gathering his things together in his haversack. "You must make your way to a meeting place, somewhere just beyond the reach of the Fomorii influence on the outskirts of London. I would suggest the west-"
The door crashed open and Davenport lurched in, his face pale and drawn. Shavi helped the farmer to a chair. Veitch's eyes went instantly to the door and window; the farmhouse was sprawling, impossible to defend.
"Down at the pub," Davenport gasped between juddering breaths. "I was talking to some bloke about you lot. Never seen him before. He was asking a lot of questions. I thought he'd just heard the stories, like the rest of us-"
"What happened?" Veitch gripped Davenport's shoulders and had to be prised off by Shavi.
"After I told him you were up here, his face started to change… melt… I thought I was going mad. Then I thought I was going to black out. One of the other blokes down there was sharp. Chucked a pint glass at him. I got away, still thought I was going to puke my guts up."
"Fomorii," Shavi snapped.
"There were more of them," Davenport continued. "I saw as I ran up here. They were following me-"
His sentence was cut off by a crashing at the front door.
"No time," Tom said. "We will find each other in the west, along the M4 between Reading and London." He nodded to them all, then darted through the back door where he snatched Davenport's bicycle from its resting place against the wall.
"Hide," Shavi said to the farmer. "They are after us. They will leave you alone." He saw Veitch's fixed expression and knew he was considering a fight. "This is not the time. We cannot afford to fail now."
Veitch backed down, and then they were both out of the door, running across the orchard and into the fields beyond.
His joints aching, Tom pedalled as fast as he could. The evening was alive with monkey shrieks, dark shapes flitting across the fields towards the farmhouse, the candlelit rooms surprisingly bright in the sea of night. He desperately hoped Witch and Shavi would escape-if anyone could, they could-but he had his doubts for Davenport and his wife.
That the Fomorii were still looking for them had taken him by surprise. He had thought that in the aftermath of their great success at bringing back Balor, the Night Walkers would have little time for failed insurrectionists.
He narrowed his eyes and concentrated until the thin tracings of Blue Fire rose from the shadowy background, like silver filigree glinting off the blades of grass in the fields. It was not strong in that area, but he could still pick out the ebb and flow. Driving himself on as fast as he could, he searched for a confluence on the St. Michael's Line.
An hour later he found himself in the Hertfordshire town of Royston, at a point where the ancient Royal Roads of Britain, the Icknield Way and Ermine Street, crossed. The town was still, although candles glowed in many windows. The moment he saw the town name, he knew where he was heading. The old stories enshrined the mythic power of certain locations so they would never be forgotten by the adepts, however much locals became inured to their mystery.
A grating in the pavement showed his destination, but it took him a while longer to raise one of the residents to point him in the direction of an old wooden door. Taking a candle, he made his way along a tunnel to a thirty-foothigh, bell-shaped chamber cut into the solid chalk lying just beneath the street. He remembered how one of the Culture had told him of its rediscovery in the eighteenth century when a group of workmen digging a hole found a millstone sunk in the earth; beneath it was a shaft that led into the cave.
Tom held up the candle and the walls came alive; carved pictures swelled and receded in the flickering light. Here Sheela-na-Gig, one of the old fertility goddesses, there Christian images of the crucifixion, and then a mix of the two, with St. Catherine holding the symbolic eight-spoked wheel of the sun disc. It had the same resonances as Rosslyn Chapel, where Shavi and Laura had freed the mad god Maponus, and like that place, it had also been a haunt of the Knights Templar, the old guardians of secret mysteries and the last people to truly understand the earth energy.
Cautiously he set down the candle and sat cross-legged in the centre of the chill cave, allowing its symbolism to work its magic on his subconscious. The shape of an inverted womb and the female images on the wall showed it was a place where the Earth Goddess was honoured by the ancients; more, it was a place where the life-giving power of the earth was celebrated.
The atmosphere was already crackling, setting the hairs alive across his arms and neck. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and prepared for his trip.
The deep dark of predawn clustered along the coastline as Wave Sweeper sailed in to the sleeping land. The waves crashed in bursts of white along the rocky coast and the salty scent of seaweed filled the air. Church stood at the rail, filled with excitement at the prospect of returning home after too long in the strangest of strange lands. Behind it, though, was apprehension at what lay ahead.
Ruth gave the back of his hand a squeeze with a reassuring smile. Her hair had been tied back, but the force of the wind still lashed it around. "Ready for the final act?"
"I don't like the way that sounds." He slipped an arm round her shoulders, comforted by her warmth.
All around them the deck milled with the Tuatha De Danann readying the ship for landing. The decks below were crammed with even more of the force: horses, and strange, gleaming chariots with spiked wheels, an entire deck of armaments prepared by Goibhniu and his brothers, plus tents and supplies and all the other minutiae needed by an army on the move.
"I wonder if we'll see the others?" he mused.
"When. It's only a matter of time. We were drawn together in the first place, and it'll happen again." Her thoughts turned to Veitch; she quickly drove them out.
"It's funny that it's going to end in London." The spray flew up around him. "We've come full circle."
"The Universe speaks to us in symbols, that's what Tom would say. I still can't get over how much we've all changed. If the stakes weren't so high, that would be… an achievement in itself."
"You feel better for it all?" He gently touched the space where her finger had been.
She only had to think for an instant. "As stupid as it seems, I do. Between this and the rest of my days stretching out in a safe but mundane legal world, there's no contest. It's such an obvious thing, but we never, ever grasp it: life's short, so why spend it bumping along in a secure existence that stops you feeling anything? Life should be about snatching as many great experiences as you can before you die, trading them in for wisdom. But if you want that, you've got to take the risk of great lows as well. Any sane person would say there's no contest, but we keep doing it."
"It's society. Conditioning. That's what we all need to break."
She laughed. "Life in the Age of Reason isn't all the brochures say."
"Reminds me of an old song."
"One nobody else has heard of, I suppose."
"I guess." As they neared the coast, he picked out a few lights in Mousehole; either early risers or the night watch.
Ruth watched the shadow of thoughts play on his face. "What's wrong?"
`Just wishing the Walpurgis hadn't died before he could tell me what he knew."
"About the one of us who's going to sell all the others down the river?" She kept her eyes fixed on the shoreline.
"I just hope that wasn't a turning point, the one moment when we could have saved everything, only to lose out by a hair's breadth. And Callow's treachery."
"No point worrying about it now." Her face was dark, unreadable. "We've just got to play the cards as they fall. That, and other cliches."
If the residents of Mousehole knew an alien ship was disgorging some of the most powerful beings of all existence in their midst, they never showed it. Doors and windows remained resolutely closed, despite the clatter of metal and the grind of wheels on stone and the whinnying of horses that looked like any other until one saw the unnaturally intelligent gleam in their eye.
Yet there was one figure, waiting near the pub where they had stayed on their arrival. He was wrapped in a voluminous, extreme-weather anorak, the snorkel hood pulled far forward against the chill so his features were lost to shadow. Even so, Church recognised him in an instant from the stance, at once relaxed, yet, conversely, taut.
He ran across the road and threw his arms around the figure. "Tom!"
The Rhymer pulled back his hood to reveal a face worn by exhaustion, the edge taken off it by the flicker of a smile. "If you knew the trouble I'd had to get here-"
"We wondered if you were dead!"
"If only." He blushed as Ruth bowled up and planted a large kiss on his cheek before throwing her arms around him. "Enough of that." He tried to recapture his grizzly demeanour, but they could both see his true feelings. "We have serious business ahead."
He filled them in quickly before motioning towards three horses he had tied up at the side of the pub. "We can be at St. Michael's Mount soon after dawn, if we hurry."
"And what do I get to do while Mr. Hero goes off and does all his testosterone business?" Despite her tone, Church knew Ruth wasn't offended that she had to sit it out; she was afraid for him and wanted to help.
"It'll be okay," he said. "I have to do it alone. It's a destiny thing. You know, like the old stories. Except this time they've got me instead of King Arthur. Bummer, eh?"
Baccharus sauntered over when he saw the three of them conversing. "Greetings, True Thomas. I knew you would not let hardship come between us meeting again."
"Baccharus. So your people have finally decided to stir themselves into action, I see."
"The Golden Ones like to conserve their energy so they are more effective when the time is ripe."
Tom tried to read his face, but the god gave nothing away. "You better watch yourself, Baccharus. Humour? What's next: laughter, tears and broken hearts? They'll be drumming you out of the Arrogance Club for good behaviour."
"Oh, I can still be arrogant, True Thomas. When one is highborn, one does not lose that trait."
Tom shook his head, stifling a grin. They told Baccharus that they would have to take their leave, without giving him details of their mission, in case news leaked out to those of the Tuatha De Danann not sympathetic to humanity.
Baccharus shook their hands in turn. "Then I wish you all well, for you have been the best of companions. We shall meet again before battle is joined."
As the three horses left the melee behind, Church felt sad. Baccharus had proved both a good comrade-in-arms and a friend, despite his difficulty in expressing emotion. But soon the night closed in around them and all thoughts turned to the dangers that lurked beyond the black hedgerows.
The village of Marazion was peaceful in the pale, early morning sunlight. Tom, who had amassed several lifetimes of knowledge, gave them a potted history of the oldest chartered town in Cornwall, its great age marked by the twisty-turny thirteenth-century streets running down to the wide stretch of sandy beach.
Ahead of them, St. Michael's Mount rose up majestically, a throne of stone in the bay bearing the crumbling castle and ancient chapel silhouetted against the sky; it had been the source of dreams for generations. Legends clustered hard around the bulky island, hazy in the morning mist; stories of giants and angels, lovers and redeemers.
Ruth reined in her horse, closed her eyes and put her face up to the sun as she took a deep breath of the cool, soothing air. She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. "It's weird. It's only been a matter of weeks, but already it smells different… sweeter."
Church knew what she meant: no traffic fumes, no faint aroma of burning plastics, no hint of the modern world that made all the senses recoil, but that everyone had simply grown to accept. He followed the sweep of golden sands to the break of surf on the edge of the blue sea. "We've got everything here that makes life worth living. So tell me again why we need to go back?"
Tom slid off his mount and tied it to a tree. "Leave the horses. From here, we go on foot. Like pilgrims."
He led them across the dunes to a rough stone causeway. The tide was out so they could walk easily to the Mount. Despite the time of year and the salty sea breeze, it was peculiarly warm, reminding Ruth of the same unseasonal weather she had appreciated at Glastonbury. "I feel safe here," she said.
As they walked, Tom spoke in a dreamy monotone, describing the history and symbolism of the place that now towered over them. The beat and tone of his words made it almost a ritualistic chant, lulling them into deep thoughts born in the dark subconscious.
"In the old Cornish language this place was called Carreg Luz en Kuz, translated as the Hoar Rock in the Wood. In the ancient Celtic language, hoar often refers to a standing stone. There is no standing stone now, but who knows? You now know what the stones mark…" His words were caught by the wind, disappeared. When they picked up his monologue again, he had changed tack. "Once this place was known as Dinsul, or Citadel of the Sun. This is where the wise men of the Celts called up their god of light. There is a very clear tradition of sun worship at this site. Then the cult of St. Michael grew up in the Middle Ages after a vision of the saint filled with light appeared atop the Mount. So the old ways were passed on through the Christian religion where the site became dedicated to St. Michael, a saint who became a symbol associated with light. In the language of symbols, there is no differentiation between the old religion and the new. The same source, different names."
Tom's words had begun to nag at the back of Church's mind; it wasn't just travelogue. "Why are you telling us this?"
Tom ignored him. "Christ, too, another symbol of light, in legend is believed to have landed with his uncle Joseph of Arimathea at St. Michael's Mount before making his way to Glastonbury. He began to sing softly, "`And did those feet, in ancient times…"'
Church glanced at him uneasily. "I said, why are you telling nie this?"
"St. Michael-some writers once described him as the Spirit of Revelation, and that is a fair description," Tom said. "For if he stands for anything, it is this: there are mysteries heaped on mysteries and nothing should be taken at face value. Religions, all religions, are ninety percent politics and ten percent belief. The belief continues eternally, only shaped by the politics to appear this, or that, but it always is as it was. One thing; one belief." Tom took a deep breath. "Old stories," he said with pride; he thought of the Mount's legends of giants in the earth, as there had been at Wandlebury Camp.
"In Cornwall," Tom continued, "there's a legend that St. Michael sleeps beneath the land, waiting to be woken."
Church felt a shiver down his spine as the threads of disparate ancient sto- ties drew together to reveal a pattern behind the chaos. There were similar threads drawing together different religions, all leading back to the same source, though he was sure many worshippers of those faiths would refuse to see the connections. Yet it was all there for anyone who chose to see it. What did it mean, that was the question? Possibly the most important question he would ever have to consider in his life: a pattern behind everything. That was the message that had underpinned every step of his journey around the country since that cold night beneath Albert Bridge.
They reached the end of the causeway. A steep path wound upwards in the shadow of the mount. By the time they were halfway up, they were sweating in the morning heat.
"All these secrets hidden in the earth, buried in old stories, it makes me feel queasy," Ruth said.
"That's because you are being spoken to in the true language of symbols, the ur-language, but you are not yet educated enough to understand it." Tom rested briefly to catch his breath. "Yet your subconscious hears and it grasps the importance, if not the meaning. The signals it sounds out to your forebrain causes conflict, upsetting your equilibrium. Secrets and mysteries-hints at the true universe that lies behind the one you see."
They fell silent, meditating on his words, until they reached the summit and the ancient buildings. Church suddenly felt heady and had to reach out for a wall to support himself.
"You can feel it?" Tom asked.
He could: a tremendous surge of the earth energy, running through every stone, as if the place were an enormous battery. His flesh tingled and there was a corresponding tightness across his chest that eventually eased, to be replaced by euphoria.
"What a rush." Church laughed; he could see Ruth was experiencing it too.
"This is why people take drugs," Tom said, "to attempt to reach this state that they only have a vague race memory of, from the days when their ancestors could manipulate the subtle energies at the ancient sites. But nothing earthly can ever come close to it."
They moved slowly in the long shadows of the castle until they came to an ancient stone cross rising out of the ground. At first glance it was nothing special, but once they drew closer they saw a double swirl of the Blue Fire continually flowing all around it.
"This is where the lines all draw together," Church said. It was so potent he almost felt like kneeling before it.
The mood was broken when, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a dark figure away to his left. He whirled, half drawing the sword, only to see a man dozing in the sun on a low wall, his dog collar just visible beneath a lightweight blue cagoule. He was in his late sixties, his face sun-browned and lined, his hair a shock of white. He stirred, as if Church's gaze had disturbed him, and then jumped to his feet, straightening his clothes with a mixture of embarrassment and anticipation.
Once he had calmed he looked penetratingly into their faces in turn. "Is this it?" he asked with a note of excitement. "Is this the time?"
"It is the time," Tom said, stepping forward. Church and Ruth looked at him curiously.
"That's a relief, you know. After all that waiting and waiting. Of course, when I saw the signs… the failure of technology and all that… I supposed it must be the time. But when the message has been lying around for hundreds of years… longer, of course… it's difficult to believe it's actually going to happen in your lifetime." His cheeks coloured at the realisation that he was rambling. He held out a cautious hand and greeted them in turn. "I'm Michael." He smiled at what some would have considered a coincidence. "Watchman of St. Michael's Mount." He paused. "Chief Watchman, of this time, and this land. There. That seems so odd to say, after thirty years of never being able to say it to anybody. When the obligation was first passed to me, it felt such an honour… the mysteries that were opened to me!… and I can honestly say that has never diminished with time." He stared into Church's face so deeply Church felt uncomfortable. "Is this the one?"
"It is," Tom replied.
"Yes. I can see it. In his eyes, always in the eyes. The one good man." He cupped Church's right hand in both of his. "May God go with you, my boy." Then he did the most curious thing: he dropped to his knee and gently kissed Church's hand.
Ruth, who had been watching the scenario intently, inexplicably grew angry. "What's going on here?" she snapped.
Church looked around puzzled. "That's a very good question."
"It's time, Jack." There was a strange cast to Tom's face that Church had not seen before, and it took him a second or two to realise what it was: Tom's features were unguarded; completely open.
Church was a little disturbed by this out-of-character intensity. "What do you mean?"
"Time to tell you something I've been keeping a secret ever since I've known you. A big secret."
Church thought of the Celtic dead talking of the traitor in their midst and his hand instinctively went to the sword.
Tom smiled and shook his head, as if he knew exactly what Church was thinking. "A big secret, Jack," he said softly. "So big you might not be able to take it all in. From the very beginning, this has all been about you, more than anything. You're on a journey to enlightenment. You think you've been doing one thing, but instead you've been doing this." He took a deep breath; there was a faint tremor in his voice. "You need to gain illumination for what lies ahead, to prepare you for the next step. The biggest step of all. There will be a long period of trial, but after that..
"So what are you saying? That he's some kind of Messiah?" Fury waiting to burst forth was buried in Ruth's voice.
"That's a particularly stupid way of putting it," Tom said sharply.
"But it's essentially true." There were tears in her eyes. What is she thinking? Church wondered.
Tom dismissed Ruth with a curt wave of his hand and turned to Church. "Jack, you have died and been reborn. You have the essence of the gods in your veins. You are the next step."
Church felt sick; his head was spinning and he couldn't breathe as the full weight of what Tom was saying finally crushed down on him.
"What you are about to embark on is the final stage of your transformation." Tom's words were droning like flies. "This is what the old alchemists were talking about. You, Jack. The transformation of lead into gold was a metaphor for what you are undergoing."
"This was all about nze?"
"The future of humanity, the rising and advancing of our race towards the next stage, depends on you. The prophecy has been with us since the earliest times. In Britain's Darkest Hour, a hero shall arise. You will arise, Jack. You will awaken the land, and through your tribulations you will make the next step of spiritual evolution that will lead humanity from the shadows to-"
"Godhood?"
"Perhaps. The Watchmen were established to help defend the land against incursions by the old gods, but they were also brought together to see this through. To find the one on whom the whole of the future rested, and to help shape him."
"I've been manipulated by the Tuatha De Danann, the Fomorii and now humanity?" Church felt like he was going to be sick. It was too much, both of comprehension and responsibility. And it was stupid! So many people had called him a hero, but he knew what he was like inside: flawed, unsure, conflicted. And now they were trying to thrust all of humanity's future on to his shoulders. Who could cope with that?
"Not manipulated. You had a choice every step of the way. You still have a choice. No one would blame you for turning away from this. But you need to know what rests on your decision."
"Am I going to change?"
"Physically? No, it's much more subtle than that-the great leaps forward always are, at the time. But inside, you will change, and you will wish that change in all humanity. It will move through people like a virus, altering their thought processes, making them look up from the gutters to the stars-"
"It's not fair!" The hurt in Ruth's voice was almost painful. "How can he turn away? Who could throw down that responsibility for selfish reasons?"
She was right. He tried to comfort her, but she was having none of it.
"We just wanted to be together, to appreciate what we've got now, to appreciate life, if we ever sort out this mess we're in. That was always the slim hope that kept us going, but now what you're saying means there's never going to be any rest! Not for Church, who deserves it the most. Not for me."
"Some things are more important-"
"Don't give me that!" Her eyes blazed, and away on the mainland a wind rushed wildly through the trees. Church stealthily signalled to Tom not to anger her further.
"We've all sacrificed so much! We deserve a break!"
He tried to take her in his arms, but she fended him off. "Ruth, it's okay-"
"It's not, Church. It's not okay, and it's never going to be okay. This is like some stupid, sad old story where the heroes go through hardship and end up sacrificing themselves so everybody else can have a good life. It's just not fair!"
Her tears were flowing freely now. She couldn't bear to look at any of them. She wandered away and faced the sea, her head bowed as if she had been struck.
"Why couldn't you tell me all this before?" Church said to Tom.
"You wouldn't have reacted the same way in your trials if you knew they were trials. All your achievements are wholly your own. Your choices were made by your own sense of goodness."
Church rubbed his eyes, overcome by what he had been told. "Baccharus told me the gods were afraid humanity would come up and take their place."
Tom rested a friendly hand on Church's shoulder. "They know. Thousands of years have led to this one point. Millions of variables falling into line. No coincidences, Church. Make no mistake, there are no coincidences. The gods may not have known you were the one, but they knew the whole game was coming to a head-"
"It isn't a game!" His voice broke.
"I'm sorry, that was the wrong word." As Tom shifted, the sun fell behind him so Church could not see his features in the dazzle of light. "But I knew you were the one, Church, from the very first moment I met you. As Michael said, you can see it in the eyes. I knew you were the one, good man."
The note of respect and friendship in his voice brought a swell of emotion in Church. He looked over to Ruth, frail against the rugged surroundings, and he felt both love and sadness at the same time. More than anything he wanted to spend the rest of his days with her, but the obligation was too much. He had no choice. He never had a choice from the moment he was born.
"Ruth."
She ignored him, wrapped her arms a little tighter around herself.
Standing behind her, he hesitated briefly before putting his hands on her waist. "Don't do this."
"Why not? You're going to do it."
"Of course I'm going to do it."
"That's typical of you. No doubt at all." Her voice trembled. "You're throwing us away."
"I'm not going to do that. You're more important to me than anything."
A long pause. "You never said that before."
"There are a lot of things I've not said. I'm not very good at expressing my emotions in words. But I do love you, Ruth."
Another pause, and then she turned slowly and rested her head on his shoulder. "This thing isn't like anything else. It's too big. Christ, the responsibility for leading humanity into the Promised Land!"
"You're mixing your Biblical stories."
She took a deep breath to regain her equilibrium, then cuffed him gently on the shoulder to break the mood. "They'll never let you back after this. It's like the Mafia. You're a Made Man. You don't get out alive."
"I believe things have a way of working themselves out."
"That's a very childish and naive view of existence."
"Sure. What's wrong with that?"
She hugged him tighter, her fingernails biting through his clothes.
"I'll do whatever it takes to make sure I'm with you when all this blows over."
"Cross mighty oceans?"
"Yes."
"Climb the highest mountain?"
"Yes."
"Travel the length of time and scour the universe?"
"Yes and yes."
"You're a lying git, but I love you too." He could feel her tears soaking through his T-shirt. She gave him another playful hit on the arm and then stepped back. "Go on with you, then. Just make sure you're back for lunch."
Tom was sighing loudly and shifting from foot to foot when Church returned to him. He made to speak, but Church silenced him with a jabbed finger. "Don't say a word."
Michael stepped in and motioned towards the chapel. "It's this way."
Church could feel the lines of force buzzing through the soles of his boots; he could have found his way to the destination blindfold.
Outside the chapel door, Michael paused. He looked both unsure and ecstatic. "This is it, then?"
Tom took Michael's hand and shook it firmly. "Well done. You've discharged your duty well. The long watch is over."
"Well, I don't quite know what I'll do with my time."
"Be patient. And pray to your God for success."
Tom slapped him on the shoulder to send him on his way back to Ruth before stepping into the chapel with Church at his heel. Inside it was cool and dark, filled with the ages-old smell of damp stone.
"What am I going to find?" Church asked.
"You'll know when you get there."
"You're a great bloody help, aren't you?"
The very air was charged with the earth energy; from the corner of his eye, Church could see blue sparks, like stardust.
"There are realities upon realities," Tom said. "You can't rely on anything you see, hear, smell, touch, taste. But that's always been the way. The only thing that matters is what's in here." He levelled his fist at Church's heart.
"Nothing is fixed in the Fixed Lands," Church said, repeating the words that had haunted his thoughts.
"Exactly. There are realities that may not be to your taste." He was looking at Church in such a strange way it was troubling; Church tried to make sense of the unease he saw behind Tom's eyes, but it wouldn't come; something else the Rhymer wasn't telling him. "Sour realities. Pinched and mean. Places where there are none of the values that make life worth living-friendship, love, honour and dignity. Where there is only power and greed and money. You don't have to accept them, Jack. Wish the world better. Everything is illusion. You just have to wish hard enough to shape it."
He looked as if he was about to hug Church, but he caught himself at the last. In the end he stepped aside and pointed to a small stone stairway not far from the altar.
"What's down there?"
"A tomb about nine foot square cut out of the rock. In 1275 the monks here came across the bones of a man eight feet tall. A giant."
"Who was he?"
"Not important."
"The place is important?"
He nodded.
"Are you coming with me?"
"No. This is something you have to do alone."
Church sighed, tried to force a smile but it wouldn't come. Without another word, he put his foot on the first step.
chapter fifteen
war is declared
and battle come down
lood thundered in Church's head as he made his way down the steps to the chill interior of the tomb. Trepidation filled every part of him, but it was tinged with relief that finally there would be some kind of revelation after so many mysteries.
Inside the bare tomb was a powerful sense of presence. Narrowing his eyes, Church allowed his deep perception to take over until the walls, floor and ceiling came alive with a vascular system of Blue Fire, interlocking at pulse points, drawing together at one section where the depth of blue glowed in the shape of a hand. He steeled himself, then placed his own palm down hard on the spot. There was an instant of hanging before the wall juddered apart to reveal a dark tunnel beyond. Church slipped through quickly and the rock closed behind him with a resounding clash.
The tunnel reminded him of so many others he had experienced in the dark, secret places beneath the earth, although he knew that description was not wholly correct. The Celts and the people who came before them understood perfectly the symbolism of the routes they had established; indeed, it was probably the main reason for their location. He was entering the womb, going back to the primal state.
After a few minutes, the tunnel opened on to a wide corridor filled with different coloured light filtering through a gently drifting mist; near the roof it was golden, near the ground the rich, sapphire tones of the Blue Fire, and in between were flickers of red and green and purple. The mist gave the place an ethereal quality that was deeply soothing. The air smelled like dry ice.
For a while he hovered anxiously, concerned that it was impossible to see what lay ahead. Knowing he had no choice, he strode out, feeling the unnatural sensation of feathers on his skin as he entered the mist. If it resembled the other secret places he had visited, somewhere ahead would lie a puzzle with a particularly lethal sting; if Tom's description of the place was correct, this one would be worst of all.
Within the mist, he lost all his bearing. After a while, a dark smudge appeared in the drifting white, quickly forming into a figure. The Sword was in Church's hand in an instant, electric against his skin. It was a man, dressed in the armour and white silk of a Knight Templar, the red cross on his chest glowing eerily. His face was drawn, his eyes hooded above a drooping white moustache. He rested on the long sword the Templars favoured.
Church waited for him to adopt a fighting posture, but the Knight simply motioned for Church to continue along the corridor. There was an air of deference about him, but his face was dark and threatening. Inexplicably, Church shuddered as he passed.
Further on, other figures emerged from the mist. These were Celts ready for battle, naked and tattooed, their hair matted, spiked and bleached with a lime mixture. They stood against the walls on either side, watching him with baleful eyes. Some broke away, loping past him in the direction from which he had come. Again he felt the same old mixture of wariness and reverence, but his fear of a sudden attack had started to wane.
As he progressed, representatives of the races that preceded the Celts floated in and out of the mist, but most of them were swallowed up again before he got good sight of them. At some point, a troubling noise had started up, so faint at first he hadn't noticed it, but it built until it was pulsing through the walls with steady, rhythmic bass notes that resonated in the pit of his stomach. It sounded like war drums, or the beating of an enormous heart.
And then, suddenly, the mist cleared and he was looking at something so incongruous it was at first hard to take: a large window, and beyond it people in modern dress stared back at him with hard, uncompromising expressions. Before he could see any more, the mist closed in once again. There had been something dismal and threatening about the scene, although he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. He hurried on and didn't look back.
Finally he was out of the mist. The corridor was even wider at this pointenough for ten men to lie across-but the most curious thing was that the floor was a mass of intricate patterns carved into the hard bedrock. There were the familiar spirals and cup holes he had seen at prehistoric sites during his days as a working archaeologist, but also the detailed interweaving designs of the Celts. The patterns of hundreds, if not thousands, of years were portrayed there.
The swirls and fine detail were almost hallucinogenic, but there was no time to waste examining the inconography. He put one foot on the edge of the pattern.
A spike burst from the ground, through the sole of his boot and into the leather uppers. A bolt of red agony filled his leg and he howled, wrenching his foot off the iron nail with a sickening sucking sound. The spike disappeared back into the design the moment he was free of it. Feeling sick from the shock and the pain, he crumpled down hard on the cold stone, tearing off his boot. The spike had torn the flesh off the insides of his big toe and his second toe, but luckily, had done no further damage.
As he laced the boot back up, he surveyed the floor pattern: a trap. The spikes were obviously buried along the length of the design: step on the correct place, you were fine; make the wrong move and you were impaled. The pattern stretched out in delirious confusion. How was he supposed to divine the path through it?
He retreated a few paces to see if the change in perspective offered any clues, then moved in close; it was a miasma. From a distance, it was a mess, meaningless; near to, the design hinted at great meaning, but none of it made any sense in any context he understood. Sighing, he sat back, trying to ignore the pain stabbing in his foot. He took comfort from the knowledge that all the previous puzzles they had encountered had been soluble if seen from the cultural or philosophical perspective of the Celts and the earlier people who had originated them. His university studies helped him a little in understanding their worldview, but he had never studied in depth the group that seventeenth-century romantics had designated a unique people. He knew the Celts were a fragmented collection of tribes, originally rising from a broad area centred on India, but common threads tied them together, of which their view of life and spirituality were probably the strongest.
He thought back over the previous puzzles and their odd mix of threat and spiritual instruction: the one at Tintagel, where sacrifice was the key, or the clues at Glastonbury that demanded Shavi, Ruth and Laura search for the "signal hidden in the noise," the truth buried in the confusion, a metaphor for life. There it was. Quickly, he crawled forward to the edge of the pattern. The Celtic design showed serpents-or, he thought excitedly, dragons-flowing in a spiral pattern that progressed from side to side along the floor. And the Spiral Path had been the Celtic metaphor for both the journey through life and a ritual procession that allowed access to the Otherworld, like the spiral path carved into the slopes of Glastonbury Tor.
Was that it? He had no way of knowing for sure until his foot was on the design, so in the end it came down to an act of faith; in himself and his own abilities.
He cracked his knuckles, then took a deep breath. It was time to embark on the Spiral Dance and move from this life to the next.
With the air leaden in his lungs, he stepped on to the stylised Celtic serpents. Every muscle hardened. When he realised nothing had happened, he relaxed a little, but the path was barely wider than a curb, a tightrope winding its way through a sea of danger. What happened if he slipped? A spike ripping through his sole, sprawling across the design, spikes punching into his body wherever he landed. With the blood thundering in his ears, he took his second step.
The path took him from wall to wall, forwards then backwards, in slow progress along the length of the corridor. Sweat soaked through his shirt, ran in rivulets into the nape of his back. His head hurt from staring at the tiny pattern in the half-light. Follow the serpent in the earth to enlightenment. As the ancient Celtic inventors had undoubtedly intended, his stark concentration brought a deep meditation on what he was undertaking; the metaphor of walking a thin path through constant danger did not escape him.
At one point, he paused briefly to rest his eyes. It was a mistake, for he instantly started wavering and almost pitched forward until he threw out both arms to steady himself. It only just did the trick, but it was enough of a scare to focus him even more sharply. He did one final spiral, more complex than any of the others, and then, abruptly, the design had gone and he was back on safe stone flags. He collapsed on to his back, sucking in soothing breaths.
He rested for only a moment before following the corridor once more. The Spiral Path had been some kind of transition, for within a few yards the corridor had been replaced by a wall of trees, their tops lost high up in the shadows. Church had long since forgone trying to apply logic to his experiences in such areas, but the sight was still oddly disturbing. The underground wood appeared healthy enough, with full-leafed oaks and ash and hawthorn, with bracken and brambles growing beneath them. An odd green luminescence filtered amongst the trunks, but Church could not identify its source; it was enough to illuminate the way ahead, and gave the impression of first light or twilight.
The density of the forest added to the deep foreboding that had crept up on him. Anything could be hiding amongst the foliage. As if to echo his suspicions, rustling broke out in the undergrowth. A second later, two rows of sheep emerged from the forest and passed him on either side. The ones on the left were white, the others black, both lines walking in perfect step. The bizarre sight became even more unnerving when one of the white sheep bleated, for then one of the black sheep wandered over to the white queue and immediately became white. The reverse happened when a black sheep bleated. Church looked round to see where they were going, but there were none behind him. When he peered back, the last few sheep emerged from the forest and were gone.
He was sure it meant something, but he had no idea what, and the image continued to haunt him as he began his journey in the quiet, green world.
The atmosphere amongst the trees was so ethereal it was difficult to shake the notion that he was dreaming. Odd sensations began to make their way through his body-a tingling in his legs, a feeling that his hands were no longer handsand a moment later the weightlessness that had crept up on him became palpable. It was not a hallucination, for he really was drifting a little way above the ground. He called out in surprise, only to be shocked that his voice sounded like the cry of a bird. His eyes were astonishingly sharp and his arms were wings, covered with thick, brown feathers. He was a hawk, flying up into the branches, and up and up.
There was no time to question his transformation, for he was immediately confronted by another hawk with blazing yellow eyes. "You are one with the birds of the trees," it said in an unsettlingly human voice.
It swooped down at him, talons raised in attack. Church panicked, losing all control of his form. The hawk raked claws across his back and a shower of brown feathers flew all around. He attempted to steer himself, crashed against a branch and went into a downward spiral.
The hawk didn't give up its attack, shrieking loudly as it bore down on him. Once more the talons tore through his back, and this time the pain almost made him lose consciousness. But he recovered slightly, and his mind was focused. He didn't fight against the messages that were coming from instinct, and after a slow start, where he only narrowly evaded another scarring, he found he could move swiftly amongst the trees.
He wasn't about to stand and fight-he didn't see the point of it-so he flew as swiftly as he could, before a weight pressed down hard on his shoulders and forced him to the ground. His wings gone, he hit the turf hard, tumbling athletically.
Barely able to catch his breath, he rolled to his feet, which were now grey paws. "You are one with the beasts of the field," a rough voice said. He looked round to see a large grey wolf away amongst the trees. It was watching him with the same hateful yellow eyes of the hawk.
It moved, but Church was quicker, loping through the trunks, leaping the clusters of vegetation, avoiding the pits and hollows with ease. As he ran, he moved further off the ground and his paws became hooves, while a sharp pain in his forehead signalled the sprouting of antlers like those Cernunnos sported.
The hoofbeats of his pursuer continued to thunder across the soft ground. And then Church was back on his own legs, and in his peripheral vision he could see his own hands; his lungs burned from the exertion. Church didn't know if he had truly transformed or if it had been a hallucination. He tried to look over his shoulder and awkwardly caught his foot in a root, stumbled, and slid down a slight incline.
What he saw made his blood run cold. There was no man behind him, as there had been a deer, a wolf and a hawk. At first it was a stark white glow, before he realised that what he was seeing was a pack of dogs, savage and alien, filled with their own brilliance.
He picked himself up and ran as fast as he could. The beasts' crazed howling made him sick with primal fear. They were not like the dogs of the Wild Hunt, which were fearsome enough, but were filled with an unbridled ferocity and, he was convinced, controlled by one mind. He risked another backwards glance and saw them bounding amongst the trees like spectres, there, then gone, moving on two flanks to capture him in a pincer movement.
He jumped a stream, almost skidding down the opposite bank, then hurdled a fallen log. The pack was relentless, and drawing closer; he would not be able to outrun them. Their howling became even more blood crazed as they sensed this.
He came out of the forest so fast he barely realised he had left the last of the trees behind him. The land fell away sharply, becoming hard rock again, and the roof had closed once more twenty feet above his head. In the distance he could make out a brilliant blue glow. Slipping on the rock, he tumbled, cracking his head hard, but he was up and running in one fluid movement, wiping the blood away that had started to puddle in his left eye.
He had hoped the pack would remain behind in the forest, but now their shrieks were echoing off the walls, growing more intense, more terrifying. If he looked back, he knew he would see them snapping only inches from his heels.
As he ran, he pulled out the Sword once more. Legend said it could kill anything with a single blow. Swinging it behind him without slowing his step, he felt it connect with two hard forms. A terrible howling rang up from the whole pack.
He carried on that way for a few minutes more, but his arm muscles were soon burning and his joints ached. There was no time for an alternate strategy: the path ahead of him ended abruptly at a cliff edge, and beyond was a lake of the Blue Fire, the energy rising up in coruscating bursts like the bubbling of lava.
A few feet from the edge he spun round, lashing out wildly with the sword, but the pack had already halted a few yards away. All the dogs were watching him with their sickly yellow eyes, their mouths open to reveal enormous, sharp fangs; drool ran out in rivulets to splatter on the rock where it gave a hot fat sizzle.
Breathless, he waved the Sword at them while attempting to look over his shoulder to see if there was some exit he had missed.
"There is no escape from here," the dogs said as one. "You have reached the Chapel Perilous. Your life is now over." They advanced a step in perfect, unnerving rhythm, like some drilled Roman legion.
"No," Church gasped. "It wouldn't end like this. There has to be a way out or there's no point to the trial." He looked all around quickly, but could see no exit. "I'm missing something."
"No escape," the dogs repeated. "This is your death. Behind you is the source of everything. One step and you will be swallowed up, eradicated. Here we stand, ready to tear you to pieces. To turn your meat to fibres and your bones to dust."
"I can fight," Church said.
"You can," the dogs said, "for you have already killed some of us. But do we seem any less to you?"
The pack appeared to go on forever. "Where there's life, there's hope," Church said.
The dogs advanced another step.
He wiped the blood away from his eye, his heart pounding. The Sword handle was slick with sweat.
The dogs moved four paces in rapid procession. He waved the Sword wildly. Only a couple of yards away now, the white of their coats was almost blinding. Their jaws moved in unison-click-their eyes rolled as one.
Perhaps this was the trial: to fight and fight and fight, until he was down to his last reserves. But against an enemy that could not be killed, or even weakened? What was the point in that? Sooner or later they would overwhelm him.
He gripped the Sword with both hands and adopted a fighting stance.
What was the meaning in that?
And then it came to him. It took only a second or two to weigh it up, and then he sheathed the Sword and spun round. The blue looked so inviting: relief after his long, arduous struggle. He closed his eyes and stepped off the cliff.
He expected burning, but there was no sensation at all for a long time, just a world of blue overwhelming everything. He also expected his consciousnesshis sense of self-to be broken up within seconds of contact, then dissipated amongst the blue waves, to be returned to the source, but that didn't happen either. He remained who he had always been, since the beginning of time.
When sensation began to return, it was fitful, and quite alien. He felt the beating of mighty wings coming from his own arms; he saw with crystal refracted vision through serpent eyes; he felt the blast of flames pass his lips, the stink of smoke in his nostrils.
"You are one," a voice from nowhere said.
He was looking at blue, but the shade was much softer. It took him a few seconds to accept the change in hue, and then a fluffy cloud drifted into his vision and he realised he was staring at the sky. He closed his eyes, smiling, enjoying the heat of the sun on his face.
Sitting up, he found himself lying on the causeway that joined St. Michael's Mount to the mainland. From the position of the sun, it must have been around noon; he had been gone barely any time at all.
Ruth's cry stirred him from memories of flying; reluctantly, he realised they were fading rapidly, but the sense of freedom didn't go. She came running along the causeway towards him, her hair lashing in the breeze. She grinned with relief and joy. He jumped up and took her in his arms, overjoyed that she was with him.
"I saw you from the top," she said. "How did you get here?"
"Look at that," he said, pointing over their heads.
A Fabulous Beast swooped on the air currents, the sun glinting brightly off its scales, reds and golds and greens. Church was overcome with a sense of wonder. The Beast was otherworldly and lithe and graceful as it gently circled the top of the Mount, but it was what it represented that truly affected him: a world where anything could happen, a world where the mundane had forever been stripped from life.
"It's the old one, from Avebury. The oldest of them all." Tom was at their side, craning his neck to peer beneath a shielding hand. "You've done it. It wouldn't have left its home if the Fiery Network hadn't been brought back to life."
"Then I really did it?" Church asked, barely believing. "I woke the sleeping land?"
"There are more of them," Ruth marvelled. "Loads of them."
Church counted ten, then gave up; they were coming from all directions to converge on the Mount. Some were smaller, some obviously younger, their colours slightly different, but they were all flying with abandon, rolling and gliding and looping the loop, so that there was an unmistakable feeling of joyous celebration.
"We did it," he said in awe.
That night they made camp on a hillside overlooking St. Michael's Mount. Tom had already located tents and sleeping bags before coming to meet them at Mousehole, and they lit a fire to keep out the autumnal chill that came down with the night. He had also found a bottle of whisky to drink to their success.
The cleric, Michael, had met them briefly after Church's return, but he was eager to get back to his parishioners to spread a message of hope. The deference he had shown Church had been almost embarrassing.
"How do you feel?" Ruth asked Church hesitantly, once Tom had gone off to build up their wood supply.
It was a question he had avoided, for he was almost afraid to examine himself. "Good," he said.
"Don't think you're going to get away with that. Do I have to kiss your hand every time I meet you? Are you going to walk on water for your party trick?"
He tapped his head. "Up here I feel pretty much the same as always. I mean, I think the same way. I'm definitely the me I always was, which is good because I had this feeling I'd turn out like a reformed smoker or Born-Again Christian, turned off by half the things I used to be in my old life."
Her smile showed relief; it was obvious she had felt the same way.
"But in here," he said, tapping his chest, "I feel amazing. I feel… I don't know, the best way to describe it is right. I feel at ease with everything. Positive. Confident." He thought hard. "I feel at peace."
She was looking at him with an expression that suggested she wished she felt that way too. She took his hand and gave it a squeeze.
"I expected it to be earth-shattering," he continued. "But it's so subtle. I don't feel like the man who's going to lead humanity to the next level. In fact, I cringe at the thought of it."
"Maybe that's the point. Maybe you were like a jigsaw with one piece missing. Now you've found it you can be the person you always might have been."
He shook his head, laughing quietly. "Now I know how I feel, I'm taking it all with a pinch of salt. Tom gets so wrapped up with these predictions and prophecies. They're all so vague they can mean virtually anything under any circumstance. Who knows? Maybe Veitch is the big saviour."
"But what does it mean? For us?" Her eyes shimmered brightly in the firelight.
"I'm carrying on with my life as it was. I'm not thinking about tomorrow. I'm not thinking about the big picture. I'm making the most of each minute and I'll deal with whatever's thrown at me, as and when it happens. And I'm doing it with you." He pulled her forward and kissed her tenderly.
They were interrupted by Tom's irritated muttering. "You've got time for all that spooning in the privacy of your tent," he said.
"You're only jealous because you're not getting any," Ruth replied.
The night was clear and bright and filled with a deep, abiding magic. The full moon brought silver tips to the waves, their gentle lapping a soothing symphony accompanied by the occasional breeze rustling the goldening leaves; the perfect soundtrack to Church's thoughts. Stars glistened everywhere they looked; they felt peaceful for the first time in months.
"It could be like this all over," Church said, his arm around Ruth, the two of them watching the light on the waves.
"And I thought I was the hippie," Tom said. "Don't start going soft. This is a little oasis. The real world is out there and it's thoroughly unpleasant."
"Can't we just enjoy the moment?" Ruth protested.
"You go right ahead." Tom prodded the fire with an annoyance that matched the sneer in his voice. "We'll just forget about all those bodies getting torn apart and eaten, all those lives being ruined, land being blasted, cities razed to the ground, rivers polluted. Oh, and while we're at it, let's forget the end of the world in just a few short days." He punctuated it with a tight smile.
"I didn't mean that." Ruth's eyes blazed. "But we can't do anything right here, right now, so do we have to continue flagellating ourselves? We've worked hard. We've achieved something… Church has achieved something. We should celebrate our victories."
"I simply wanted you to remember-"
"Of course I remember! I know what we're up against! And I know what our chances are, even with what Church has done today." Tom flinched. "Yes, I can see it in your face. Even if we win we aren't all going to make it through alive, right? So I just want to enjoy this quiet time with Church and my friend because it might be my last."
Tom shrugged. "Point taken." He gave a slight grin that punctured the mood.
For the next half hour, they did take it easy, enjoying their company with jokes and gossip while handing round the whisky. Even so, they found it impossible to bury the momentous events of the day and soon they were chatting animatedly once more about what had happened. Church couldn't bring himself to discuss what he had felt once he had given himself up to the Blue Fire-it had been too personal, a spiritually transcendent moment that would be devalued by being discussed. That infuriated Ruth, who was eager to understand.
"But I don't see what he did to bring the land alive," she said. "It wasn't as if he unblocked a channel or something."
"He gave it his life, his spirit, in honesty and openness, and the Blue Fire gave it back to him, but not before that vital surge had brought the whole of the system alive." Tom was lying on his back, watching the stars through his cloud of smoke. "It is fuelled by belief, and Church believed in a way that nobody had for centuries. Not just believed in the Fiery Network, but in himself, in humanity and the universe and hope, and childish things too, like dreams and wishing."
"So he's just one big battery."
"The only battery who could have done it."
"I don't get it," Ruth continued. "You talked about waking the land as if it were a big thing, but apart from the Fabulous Beasts we saw earlier, everything looks the same."
"Maybe you're not looking in the right place, or the right way. Maybe you're not feeling."
Ruth hurled some mild abuse at his patronising attitude. He sighed wearily and dragged himself to his feet. "Do you remember that night at Stonehenge when I gave you the first sign of the Blue Fire?" he said.
"No, I don't," Ruth said, "because I was fast asleep. You saved that demonstration for your favourite son here."
"Yes, I remember," Church said. "It was amazing. Like something I'd been looking for all my life."
"The power of Stonehenge made that easier," Tom said, "because it's a node in the network. Look around-do you see any standing stones in the vicinity?" They agreed that there weren't any.
They waited for him to continue, but all he did was smoke, and check his watch and the moon and stars, until they were convinced he'd slipped into a drugged stupor. Ruth shifted impatiently, made to speak, but Church placed a restraining hand on her forearm. She looked at him curiously; he put his finger to his lips.
After fifteen minutes, Tom said, "Now." He dropped to his haunches and placed one hand flat on the cool grass. "The time has to be right. The mood has to be right. Everything has to be right, and it's not been righter for centuries. You even need the right eyes for this-not everyone can see it-but you should be ready now. Watch carefully."
Around his hand, tiny sparks began to fly. They had a life of their own, dancing and jumping into the grass, surging towards the nearby trees. Other strands ran to Church and Ruth, infiltrating them with a prickly thrill; they both felt a sudden surge of euphoria.
"It's in everything," Ruth gasped.
"You think that's good." Tom smiled. "Watch this."
The ground erupted with Blue Fire. It shot out in lines across the land, towards the sea and under the waves, intersecting at regular points where tiny flares burned. And then it suddenly burst upwards in a tremendous, breathtaking rush, hundreds of feet high, a dazzling cathedral of lights like the one Church had seen at Stonehenge. A paler blue light shimmered between the connecting strands, turning opaque, then clear, like protective walls. Only this cathedral was not the only one. An even bigger structure covered St. Michael's Mount; and there were more beyond, stretching right across the land. It was dazzling in its potency. Caught up in the sheer wonder of it, there was no doubt the whole of the land had become infused with the vital force.
"How did you do that?" Ruth gasped.
"Sometimes when things fall into alignment it becomes more active. I simply helped you to see it."
"This is why the ancients put up the stone circles," Ruth said in awe.
"And the standing stones and cairns and other places of sacred power." Tom was now sitting cross-legged on the grass, watching the display with a beatific smile. "To channel it, to help it to live, and to reap the benefits it provides."
"It heals," Ruth said.
"It heals the body, certainly. But more importantly, it heals the spirit."
"I want to feel that." Ruth looked from Tom to Church. "You've both had experience of it. It's changed you both, I can see. I need to feel it."
"There'll be time," Tom said.
"Will there?" Ruth replied. The note in her voice infected them all, and gradually the astonishing display faded.
Church put his arm tightly around her shoulders. "But it's worth fighting for, isn't it?"
Veitch and Shavi escaped from the farmhouse, but only with a helping of guile and a good serving of luck. They kept to the hedgerows, hiding in ditches at the slightest sound, barely moving, barely breathing.
The Fomorii were out in force, scurrying along the roads all around the farm. Veitch and Shavi were in no doubt the Night Walkers still considered them a threat. At times when the beasts drew a little too close, Shavi used his shamanic abilities to direct various field animals to cause a distraction so they could escape. Since his return from the Grim Lands, he was even more adept at the things at which he had previously excelled.
Eventually they were faced with open countryside; as dawn began to break they were moving as fast as they could towards the west.
Over the following days, they kept as far away from any roads or centres of population as possible. They slept in trees or ditches, wrapped in dustbin bags and other items of rubbish, like two tramps. Sometimes they found a hollow where they could light a fire without being seen. Veitch cooked rabbits or birds, while Shavi satisfied himself with any autumnal berries and fruits or roots that he could scavenge.
On a day that began cold and overcast with light drizzle sweeping across the countryside in gusts, they made their way over fields towards the rendezvous point. Ahead lay a rise where they expected a good vista over the rolling valleys that led down to the Thames; the outer reaches of the London sprawl was not far away.
When they came close to the ridge, they dropped to their bellies and wriggled up the remaining few yards, their clothes already sodden and thick with mud. Peeking over the summit so they would not be silhouetted against the skyline, they witnessed a sight that made their blood run cold.
London lay beneath a thick bank of seething clouds that formed no part of the surrounding weather system. Occasional bursts of lightning punctured the oppressive gloom so they could see that, somewhere in the centre of the capital, a large black tower had been raised up. It was still incomplete, and the edges were indistinct, as if roughly constructed. It reminded Shavi of pictures he had seen of enormous termites' nests in the African veldt. Ruth had spoken of a similar tower she had seen in the Lake District, constructed from the detritus of humanity: abandoned cars, plastics, bricks and girders, old washing machines, anything that could be reclaimed and stacked. And all across the city, fires blazed, sending up thick gouts of greasy smoke to join the lowering clouds.
There were things buzzing the tower with the insistent, awkward motion of flies. The distance was too great to tell exactly what they were, but there were clouds of them, black and threatening. And from the periphery of the city, across the surrounding countryside, swarmed what at first glance appeared to be ants. The Fomorii scurried back and forth, thousands upon thousands of them, sweeping out in wider and wider arcs as they spread across the country. Their movement looked chaotic and meaningless, but that only masked the complexity of regimented actions designed to scour and destroy. It was a scene from Hell.
Veitch watched the panorama for long minutes, his face heavy with hatred and repressed anger. "How the fuck are we going to fight something like that?" he said in a cold, dead voice.
In the shadow of the M25, Laura and the Bone Inspector sheltered amongst a tangled maze of wrecked and abandoned cars. Through gaps in the vehicles they could make out waves of Fomorii fanning out across the Essex fields.
"We don't stand a chance," Laura whispered. "They're everywhere." She still felt sick from the shock of losing her arm. Pressure was building deep in her shoulder, as if her blood was about to gush out of the gaping socket, despite the stained shirt she had pressed against the wound; she still couldn't understand why she hadn't bled out.
"They're searching for us." The dismal note in the Bone Inspector's voice told her he agreed with her assessment. Their luck had run out.
"What do we do? Stay here?"
"Nowhere to run. They're all around now." He tapped a syncopated rhythm with his staff.
Laura rubbed at her shoulder joint; the pressure was growing unbearable.
"We can't stay-
Her words were drowned out by the sudden rending of metal. Cars flew on either side, as if they were made of paper. Laura flung herself backwards in shock. The Bone Inspector raised his staff in defence, his face drained of blood. Eight or nine Fomorii ploughed through the vehicles with ease, tossing aside what they could move, rending apart what they could not.
Laura thought: Shit. What a way to go.
The noise of crashing metal was so loud neither of them heard the hunting horn, and so they were surprised when the first of the Fomorii dissolved in a thin, black rain. To Laura, the world appeared fractured: frozen frames, sudden temporal jumps. The Fomorii were turning as one. Red and white dogs leaped through the air, their teeth tiny yet so very sharp. Spears tipped with cruel sickles sliced into the Night Walkers, the beasts falling apart at the slightest touch. Drifting through the grey rain were men on horseback, swathed in furs and armour, their eyes hidden by shadows.
In less than two minutes the Fomorii were gone, their remains steaming amongst the shattered cars. The Wild Hunt reined in their horses and cantered around the area as the one of their number with the most fearsome face dismounted. As he walked towards Laura he began to change; antlers sprouted from his forehead, fur and leaves intermingled across his body. Cernunnos passed the Bone Inspector as if he were not there and dropped to his haunches before Laura, his wide-set, golden eyes calm and soothing.
"Daughter of the Green, I greet you."
"I thought you only came out at night in that last form," Laura gasped, not really knowing what to say.
"The world has changed. Many rules are falling like autumn leaves." Then he did turn to the Bone Inspector. "Guardian, you have moved beyond the bounds of your calling on this occasion. You sought this one out at great personal danger, and you have protected her to the best of your abilities. I look kindly on you. A reward will come your way."
The Bone Inspector bowed his head slightly. "I seek no reward."
"Nonetheless, it shall be yours." Returning his attention to Laura, he trailed his long, gnarled fingers gently through her hair. "Frail creature. Fragile creature, yet filled with wonder."
Laura lost herself in the swirling gold in his eyes. He held her gaze for a moment, then rose. "Come, this place is corrupted. We must find safe haven."
All Laura could remember of the journey from her seat on Cernunnos's horsealthough he wore the hideous form of the Erl-King as he rode-was a blur of green fields and grey road. They came to a halt in no time at all on the fringes of Brentwood, where the Essex countryside still rolled out peacefully.
In a thickly wooded swathe of the South Weald country park, the Hunt dismounted and let their horses wander amongst the trees. The Erl-King became Cernunnos once more and led Laura off to a quiet area where he could talk to her privately.
"What's going on?" she said weakly as she lay against the foot of an enormous oak.
"Events move faster as they rush towards the point of greatest change. You are caught up in the flow, Sister of Dragons, as you were from the moment existence came calling for you. This is your time, your destiny."
"What use am I going to be?" The pressure in her shoulder made her stomach turn. "My arm-"
"Remove the rag."
Laura hesitated, afraid to see the tangled parts that remained after her arm had been torn off. He urged her once more, gently. She dropped the stained shirt and looked away. The pressure in her shoulder grew unbearable and she was forced to ram her fist into her mouth to stop herself screaming. But within a moment the pressure had broken, to be replaced by another disturbing sensation: it felt like everything inside her was rushing out of her shoulder. It was impossible not to look.
What she saw made her mind warp. The dangling tendons and skin were moving of their own accord. Before her eyes, cells multiplied and grew into long tendrils that twisted and knotted, then fused, became bone and muscle and gristle. The stump of an upper arm protruded from her shoulder. The process grew faster, reminding her of time-lapse film of sprouting plants. The tendrils lashed so quickly her face was buffeted by the air currents they made. An elbow formed perfectly. A forearm and wrist. The palm came together in a blur, and finally the fingers, the nails added with a flourish.
She couldn't take her eyes off it. Slowly, she turned it over, examining it from every angle. It was her arm; she knew the patterns of light and shade from the muscle structure beneath the skin. Her stomach flipped and she thought she was going to be sick, but as she brought her hand to her mouth she noticed the circle of interlocking leaves Cernunnos had branded into her flesh on the eerie island in Loch Maree. "The green blood, green skin… What did you do to me?" Thoughts trampled through her head. Her hands went to her stomach. "I didn't imagine it. I was ripped open when that thing came out of me. And I. Mended myself?"
Cernunnos made a strange growling noise deep in his throat that was almost sympathetic. "You are a Daughter of the Green. Within you is the potency of nature in all its fury and wonder."
"What did you do to me?"
"Your old form had reached the end of its days-"
"You killed me?" Her mind was reeling.
"There is no life or death. All things have no beginning and no end. For the immutable laws, you only have to look around you. Seasons turn. Things fall into the earth, then rise again. New forms are made, but the essence remains the same. The rules have always been laid bare for your kind to see, but in recent times you have been blinded by arrogance. You saw yourselves as special. You thought that, for you, with death there came an ending when everything around you told you otherwise. It trapped you in your forms, made you truly into frail, fragile creatures. It prevented you reaching out to existence or utilising the greatness that lies within you."
She examined her arm once more, not sure if she should feel horror or wonder. "I can grow bits of myself? Like a plant?"
"This gift is not given lightly, Sister of Dragons. You are of my essence now. You are part of the greatness of nature, you are a vibrant branch of my bountiful family."
Laura nodded; slowly it was starting to feel right. If Cernunnos hadn't changed her she would have died when Balor had been reborn into the world. But more than that, she felt something indefinable yet all-consuming, as if she had finally come to a place she was always meant to be.
"All things are open to you now, Sister of Dragons, Daughter of the Green," Cernunnos continued. "The sunlit uplands stretch before you. All is possible."
"Why me? There were others, Shavi-"
"Your heart was given to the green long ago."
He was right: in childhood, she had always been drawn to nature; as an adult, she had devoted herself to environmental activism. It had always been the most important thing in the world to her. "Ruth got the same mark from you, but she didn't get the same treatment."
"As my daughters, you each have roles to fulfil. She echoes a different aspect of my essence. The force that cannot be stopped."
"She's the sledgehammer, I'm the stiletto." She felt uncomfortable using weapons as a metaphor for abilities that were so life affirming.
"Yet there is danger for her. The gift I have given her is great. It fills her being, shifts the balance of her day and nightside. She must learn to encompass it or it will consume her." Cernunnos began to roam around her, tearing at the turf with his hooves.
"Will she be okay?"
He remained silent for a little too long. "The greatest danger lies at the place where all things converge. If her will fails her, the power will drive her down darker lanes."
Laura subconsciously flexed her new fingers. "The power's eating her up. She's losing control." She felt a pang of worry for the woman she had disliked for so long. "Can't you do something?"
"It is her gift. To intervene would make it worthless."
Laura ground her teeth; the shock of losing then regaining her arm had ebbed and she was overcome once more with urgency. "I need to get back to the others. Time's running out." She stood up shakily. "So Ruth gets all the bigshot powers. I'm just indestructible."
"You can do more. Much more. Let me show you." He smiled and held out his hand.
Church and Ruth had been intrigued by Tom's account of how he had used the lines of Blue Fire to travel vast distances, and were eager to utilise it to get closer to the rendezvous point. He refused flatly, emphasising the many dangers.
"It's not like catching a train, you know. Whatever you might think, the chance of getting lost in it is high. You need skills taught over the course of a lifetime to follow the channels and flow. I could look after one of you, but two… that's too many. Imagine diving into a white water river gushing through a ravine over rapids-that is what it is like. If it is a life or death matter, I will attempt it. But after coming so far, we can't afford to throw it all away by losing one of you. Time is short, but in my opinion the best option is to take the horses and ride them hard."
Reluctantly, they agreed, and within minutes of sunrise they were riding fast across the rugged Cornish landscape. They picked up the A30, eventually following the route on which Ruth, Laura and Shavi had been pursued by the Wild Hunt, crossing the M5 to bypass Bristol, where they joined the M4. It was still eerie to see the motorway devoid of cars. Already thick weeds and long grass had sprouted in the central reservation, and birds strutted defiantly across the lanes. At one point they disturbed rabbits gambolling lazily in the fast lane, enjoying their freedom from the tyranny of humanity.
They ransacked the motorway services for any food that had not spoiled, giving the horses water and rest, taking the opportunity to doze in the dry air of the cafeterias. But the closer they got to London, the more the atmosphere became depressive, the more they felt an unpleasant anxiety building in the pit of their stomachs. The skies were darker, filled with charred matter blowing in the wind. The stink of burning was everywhere. Their instincts told them to turn back to seek out the green fields and sunlit lands of the West Country, but they forced themselves to keep on.
With only two days to Samhain, they finally parted company just past Reading, with Tom heading on to find Veitch and Shavi, while Ruth and Church continued to the camp of the Tuatha De Danann. Although none of them gave voice to it, they all dreaded what the coming days would bring.
chapter sixteen
semper fidelis
wilight was already heavy on the land when Church and Ruth wearily crested a ridge above the rendezvous point. What they saw made them rein in their horses in astonishment. After the long grey shadows, they were confronted by a sea of light filled with the noise of activity and a complex range of smells. Spread out before them was what appeared to be a mediaeval tent city, but it covered vast acres. Campfires showered columns of sparks amongst the billowing tents, some small, others of marquee size, while torches flickered with yellow-white light, marking paths and meeting areas. The air was fragrant with incense, spices and perfume, but there was also the powerful musk of horses and the aromas of cooking food. The hauntingly seductive music of the Tuatha De Danann rose from numerous quarters, but instead of conflicting, it came together in a symphony that made their spirits soar. For a while they were entranced by the gods walking, talking, preparing weapons, making merry.
"I don't remember this many on the ship," Ruth said.
"They must have been joined by some of the other Courts." Church tried not to be engulfed by the wonder of what he saw, but it was impossible. Whatever he might think of the gods, they were a source of remarkable magic.
They urged their exhausted mounts slowly down the slope, but they hadn't gone far when they heard a sound like wind in a mountain pass. A second later there was movement all around. Figures barely more than ghosts separated from the dark landscape to form a barrier between them and the camp. They were lower-born Golden Ones, in strange shimmering armour offset by red and white silk, with helmets that looked like enormous seashells.
"Fragile Creatures," one of them said to the others.
"We are a Brother and Sister of Dragons," Church pronounced. "We are here at the behest of the First Family."
There was sudden activity beyond the ranks. The guards fell roughly aside as another god strode through. From the more intricate designs of his armour, he looked to be of higher rank, but he had a cold, cruel face that Church instantly disliked. When he laid eyes on Church and Ruth, he gave a dark, cun- ping smile and did a bow that could easily have been mockery. "Greetings, Brother and Sister of Dragons. Your reputation precedes you. I am Melliflor, of the Court of the Yearning Heart. I welcome you to this place, though it lacks the charms of our home." He stepped aside and motioned to a path that had opened up between the guards. "Come, let me take you to my Queen. She will be eager to learn the latest from the world of Fragile Creatures. You will be able to rest and eat and drink your fill-"
"Hold, Melliflor." The voice was stern and a little threatening.
The guards moved to one side as another group marched up, their silver armour bearing designs based on an avian motif. Their leader's face gave nothing away, but it had none of the unpleasant qualities of his opposite number.
"Greetings, Gaelen. I was about to lead these two weary travellers to partake of the hospitality for which the Golden Ones are famed."
Gaelen barely looked at Melliflor. "I think the Brother and Sister of Dragons would rather be spared the hospitality of your Queen."
Melliflor bristled. "Step carefully, Gaelen. My Queen would not-"
"I have orders to take these two directly to the Lady Niamh. That is the desire of the First Family."
Melliflor appeared to consider challenging this, but eventually backed down. He gave another dislikeable smile to Church and Ruth and bowed once more. "Another time, then. I hope you do not regret missing the comforts on offer, nor the information my Queen could have imparted." He turned on his heel and marched away, with his guards trooping behind.
Gaelen nodded curtly before leading Church and Ruth slowly to the camp. They dismounted on the outskirts where one of the guards led their horses away for food and watering.
Within the camp their perceptions became increasingly distorted. They felt like they were drifting through a dream where everything was fluid, strong enough for them to wonder if they would remember any of it once they left. Their senses were stifled beneath the constant assault of sounds, smells and sights. As they passed, eyes turned towards them, some filled with contempt, others accompanied by a smile of greeting. They saw no one they recognised. Many of the gods were of the lower caste, but on two occasions they caught sight of burning golden lights unable to stay in one shape.
Gaelen halted at a large purple tent made of a heavy material that resembled velvet. Over it fluttered a flag showing two dragons, red and white, either in embrace or fighting. The god pulled aside the flap and bid them enter.
The inside was cosy with sumptuous cushions scattered on a richly par terned carpet. Lanterns hung from poles at intervals around the perimeter, but the flames were turned down so the light was soft and hazy. Baccharus slumped in a low chair, his legs stretched out before him, drinking from a wooden flagon studded with four rubies. He lifted it in greeting, but didn't rise.
Niamh stood next to a trestle table in the centre of the tent, poring over a large map that had previously been rolled around large brass spindles. She hurried over to Church, smiling broadly. She made to embrace him, but when she saw Ruth, her face lost its sheen and she turned away sadly.
"You completed your mission, then, Brother?" Baccharus said.
"I did," Church replied. "The land is alive again. That should at least give us something for the fight."
Baccharus sipped from his flagon. "We can feel it. It is a powerful defence. Even my kind fear the force of the Blue Fire."
Church and Ruth flopped wearily on the cushions while Niamh sent out for food and drink, "all given freely and without obligation," a statement that told Church this was a Court of the Tuatha De Danann in all but location.
"You've already agreed a plan?" Church asked as he ate his fill of fruit and bread.
"The Golden Ones you know as Lugh and Nuada have overseen the battle planning," Niamh said. "The Night Walkers are well established in their den and it will not be easy to unseat them. The dark ones are a foul infestation. They swarm everywhere. But a direct assault on several fronts should weaken them. We come from the North and the West. The Master will lead Wave Sweeper along the river to split their force in two."
"What about us?"
Perhaps it was a trick of the flickering lanterns, but she suddenly looked deeply sad. "Though some of my kind refuse to admit it, you are the key to defeating the Heart of Shadows. You must find a way into its lair and use the Quadrillax to wipe it from existence." She turned away, pretending to unfurl another map.
Ruth's hand fumbled for Church's and gave it a squeeze. "We'll do our part," she said.
Baccharus and Niamh left them alone to eat and doze in the warm atmosphere, but they were too tense to get much rest. Four hours later, the tent flaps were roughly thrown aside. Church automatically jumped to his feet, his hand on the Sword hilt, but he was almost bowled over by a large figure that crossed the tent in seconds and threw its arms around him tightly.
"Ey, you bastard!" Veitch lifted Church off the ground and hugged him until he felt his ribs were about to crack. "I thought you'd have done a runner by now."
"You can't get rid of me that easy." He clapped Veitch on the shoulder, more pleased to see him than he would have believed.
Shavi slipped in behind, smiling quietly, and then Tom, looking tired and irritable. Veitch turned and waved the stump of his wrist at Shavi and Ruth. "Beat you both, as bleedin' usual."
Ruth stared in horror for a while, then followed his gaze down to where the finger was missing on her hand, and over to Shavi who sported the same gap. They all burst out laughing together.
But then Veitch could control himself no longer. He marched over to pull Ruth to him tightly, burying his face in her hair to hide the emotion that rushed through him. After a few seconds, he pulled back to kiss her gently on the head. Ruth went rigid in the face of his show of feeling, knowing it wasn't the time to tell him about Church, unsure what to do, but Veitch didn't appear to notice her reticence. She flashed a glance at Church, who gave one quick shake of his head.
Veitch smiled with a mixture of affection and embarrassment. "Sorry about that." His eyes were fixed on hers, wide and childlike; there was a flush to his cheeks. "I've missed you."
Ruth smiled back awkwardly, but said nothing. The moment was deflated by Shavi who hugged Church and Ruth in turn, his emotions also close to the surface. "It feels good to be together again," he said quietly. "Now all we need is Laura."
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Church said, "She's dead."
"No, she's not," Veitch said, puzzled. "Shavi was the only one who was dead."
They looked from one to the other blankly.
It was hard for any of them to believe they were back together again. Each of them felt, at times, overwhelmed; and then they would simply sit and listen to the others talking, enjoying the motion of faces, the animation of limbs, the energy crackling amongst them. Elation overwhelmed them all, completely wiping out any thought of what the morning might bring. There was drinking and raucousness, jokes that made light of their hardships, and the warm glow of old friends brought together again.
Veitch held up a flagon marked with a design of a Fabulous Beast. "You seen this?"
"Isn't that the one with the pellet with the poison?" Church laughed, but Veitch completely missed the reference.
"No, no," Shavi said, grinning, "that is in the chalice with the palace. That one is the brew that is true."
"You lot haven't bleedin' changed," Veitch muttered.
Veitch was mesmerised by every movement Ruth made, as if he could barely believe she was there before him. Part of Ruth felt uncomfortable at the depth of emotion she sensed, yet she was excited by it too. That conflict made her uneasy. She knew she loved Church, so why was she responding to the attentions of someone else, in particular a man with whom she had so little in common?
When the conversation became a heated debate about Laura she was thankful for the opportunity to distract herself from her thoughts. Neither she nor Church could believe Laura was still alive; Tom and Veitch were adamant she was. It was left to Shavi to argue that they now lived in a world where anything could happen.
The conversation moved on. Ruth tried to stay out of the limelight, but Veitch brought her in at every opportunity, rapt at the tales she told.
"You hung on the outside of a ship in a storm? You're a crazy girl!"
"At least I didn't manage to lose a hand," she said wryly.
"Maybe we should get ourselves a little Amputation Club going." Veitch chortled; he was drinking too much, too fast. Beneath his upbeat exterior, they all could see the strain the loss of his hand had brought in him.
"That'd exclude me," Church said, "so in defence I'm proposing the Born Again Club."
Veitch furrowed his brow. "What's that, then?"
"Well, I died and came back." He nodded to Shavi. "So did you. And Ruth did, fleetingly, just before Laura took the seed of Balor from her."
Veitch snorted. "You're not counting me out, you tosser."
"Do not worry, Ryan," Shavi joked, "there is plenty of time for you to meet your maker and come back down to earth."
"Right. And I'll do it in style. With a choir of bleedin' angels!"
Tom muttered something indecipherable, but patently irritable. Veitch swore at him playfully, laughed when Tom bit, then broke open another amphora of wine.
"You know, I miss technology less than I thought," Ruth said, lounging back on one of the enormous cushions. "But one thing I could do with now is a CD player, or a tape deck… anything that gives music." She eyed Church with faux contempt. "As long as I don't have to listen to any Sinatra."
He laughed. "Shame. I could come up with a good soundtrack for all this." He thought for a moment. "How about `That Old Black Magic' from Come Swing with Me! followed by `It's Nice to Go Trav'ling-
Ruth covered her face.
"No, no, something soulful. Spiritual," Shavi said. "Curtis Mayfield. Perhaps Van Morrison-"
"Geezer music," Veitch said. "I never thought I'd say this, but I wish Laura was here. She might have been a pain in the arse most of the time, but musically she kept you music fans in your pen."
Shavi looked towards the tent flap. "I still expect her to walk in at any moment."
An outcry outside brought them all to their feet. They rushed out into the cold night to see the Tuatha De Danann in a state of excitement around one of the campfires.
Church grabbed one of the gods by the shoulder. "What's going on?"
The god was shocked that he had been accosted by a Fragile Creature, but he appeared aware of Church's reputation. "The Norta has been seen! And her sisters too!"
"What's that?"
The god struggled for the right words in his excitement. "The one your people called the Morrigan."
A hand fell on Church's shoulder and he turned to face Baccharus, equally animated. "A great portent, my friend. The Morrigan is one of our own, but she prefers her own company, or that of her sisters, Macha, Badb and Nemain. They have not been seen by the Golden Ones since the first days after the pact. But they are drawn to war… and… and bloodshed… and…"-he attempted to speak in a manner Church could understand, but he struggled with a word that was still alien to him-"death. The Dark Sisters are fearsome, both in what they represent and in their prowess. The Morrigan and her clan helped us win both battles of Magh Tuireadh. Undoubtedly, her appearance is a good omen."
"Where is she?" Church scanned the campsite, eager to see a figure of such reputation.
"The Dark Sisters will not come into the light." Baccharus raised his head to the gleaming moon. "Macha, Badb and Nemain were seen circling the camp earlier. They wore the armour of war."
"And the Morrigan?"
"There is a stream nearby. In it she was seen washing the heads of those who are to die in the forthcoming battle. The Morrigan keeps count of those who move from existence."
Church flashed back to a cold February night before he had any inkling of the terrible change that had come over the world. It was the Morrigan he had seen washing his own head in the Thames. His throat closed up when he thought how she had turned and looked at him, with a face that appeared like death itself. But another worry crept up on him: was that portent referring to his previous death on Skye or was she revealing what lay in store for him in the Battle of London?
"Tell me," he said, "did your people see the heads?"
Baccharus knew exactly what he was asking. "I cannot lie. There were Fragile Creatures."
Church's blood ran cold. "Who was it?"
"No!" Tom strode over, his face cold and hard. "Do not tell him! It would not help for anyone to know they are going to die. Hope is the engine of success."
Church studied his face carefully. Tom didn't meet his eyes. "You know who's going to die, don't you? You've always known."
Tom fixed an eye on Church that made his stomach turn. "Yes. Pity me for it." He turned and marched away without another word.
Church felt sick. He looked round at the others, who were talking to another of the Tuatha De Danann; none of them had heard the exchange. In that instant he understood exactly what Tom was going through. He couldn't tell them one of them was destined to die; it was a burden he would have to carry himself.
The sadness came up quicker and harder than he anticipated as he watched the people who had become his best friends over the last few months. He couldn't imagine being without any of them, even though that had been a constant from the moment they had banded together. Unbidden, his thoughts turned to which of them he would miss the least, and that made him feel even worse.
Dismally, he turned back to Baccharus, who deftly changed the conversation. "True Thomas is a good man. Do not blame him for being the bearer of bad news."
"We never got on at the start. I thought he was manipulating us. That he was cold and patronising and arrogant. I wish I'd been better to him."
"True Thomas has accepted his responsibility. He does not expect anything from you."
"That makes it even worse."
A whistling like an incoming missile passed overhead. Church looked up to see the terrifying form of a woman pass by, her hair as wild as winter, her black clothes streaming off her in rags, her mouth torn wide as she made the anguished noise. He shivered as her shadow passed over him.
"Badb, Queen of Crows," Baccharus said.
"I'm glad she's on our side."
He watched the other figures moving across the sky for a while, but the night was too cold to stay for long. Returning to the warmth of the tent, he found the others already in deep conversation, though Tom was nowhere to be seen. Their faces showed the mood had darkened.
"We were talking about the traitor," Ruth said as he entered.
"I don't want suspicion causing any rifts at this critical stage."
"Yeah, but we've got to be on our guard." Veitch was repeatedly unwrapping, then rewrapping the cloth around the stump of his wrist. Church knew his mind was working through numerous strategies, dismissing some, rethinking others. He was still drunk, but he was now brooding, and it was easier to see the anger that always lay just beneath the surface. "We've come through all this shit together, trusted each other. If I found out one of us had been playing the others just to sell them out, I'd kill them."
"Ryan!" Ruth said.
"I find it hard to believe one of us could be a traitor." Shavi looked around them, as honest and open as always. "We come from different backgrounds. We are all different people, with nothing, superficially, in common. Yet we have seen into each other's souls. We are good people, all of us, at heart. I trust my instinct implicitly. I cannot see anything in any of us that suggests betrayal."
"Exactly." Church sat down close to Ruth, then became aware of Veitch watching him curiously. He shuffled away an inch or two. "I can't pretend it hasn't bothered me, but we all know how much the dead love to twist things. Who knows what they really meant?"
Veitch took a knife and diced an apple into four quarters. "I'm still going to be watching my back."
The conversation drifted to lighter subjects, but they never caught the uplifting mood of celebration again. Just after one a.m., when the sounds of revelry from the camp had died down, the growing quiet was disturbed by the distant blast of a horn. It was barely audible, but it brought a chill to them all. A second or two later it sounded again, much closer to hand, followed by the fearsome baying of hounds.
"The Wild Hunt," Shavi said.
Ruth fingered the mark that had been imprinted on her hand. "Cernunnos is joining us. That's good news."
"Right. He's obviously on the side of us Fragile Creatures." Even so, Church couldn't shake the fear he felt at the god's Erl-King aspect. He would never forget how the Hunt had torn through the revellers leaving the pub on Dartmoor: so brutal, yet cold, like a force of nature.
They fell silent with their thoughts until they heard the sound of two pairs of footsteps approaching the tent. They waited for the flaps to be thrown back, but the visitors slipped in quietly. The tall one at the rear was the Bone Inspector, his greying hair matted with grease and filth hanging loosely around his shoulders. His cheesecloth shirt was covered with green stains.
The shorter one at the front wore a cloak with a hood pulled over her head, but Church immediately knew who it was. His stomach flipped; a shiver ran up his spine. "Laura." The word was barely more than an exhalation.
She threw back her hood with her typical flair for the dramatic. They were shocked to see Veitch was right about the tinge to her skin, but that the scars Callow had inflicted on her face were mysteriously missing shocked them more. "Church-dude. You look like you've seen a ghost. Instead of just the walking dead." She looked round at the others, who were rapt. "Well, that's the kind of wild reception I always expected from this little group."
Church jumped up, looking deeply into her eyes for a long moment, before putting his arms around her. She smelled of spring leaves and summer flowers. He didn't know what to say, so he led her to a space and sat her down.
Ruth leaned across the circle. "I want to thank you-"
"Don't. We've all made sacrifices. That's what we do." She nodded to the Bone Inspector. "He's the one you should thank. If not for him I wouldn't be here for all that mystical five symbolism baloney you need to do the big job."
"Somebody had to do it," the Bone Inspector said grumpily. He shifted around, uncomfortable with the attention. "Where's the Rhymer? I need to sort something out with him."
When they said they didn't know, he left in a bad temper to scour the camp. Their attention turned back to all the confusing emotions Laura's reappearance had raised.
"We were just saying we could not believe you were truly dead," Shavi said with a smile, reaching out to take her hand. She smiled back, sweetly, without a trace of the bitterness that had always characterised her.
"Don't get me wrong, hon. I did die. And now I'm back, the same, only different."
Another one, Church thought. What does it all mean?
"But how did you survive?" Ruth was pale and troubled. "I had Balor in me. I know what it felt like, what would have happened when it came out."
Laura lifted up her over-sized T-shirt to reveal a rapidly fading jagged white scar, running from her belly to her sternum. "Something like this?"
Ruth couldn't help gasping. "That would have killed you!"
"It would have if I wasn't already dead. This is the key." She showed the back of her right hand where she sported the mark of Cernunnos, the circle of interlocking leaves. "You know how screwed up I got about all the changes taking place in my body… the green blood that had a life of its own? It was such a shock at the time." She traced her finger around the mark. "I had no idea what he'd done to me… could never have guessed." She looked around them. "I died that day up at Loch Maree when he marked me with this."
Church shook his head in disbelief, but she silenced him with a wave of her hand.
"I died, and then he remade me in his own image. For the rest of you time was frozen. But for me… well, I don't know how he did it." She shook her head, barely able to summon up the words. "I'm not human, I'm a plant."
There was a hanging moment when they all tried to work out if she was joking. She laughed to herself, silently, at their expressions. "Okay, maybe that's not the right word. Physically, he turned me into something that has the characteristics of flora rather than fauna. I don't need to eat or drink or breathe, not in the same way you do. I can survive under water. I can survive where there's no air at all. And when I get hurt, I repair myself like a plant. That's what happened with Balor. I'll tell you now, I don't remember much about it, apart from the fact that it was agony. That's one thing he didn't sort out. It tore me apart. It wasn't pretty. But I put myself back together. And-" she held her arms wide "-I did it better than before." She pointed to her face. "No scars. Not on my back, either. So I've got a slight skin problem, but that's a small price to pay. At least I don't pollinate or any of that shit."
Her flippant manner made it difficult for them to assimilate what she was saying. Church's brow furrowed. "So all the time we were together-"
"That's right, Church-dude-you were having sex with a plant."
"A nature spirit." Shavi leaned forward excitedly. "He distilled the essence of what you already were, and made you an avatar."
"Well, he might have asked." Her smile was relaxed.
"Are you okay with it?" Ruth asked, concerned.
"It's better than being a nobody. And it's better than being really, truly dead. I think the same, I feel the same. I'm still the same gorgeous, wonderful, witty and charming Laura DuSantiago. Apart from the fact you have to water me twice a day."
Church leaned forward and touched her forearm. The skin felt exactly the same as it always had done. She took his hand with honest affection. "I'm okay. Really. "
"You seem different," Ruth said. "I mean, as well as all that-"
"I have my flaws, but stupidity isn't one of them. When somebody shoves a big, fat, old lesson in my face, I make sure I learn from it." She looked down at her fingers as she knotted and unknotted them. "I've found peace, I guess, if that doesn't sound like some stupid, navel-gazing New Ager. It was always there, I just couldn't see it. I don't hate myself any more."
Her words were simple, but Church felt a swell of affection; he knew how deep her pain really went. If Laura had found some kind of redemption, there was hope for all of them; for everyone. The others recognised this too. As she looked round, for the first time she felt accepted.
"Then we really are all back together," Shavi said. "As it was intended."
"Yes, yes, yes, the stars are aligned, and God is looking down on you from his heaven." Tom was standing in the entrance with the Bone Inspector. "Now I suggest you get some rest. For tomorrow, as the saying goes, you may die."
Veitch slipped into a drunken sleep quickly; Shavi had a remarkable ability to nap instantly, wherever he was. Tom and the Bone Inspector sat at the table, talking quietly, their faces stern. Ruth tried to stay awake as Laura and Church chatted, but even her faint jealousy couldn't stop her eyelids from drooping.
Laura watched the regular movement of Ruth's chest for a moment or two before turning back to Church. "So I'll ask you again: have you and little Miss Frosty done the monkey dance yet?"
"Laura-"
"You still don't know me, do you?" There was a trace of sadness in her smile. "In most cultures that's known as humour."
"Are you really okay?"
"Yes, I am. For the first time in my life. So don't go giving me any pity or I might be stirred to be my old catty self." She put her fingertips on his sternum and pushed him down.
"I'm sorry I wasn't better to you. And that's not pity. What you did to save Ruth… that showed a side of you I never knew, and I feel bad for that. I jumped to conclusions, just like everybody else."
She rolled on to her back, her hands behind her head. "It's all in the past now. We learn, we move on, and all that shit." She looked at him from the corners of her eyes. "I'm still sorry it didn't work out between you and me, but I've finally got a good injection of reality. It wasn't the right time, maybe we weren't the right people, but I was so desperate I was trying to force it." She nodded to Ruth. "You and her, you're the real deal. She's a good person, for all her many, many problems. And you, well, you're Saint Church, aren't you? Mr. Walks On Water."
He watched Ruth's chest rising and falling and wished he was lying next to her. "Is it that obvious?"
"It was obvious to everybody right from the start. You were the only one who couldn't see it. Because, let's face it, when it comes to emotion, you're damaged goods."
"And you're okay about it? It's important to me. Really."
There was a brief pause in which he dreaded her answer, but then she said, "I'm okay with it. All I really wanted was somebody to stand by me shoulder-toshoulder. I've never had that. But I was, like, where's the dog and the white stick? It was all around me. It's stupid. The world's falling apart and right here I've got the best friends I could ever wish for. You, the Shav-ster, even Miss Icy Knickers. We'd have got on okay if I hadn't been the Bitch From Hell from the get-go. Witch, well, he's about as fucked-up as it gets, but if it came to the crunch I know he'd come through. I just hope I haven't learnt my big old life lesson too late."
He fumbled for her hand and gave it a squeeze. "It's a lesson we've all had to learn. When you're looking for meaning in life, don't look at the big picture, look at this. Look at your friends and your life and your loves-you need no meaning other than people."
She yawned theatrically. "You're getting up your arse again, aren't you? Just enjoy it, for Christ's sake. And don't screw up your love life this time. If she doesn't kill you, I will." She watched him for a minute, her eyes shining, and then she smiled, still a little sadly, and rolled over to sleep.
As Church shuffled down to rest his head on the cushion, his gaze fell on Veitch's still form and for a fleeting moment he thought the Londoner was still awake. The notion disturbed him, but as he slipped into sleep he couldn't quite work out why.
The cry ripped through the camp, snapping them all awake in an instant. It was the sound of a woman shrieking, filled with such desolation and horror it left them frozen in shock. The cry rose, becoming more hysterical, louder, until they thought their ears would burst, and then, just as suddenly, it snapped off. The ringing echoes of it persisted for several more seconds.
"What the bleedin' hell was that?" Veitch's face was drained of blood.
Tom pushed himself back from the table where he had been resting his head. "La Belle Dame Sans Merci."
"The Banshee, to you and me," the Bone Inspector said, bleary eyed.
"Bummer." Laura crashed back on to her cushions. "Bad omen-a-go-go."
Church looked to Tom. "Is it as bad as the legends say?"
"You don't need the Banshee to tell you it's not going to be a walk in the park tomorrow." The Bone Inspector slumped back on to the table.
"Some stories say anyone who hears it will die," Ruth said. Church wished he could comfort her, but Veitch appeared to be watching them both closely.
"You're all going to die," Tom said. "Sooner or later." He lay back down on the table.
"Thanks for the morale boost, old git," Laura said sleepily.
"It doesn't mean death for anyone who hears it," Tom said wearily. "But it does mean death. And destruction and suffering and devastation on an epic scale."
"Situation normal, then." As Veitch lay down, Church steeled himself and surreptitiously moved next to Ruth.
The others assimilated the information and after a few minutes somehow managed to go back to sleep, but Ruth was aware Church was still lying awake.
"What are you thinking?" she whispered.
His words were given greater weight by the long pause before he replied. "I'm thinking, where are they keeping the Wish-Hex? And when are they planning on using it?"
They were woken at first light by the sound of stirring across the camp. The smell of cooking drifted into the tent, teasing pangs of hunger from their sluggish forms. With an effort, they dragged themselves out into a cold, clear morning, their breath pluming; they were forced to bang their arms against their sides in a futile bid to keep warm. It was a beautiful dawn: a full-hearted swell of gold and purple before the sky slowly turned a pale blue; a day for hope and love and great things, not a day for war.
The lesser gods had gathered in the various large clearings amongst the tents, eating at long wooden tables. Church still wasn't sure that they really needed to eat, but they relished experience with a hunger that belied their status, as if searching for something valuable they had long since left behind. They certainly ate with gusto, shovelling down platefuls of food, swilling it down with flagonfuls of a hot, fragrant liquid.
All of the gods appeared to be in high spirits. They called Church and the others over with hearty shouts and made a space for them at the end of one table with much backslapping and camaraderie. It was so out of place that all of them felt uncomfortable. Platefuls of dried fruit and spiced meat and several loaves of bread were brought to all but Laura and Shavi, who were given an odd but tasty bouillabaise of tomatoes, mushrooms and peppers without having to ask. Laura admitted that although she didn't have to eat, she too, like the gods, still enjoyed the sensation.
As they ate, their spirits rose, all except Veitch who remained sullen and uncommunicative. "They look like they're eager to get off to war," Ruth noted.
"For all their many claims to a wonderful life, they lack much colour in their existence," Tom said, dipping a sausage into an egg. "Quite simply, they are bored."
"Despicable bastards, the lot of 'em," the Bone Inspector muttered as he gnawed on a chunk of bread. "Like a bunch of upper class idiots whipping themselves up before a rugby game, without a single thought for all the suffering that's going to happen. With any luck a few of 'em will meet their maker."
"That is a little harsh," Shavi said.
"Might teach 'em to appreciate life a bit more."
"I still don't get why you're helping us." Church sipped on the hot, invigorating liquid.
"That's because you're a moron." The Bone Inspector threw the remainder of his bread to a group of ravens that had ventured fearlessly into the camp.
"I can see why you and the old git get on so well," Laura said under her breath. "Both graduates of the Finishing School for Irritating, Miserable Bastards."
Shavi pushed out his chair and stretched his legs. "I would guess the Bone Inspector is simply following his office as a guardian of the land's old places. If the End of Everything happens on the morning after Samhain, there will not be many old places to guard."
"Well, aren't you the smarty-pants." The Bone Inspector was watching the ravens intently. "Ready for carrion," he mused.
"Carry On to the End of the World, maybe," Laura said. "With Kenneth Williams as the dark god Balor and Charles Hawtrey as the Guardian of the Old Places."
The Bone Inspector eyed her so darkly Laura realised she couldn't chide him in the same way that she toyed with Tom.
Shavi was laughing. "Oh, yes. And you would be Barbara Windsor," he said to Laura. "And Church would be Sid James-"
"Bwah hah hah," Church said flatly. "So what's going to happen after we've stuffed our faces?"
"In half an hour there will be a meeting to outline the strategy," Tom said. "As the spearhead of the attack, we must be there."
"The generals sending the disposables in first?" Veitch said sourly.
"Something like that," Tom replied. "They have their agenda and we have ours. As long as we are not swayed, who cares what their motivations are?"
"But they have the Wish-Hex." Church made the comment quietly so none of the gods could hear.
"Yes," Tom said, "which is why we shall have our own meeting first."
After the meal they wandered off separately, agreeing to meet fifteen minutes later. Ruth had not gone far when her arm was grabbed sharply enough to cause her pain. She whirled angrily. It was Veitch. She could tell instantly from his threatening expression what was on his mind.
"You couldn't wait to get off with him, could you?" There was pain in his voice beneath the anger.
"I'm sorry you're upset, Ryan, but-"
"Upset? I'm upset when my team loses on a Saturday. This is like a kick in the bollocks, and another one in the face for good luck."
She bowed her head, sorry to see him so hurt. "I didn't want you-"
"No, you didn't want me. I put my life on the line in Scotland-for you. Not for all this end of the world bollocks. I couldn't care less if the whole miserable place went belly-up tomorrow. But, you… " He shook his head, his long hair falling across his face. "I nearly died for you. I took risks to get down herefor you."
She was shocked to see the rage lighting in his face; there was a seething glow in his hooded eyes. "You've got so much anger in you! Were you always like this?"
Her words appeared to strike him hard. He rubbed at his temples furiously. "Stop talking about that!"
"I tried to be honest to you about how I felt, Ryan. I think you're a good man. I admire you. But there was never going to be anything between us."
"Never?" She flinched as he bunched his fist but instead he smashed it into his side. There were tears of hurt in his eyes.
She went to comfort him, but he backed away. "Ryan, don't hate Church and don't hate me. We love each other. And we both care about you, really."
"You're only saying that to keep me on the team. Afraid I'll go running off to join the other side?"
"Don't be stupid! None of us would ever think that. You said you always wanted to be a hero. Well, you are, Ryan. You are. And everyone here respects you."
He looked away towards the horizon, blinking off the tears. "Yeah…"
"That must mean something?"
He nodded. "But not enough. I always thought it was the most important thing. I've never had that… never had any respect." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "One of them was talking about how they'd all learned something important from all this shit. Well, I have too. I've learnt you're the most important thing to me, and if I can't have you I might as well be dead. So I can go into this with no fear 'cause I've got nothing to lose. They'll remember me as the biggest bleedin' hero of all by the end of it." The anger disappeared briefly and all she could see was the face of a hurt child, but then he turned sharply on his heel and marched away.
She called after him, but he didn't look back.
They met in their tent while the Tuatha De Danann were away making their preparations for battle, although Baccharus and Niamh were there, much to Veitch's suspicion. The first thing they did was distribute the Quadrillax. Church kept the Sword and took the Wayfinder lantern, while Ruth reaffirmed her hold on the Spear. Veitch agreed to carry the Stone ofFal and Shavi took the Cauldron in a pack on his back. Laura was happy to have nothing to do with any of them.
"If the Wish-Hex is here, its location has been kept from us," Niamh said when they had gathered around the table. "Those of us who believe in the destiny of mankind would never allow such a thing to be used, and certainly never in this form, adulterated by the Night Walkers."
"It would be good," Tom said, "if all your brethren felt the same way. But many believe this is too good an opportunity to pass by: two irritants wiped out in one fell swoop."
"And the prime position in the evolutionary pile secured for the Tuatha De Danann," Church noted. "We need you to find out where the Wish-Hex is being kept, and when it will be used," he said to Baccharus and Niamh. "We'll have to find some way to neutralise it."
"The aim would be to unleash the Wish-Hex in the core of the Night Walkers' lair, close to the Heart of Shadows," Niamh said. "The Night Walkers are more resilient than Fragile Creatures. They need to be closer to the release."
"We just get wiped out in the plague fallout," Church said bitterly.
"We will uncover the intention and pass it on to you as soon as we can," Niamh said. "We understand what is at stake."
Veitch appeared not to have been listening, and had spent the meeting carving his name into the wooden table with his knife. Then he said, "I'm worried we're spreading ourselves too thin," and Church realised the Londoner had instead been carefully weighing all the strategies. "We'll be driving forward on more than one front, and this thing will be coming up behind. We're not going to be in a position to split our attention."
"What are you saying?" Church asked.
"Sounds like a recipe for disaster to me."
Church thought for a moment. "It might help if one of us found a back way in."
"What do you mean?" Veitch said.
"I've been thinking about this… about a lot of things. There's been important stuff that's been there right in our face before and we missed it." He turned to Ruth. "Like Maurice Gibbons."
"The civil servant who was murdered under Albert Bridge the night we met. So?"
"We got so wrapped up in what he discovered, we never thought about how-"
"He saw one of the Fomorii changing-'
"But why was he under Albert Bridge on that particular night?"
She opened her mouth to answer him, but no words came. "Okay, smartypants."
"Why was that Night Walker there too?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You've already worn out your dramatic buildup, Church."
"The Fomorii were already building their base under London. And Gibbons had somehow found one of the entrances to it. He was investigating when that thing came out and killed him."
Veitch was already ahead of them. "So if we could get to it, we might be able to get straight into their base before they know it!"
"But the danger of us all going together is that it is easier to stop us with one well-timed strike," Shavi noted. "They would be able to target all their resources at us."
"Good point," Veitch mused. "All right, we split up. But we do our damnedest to get to where we're going, even if it means leaving all those goldenskinned twats behind." He nodded to Niamh and Baccharus curtly. "No offence."
"And we all know where we're going," Laura said. "That big tower they're throwing up near the City. I saw it up close. That has to be the place."
"At the ritual in Scotland, when we summoned the dead for guidance, they told us we needed to find the Luck of the Land before we could beat Balor," Shavi noted. "Do we have any more of an idea what that means?"
Tom shifted uncomfortably. "That is not a matter to concern us now."
"Why not?" Veitch asked suspiciously.
"Heed me." Tom's voice was unduly stern. "When we are closer to the confrontation."
Church noticed Ruth was deep in thought. "What's on your mind?" he asked.
She looked at him with a curious expression. "What you said about Maurice Gibbons. It made me think how much else we missed that was right in front of our eyes."
The war council took place in a heavily guarded marquee of purple silk, deep in the heart of the camp. It was at the centre of an area where all the higher-born gods had congregated, and the sense of dislocation as Church and the others entered was palpable.
Many gods were already waiting in the tent, communicating quietly, and in some cases, silently. Church recognised Nuada Airgetlamh, his almond eyes like razor blades in his golden face, and Lugh, with his long mane of black hair and his torso bearing the scars of battle; both of them exuded power. But there were many Church didn't know. Their faces shimmered and changed as his gaze passed across them. He saw famous generals, renowned political leaders at times of crisis, a bully he recalled from school, the hardened casts of terrorists and revolutionaries, but eventually their images settled down into distinctive personalities, all of them grim. Church had the unshakeable feeling the important things had already been discussed and agreed.
"I offer the greetings of the Golden Ones to the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, who have served us so well in the past," Nuada said, seemingly unconscious of his patronising attitude. "You know me as Fragile Creatures have known me in the past: Nuada Airgetlamh, wielder of Caledfwlch, which in my wisdom I have gifted to you, Dragon Brother. Your people have also known me as Nudd, of the Night, as Llud, and Lud, founder of this place on whose doorstep we stand-Londinium. This is my place where, in the Fixed Lands, I stand supreme. This is where Fragile Creatures bowed their heads to me, made offerings of the little things that had importance in their brief lives. Where blood ran, where my heart beats."
Lugh's eyes were fixed on his Spear, which Ruth held tightly to her side. She felt uncomfortable at the attention, as if he were desperate to wrest it from her.
"You Brothers and Sisters of Dragons have proved your worth," Nuada continued, "and it has been deemed that you should wield the Quadrillax on our behalf. Only with those objects of power will the Heart of Shadows finally be wiped from all existence. But the path to it will be hard. Too hard for Fragile Creatures. And so the Golden Ones have agreed to drive a route through the shadows, to protect you from the attacks of the Night Walkers, until you are in a position to carry out the act required of you. Does this meet with your agreement?"
All eyes turned to Church. "It does."
"Then this is what is suggested. There will be three lines of attack into the city, until the Heart of Shadows' location is established. I will lead the drive from the north. My brother, whom you know as Lugh, will bring our forces from the west. And the Master will take Wave Sweeper along the river into the centre of the city."
"And that will be the most important," Church said, "because it will take us directly to one of the entrances to the Fomorii lair."
Nuada's gaze was incisive. "You have access to secrets, Brother of Dragons."
Church gave nothing away.
Tom stepped forward. "May I speak?"
"Your exalted position is recognised, True Thomas."
"Then I would suggest the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons divide into teams to ensure the best chance of success. Ruth and Ryan will join you in the attack from the north."
Ruth went cold. Surreptitiously, she glanced over at Veitch, but his gaze was fixed firmly on Nuada.
"Shavi and Laura will come from the west with Lugh," Tom continued. "And I and the Bone Inspector will accompany Church through the secret tunnels. Though he is powerful, he is also young, and we have the experience to guide him through the darkest turns."
Nuada nodded. "Your views are acceptable, True Thomas."
Laura smirked and whispered to Church behind her hand, "Fun day out with the senior citizen club for you, boy. Hope you don't get in any fights or there'll be Zimmer frames all over the place."
"Use the Quadrillax wisely," Nuada said. "You have already drawn the Sword from the stone of disbelief. Now is the time to fire it with your heart. And the others-each must be used at the right time, in the correct manner, with the full weight of your essence behind you, and even then victory is not assured. Much death and suffering lies ahead. This is a period of pain that will be remembered when the stars go out. Go well, Brothers and Sisters of Dragons. Your world turns with you."
They left the tent to prepare themselves for what lay ahead. The joy of their initial reunion had dissipated, to be replaced by an oppressive sense of foreboding. There were no jokes or smiles; they were lost to their own thoughts as they wrestled with their secret fears or searched for the depths of strength that would get them through the coming hours.
Veitch was the last to leave. Before he had gone ten paces from the tent, Nuada called him back.
"We have seen your sacrifice," the god said, motioning to Witch's bandaged wrist. "I know only too well the pain of such a wound." He removed a glove that covered an ornately crafted silver hand that looked like it had come from some futuristic robot. "The scars go much deeper than the skin."
Nuada's eyes felt like they were going right through him. "I had to do it to bring my mate back. I'm not bitter about it."
"Not bitter, no." Nuada smiled knowingly. "Still, I understand your heart, Brother of Dragons. Listen, then: if you are to be effective, you will need a new hand. Would you like that?"
"Can you do it?"
Nuada indicated the silver hand again. "We are gods. We can do anything."
The tent was the deepest red, so that within even the air had the hint of blood. It was enormous, bigger even than the marquee where the war council had met, with numerous annexes and branching passages so it was impossible to see all of it from one view. Nuada presented Veitch to Dian Cecht, who wore robes of scarlet. He carried himself with bearing, his features as aristocratic as his manner: a high forehead above a Roman nose, sharp, grey eyes and gunmetal hair tied in a ponytail.
"We have little time," Nuada said, as Dian Cecht gently unfastened the material on Veitch's wrist stump.
"It is a simple operation on a Fragile Creature." Dian Cecht examined the burnt flesh, then shrugged and turned away, motioning for Veitch to follow.
They came to a room set with several tables. Cruel-looking silver instruments were laid out on small trays next to each table. Dian Cecht nodded for Veitch to lie down, then busied himself at a large cabinet at one end. He returned with a wooden box inlaid with gold, which he placed on the tray next to Veitch. Inside, on a velvet inlay, was a silver hand the exact replica of the one Nuada wore. "A spare," Dian Cecht said with a smile.
Veitch felt a faint flutter of excitement; the thought of being whole once more was seductive. Dian Cecht gave him a foul-tasting potion to drink, which instantly made him sleepy. After a moment he was drifting in and out of hallucinatory waking dreams, filled with strange, disturbing images, including one of a black and a white spider fighting furiously over him. He was vaguely aware of Dian Cecht working on his wrist with a long knife with three rotating blades; the smell of blood filled his nostrils with surprising potency. A glimmer of silver in the corner of his eye told him the hand was about to be fitted. He watched with the curious detachment of a drug trip as Dian Cecht placed it against his stump, now soaked with blood.
At the instant the blood touched the pristine silver, three arms snapped out of the hand and poised erect; on each one was a row of sharp silver spikes. Veitch only had a second to consider what was going to happen next before the arms suddenly sprung down, driving the spikes deep into the bone and muscle of his wrist. Even through the sedation, he screamed in agony, but there was more pain to follow: something within the hand was burrowing into his arm, wrapping its way around ligaments and tissue, bonding with nerves and veins.
Witch's throat grew raw from screaming and a moment later he blacked out.
Church and Ruth stood behind their tent, embracing each other silently. The weight of what they wanted to say was too great, crushing them silent. Ruth blinked off tears as she pulled away. She forced a smile.
"We'll be meeting again soon," Church said gently. "In the hideous lair of the one-eyed god of death. How about that for a one-off?"
"Oh, very romantic. Every girl's dream."
"At least you'll never forget it."
Neither could bring themselves to discuss the possibility that they might not see each other again; the occasion called for sweeping optimism and hope and faith.
They pulled away, ready to meet the others, but Ruth turned and caught Church's arm. "Be careful," she said with a quiet intensity that moved him.
Tom poked his head round the corner of the tent. "For God's sake, get a move on! They're not going to hold up the end of the world for you."
The others were waiting quietly. Veitch looked pale and drained, but his new hand was a source of wonder and he appeared proud of it. The others were not so sure. "What did they demand in return for that?" Tom asked harshly. When Veitch told him nothing, he said, "I'm very disappointed in you," before walking away.
"Just be careful, Ryan," Church said to him. "They can't be trusted. And they're not known for their charity."
"'Course I'll be careful." Veitch couldn't help examining the hand in the light. "I'm whole again. That's what matters." He was patently oblivious to the foreboding that filled the rest of them.
At that time, though, they couldn't hold it against him. They hugged in turn-even Veitch and Tom. They knew each other well enough not to need to say anything more.
Once they were all on their horses, Church couldn't part without adding something. "This is what it's all been leading to, all that pain and hardship and suffering. We've been to hell and back and we've come through it. Of all the people who could have been here at this point, I'm glad it's you, all of you. You're the best there is, and I'm proud to be one of you."
Veitch looked to the horizon, his cheeks flushed. "Yeah, well, we're not going to let you down, boss. Death or glory, and all that."
"Just glory," Laura corrected.
In the moments before they departed, Church found himself turning over the wild parade of events that had led them to that place. At the start it had seemed so simple: a straight fight between good and evil for the sake of humanity. Instead, they had found themselves probing the very mysteries of existence, travelling through worlds where reality and illusion intermingled until it was impossible to tell what was real and what was not. There had been so much hardship, pain and death on every side, yet, ironically, it had been the best time of his life. He had become a better person because of it, although he knew he still had a way to go.
Now it was back to being a simple fight once more: humanity against all the alien powers that were attempting to deny its destiny. And all to be decided in two short days. He hoped they were up to the obligation that had been placed on their shoulders.
They rode over a slight rise to see a massive army spread out across the countryside in the wan October sunlight. As the call went out somewhere at the head, a charge of excitement ran through all of them. A grin jumped like wildfire from one to the other. After the weariness of all the buildup, the culmination came like a jolt of energy. Veitch gave a triumphant yell and then they spurred their horses to join the others, lost to the pump of the blood in their heads.
When they were finally in motion, it looked like a sea of gold was sweeping across the countryside towards the capital. Within it, Church and the others felt enveloped in a dreamy, yellow haze, where figures and horses faded into the background, to be replaced by an amorphous feeling of wonder.
The journey passed in a blur, faster than they could ever have galloped on normal horses. They only slowed when London hove into view, and in that instant all brightness drained from them. In the centre of the city, the monstrous black tower rose up, its summit lost in the clouds that swirled continually overhead. Greasy black smoke lapped up towards them from the fires that burned all around. There were things flying, and things moving on the ground, but Church didn't focus on any of them.
All he could think of was the prophecy of him watching a burning city that had haunted his nights since his visit to the watchtower between the worlds. It had felt like the ultimate in desolation, and as he sat there, watching the scene for real for the first time, he understood how true that feeling had been.
chapter seventeen
(don't worry]
if there's a hell below
espite all they had seen, Laura and Shavi were still overwhelmed by the incongruous sight of an army of otherworldly beings trooping along the M4, where tourist buses and cars and articulated lorries had once trundled bumper to bumper. Occasionally they passed an abandoned vehicle, windows smeared in thick dust, that only added to the sense of dislocation.
There had been a brief flurry of activity as they came into London past the now-silent Heathrow Airport. A group of Fomorii had attacked, shrieking and howling, but it had been half-hearted and directionless, and the attackers had drifted off once their casualties had started to mount. The Tuatha De Danann were armed with a terrifying array of weapons constructed by Goibhniu and his brothers in their secret smithies, some of which could deal death at a great distance, but it did not appear that this show of strength was the cause of the retreat. Many of the Fomorii had disappeared into the houses that lined the motorway, while the flying Night Walkers had retreated into the bank of thick clouds.
"I expected greater defiance," Baccharus said as the road wound past Osterley towards Brentford. "They will not allow us to drive directly into the heart of their nest, where their most sacred thing resides."
The atmosphere didn't help the growing apprehension. When the wind blew in the wrong direction, Shavi and Laura had to cover their mouths and noses with scarves to keep out the choking smoke filled with sickening chemical undertones. It was cold, too, the sun mostly obscured by the clouds; they were wearing several layers of borrowed clothes beneath their old jackets.
The fires blazing near to the motorway brought little warmth, but cast a hellish red glow across the empty houses, shops and business premises. Homes stood with doors torn off and windows smashed. In some the roof had caved in, while in the worst places entire streets had been demolished. Although many areas appeared relatively untouched, it was almost impossible to imagine the Fomorii occupation, and how terribly the residents must have suffered.
Shavi continually scanned the buildings on either side, until Laura said, "Can't you do something? You're supposed to be the big magician."
"Any abilities I might have are shamanic. I prefer a quiet space to meditate, something to put me into the right frame of mind."
"You set all those animals on the Bone Inspector at Rosslyn Chapel. Can't you send an army of… I don't know, badgers, on ahead?"
"Badgers?"
"You know what I mean. Anything."
He coughed into his scarf as a swirl of smoke engulfed them. "We would need a Ryan or a Church to offer any true resistance to a direct assault by the Fomorii. Or even a Ruth, if what I hear of her advancing abilities is true. This is not the best situation for us."
"Speak for yourself. I've learnt a few new tricks myself since I became the Chlorophyll Kid."
"Oh?" He eyed her curiously. "What can you do?"
"Mind your biz. And hope I don't have to show you." She tied her scarf tighter so she resembled a Bedouin riding into a sandstorm.
The lack of resistance was unnerving even the Tuatha De Dannan now. They were moving more cautiously, watching the surrounding cityscape for any sign of movement, Goibhniu's bizarre weapons levelled for a quick strike.
Baccharus rode up next to them once more. "The Night Walkers are an underhand race. We fear an attack from the side or rear, rather than an honourable face-to-face confrontation."
"An ambush makes sense," Laura mused. "Veitch made a smart suggestion for the two land teams to use the motorways to get right into the city quickly, but it does make us sitting targets."
"The Golden Ones," Baccharus said self-deprecatingly, "are too proud to hide."
Ahead of them the Hammersmith Flyover rose up as the houses and shops fell away on either side. As they passed over it, Laura could see the edges of the roundabout under the bridge way below, and the rooftop of the Hammersmith Odeon. "At least we're above the snipers now."
"Not for long," Shavi noted. "The road drops down quickly towards Earls Court."
"Thanks for wrecking my one tension-free moment of the day." Movement away to her right caught her eye. "Look at all those birds. What are they? You know, I haven't seen any pigeons yet. Do you think they've all moved out to the country?"
Shavi watched the flock swirling around one particular rooftop. "Crows," he said, and the moment the word had left his lips, he knew. Anxiously, he turned to the Tuatha De Danann. "Beware-!
His warning was cut off by a deafening explosion. The ground beneath their feet rolled like water, then dropped suddenly. Shavi was still watching the birds fly into a tight formation that made the shape of a man when he realised he was falling.
Laura was yelling and fighting with her horse, which was frantically attempting to gain purchase on the crumbling road surface. They were all engulfed in noise: the panicked whinnying of the horses, the yells of the gods, the crack and rumble of the shattering flyover, the booming bursts of more supports getting blown out, a roaring cacophony that threatened to burst their eardrums.
They were lucky all the supports didn't go at once. Instead of dropping in one block, the bridge concertinaed, twisting one way, then the other, so those who were on that section slid back and forth as they moved towards the ground. Shavi and Laura were best placed. On the area where they had skidded it only fell sharply for the final ten feet, but that was enough to fling them both from their horses as they were showered in rubble.
Shavi blacked out briefly, and when he came to there was a large chunk of concrete crushing down on him. With an effort he managed to drag it off, but he could feel the blood soaking through his clothes; nothing appeared to be broken, though. He staggered to his feet, calling Laura's name. The air was so choked in dust and smoke, it was impossible to see more than a few feet, but what he could discern was bad enough. Many of the Tuatha lle Danann had been torn apart or crushed by the falling sections of bridge. Horses lay dead or dying all around. A few of the gods staggered to their feet in one piece, and a similar number of the horses had survived.
The smoke and dust cleared enough to reveal the rest of the army in a chaotic melee on the remaining part of the flyover, desperately urging their mounts to move back along the motorway towards the slip road to ground level. It was exactly as Laura had foreseen: there were too many of them fighting for too little space. They were easy targets.
A sound like wind rushing through a derelict house filled the air. Mollecht was on the edge of the building, the crows that made up his body flying in everfaster formation. The crows increased their speed until they were just a blur, and then a hole opened up in their centre. The sound of rushing wind became almost deafening. There was a flash as a fine, red spray erupted out of Mollecht's body, sweeping across the gulf to the Tuatha lle Danann struggling to get off the bridge.
As it fell across them, the reaction was instantaneous. Black, mottling patches sprang up across any exposed skin. Foam burst from their mouths and their eyes rolled as they clawed at their throats. Those nearest to the shattered end of the bridge staggered backwards and plummeted to the ground, bursting open like sacks of jelly. Shavi had only an instant to reflect on what could have had such an effect on near-invulnerable gods before the thick smoke rolled in again to obscure the rising tide of panic on the flyover.
"Laura!" he yelled again, moving amongst the rubble.
"Here." Her voice was muffled. He found her struggling out from a thick shelter of vegetable manner that had kept the worst of the masonry from crushing her. "The wonders of green blood," she said by way of explanation.
He offered his hand to drag her out.
"Well, that didn't take long to go pear-shaped," she said bitterly.
"They were too arrogant. And we should have trusted our own judgment more."
Some of the gods staggered in a daze out of the swirling smoke. A few attempted to rein in the horses cantering around wildly. Laura watched Shavi's face grow serene; a moment later all the horses had calmed.
Baccharus came stumbling over the broken tarmac and twisted girders. "Move quickly," he yelled. He caught three horses and herded them towards Shavi and Laura. The other Tuatha De Danann were already mounting their own steeds.
Shavi and Laura had barely taken the reins when a gust of wind cleared the smoke and dust to reveal a sight that rooted them to the spot. All around, silent and unmoving, were the Fomorii, their monstrous faces turned towards Shavi and Laura. It was an eerie scene, as if they were robots waiting to come alive. The pile of broken masonry on which they and the Tuatha De Danann stood was a tiny island in a sea of black.
Shavi and Laura jumped on to their horses, casting around for a way out. A breeze rippled across the immobile sable statues. They began to move.
The shrieks and howls that rang out were deafening, the sight of the Fomorii sweeping forward in a tidal wave enough to drive all conscious thoughts from their minds.
Baccharus threw Shavi a strange sword with twin blades and a jewel embedded in the handle. "Press the jewel," the god yelled.
Shavi looked at the weapon in incomprehension.
"Press the jewel!"
The Fomorii were surging forward. One of the Tuatha De Danann tried to fend them off with a sword, but sheer force of numbers dragged him from his horse, and both he and the mount were swallowed up by the sickening tide.
Laura lashed out at Shavi's arm, shocking him alert. "Press the jewel, you moron!"
Shavi thumbed the gem. He felt a subtle sucking sensation deep in the heart of him as a blue spark began to crackle between the twin blades. The Fomorii appeared to recognise what was happening, and obviously feared it, for their forward motion halted and the shrieks died away with a ripple of apprehension. The Blue Fire burned a little higher up the blade.
Then, Shavi understood. He closed his eyes and focused his concentration on his heart, his spirit. The effect was remarkable. He jolted as an electric surge rushed through him, and when he opened his eyes, the Blue Fire was burning brighter than he had ever seen it. It tore up the remainder of the blades in an instant.
He thought he heard a whisper of terror rush through the Fomorii, and then the sapphire energy exploded from the sword like a summer lightning storm. The force almost knocked him from the horse; for a moment the whole world was blue. He heard Laura's exclamation of wonder, and when next he looked there was a massive blast zone around them where lay the charred remains of many Fomorii. Beyond it, the other Fomorii were backing away frantically.
Shavi felt so exhausted he could no longer sit upright. He slumped against the horse's neck as the sword slipped from his grasp. Laura caught it. "I think we'll save this for later, don't you?" She slipped it into an empty scabbard fixed on Shavi's saddle.
Baccharus was at their side, his skin so pale there was barely a hint of gold in it. "Come, we must not tarry here. The Night Walkers will not hold back for long. Although they fear like beasts of the field, their individual existence is meaningless. They will give themselves up happily for the will of the collective."
A pitched battle was raging along what remained of the flyover and the stretch of the M4 they could still see. The Fomorii were clambering over the edges of the motorway, getting torn apart by the array of Tuatha De Danann weapons, then coming back for more. And on the rooftops Mollecht was unleashing more of his plague-blasts.
"We won't be getting any help from them," Laura said. She looked round and pointed to a path that had been cut through the Fomorii.
They had no idea where they were going, knew there was little hope for such a small band riding ever deeper into enemy territory, but there was no chance of them going back. Even so, they refused to countenance failure, and thoughts of their deaths never entered their minds.
The only route open to them was along Hammersmith Road. They soon left behind the main mass of Fomorii, more concerned with defeating the Tuatha De Danann army than with hunting a few stragglers. Yet there were still random bursts of movement in the buildings on either side.
Baccharus was accompanied by nine other gods. They all looked stunned, as if they'd taken a detour into a world they never dreamed existed. Baccharus, however, had best overcome the blow and was now leading the group; they obeyed him blindly, glad that someone else was taking the responsibility.
The road led on to Kensington High Street. It was snarled with discarded cars, trucks and a burnt-out bus, forcing them to ride on the pavement. Names from another age reached out to them: Smith's, Boots, Barker's department store.
The smoke was thicker towards the eastern end of the high street. Kensington Palace was still burning, its roof collapsed, the walls blackened and broken. The huge security gates that had closed off the road leading to the palace had been torn down and lay mangled and barely recognisable in the street.
"I wonder what happened to the Royal Family," Shavi mused as they passed.
"Those sort of people always have a bolt-hole. The Great and the Good." The contempt in Laura's voice was heavy. "The secret service probably spirited them off to a cushy estate in Scotland long before all this came to a head. And I bet they never told any of the little people that Armageddon was coming to their doorsteps."
Ahead of them the green expanse of Kensington Gardens stretched out towards Hyde Park, silent and eerie in the drifting smoke. Baccharus reined in his horse uneasily and scanned the stark trees towards the Serpentine. "Some of my people used to come here on summer evenings," he said. "They would steal children and take them back to the Far Lands. Some would stay, some would be returned."
Shavi closed his eyes, letting himself read the atmosphere. "It is a liminal zone," he said. "Green space in an open city. The boundary between here and T'ir n'a n'Og is fluid."
"I tripped here once," Laura said. "It was summer. Everything was yellow and green. Me and a friend dropped a tab up near Temple Lodge, then went out on a boat on the lake. Just drifting along. It was… peaceful." The memory jarred with the landscape that now lay before her. She shivered. "I don't think we should go in there."
Behind them the sound of pitched battle grew more intense. Someone was screaming, high-pitched and reedy, so despairing they all wanted to cover their ears. Another explosion sent a booming blast of pressure over them.
Shavi noticed shapes moving in the doorways across the street. Fomorii were emerging slowly. They looked wary, as if they knew of the sword even though they had had no contact with the other group.
Laura fought back another wave of nausea when she looked at them. "God, this place is disgusting! It's infested." She turned to Shavi. "Are you up to using that super-cool sword again?"
He shook his head. "It is powered by the spirit. It will take a while to bring my energy levels back up."
Baccharus pointed along Kensington Road towards Knightsbridge. "The Night Walkers are attempting to cut us off. Moving across the road ahead, coming up behind us."
"Then we go across the park," Shavi said. "Perhaps lose them in the smoke. We cannot afford to move so slowly."
They spurred their horses and headed into the disquieting open space of Kensington Gardens.
The smoke was even thicker there, blowing in from the palace, and from another large fire burning somewhere nearby. They kept their scarves tied tightly across their mouths, but it was still choking them; their eyes reared so much it was often hard to see the way ahead.
It was Shavi who first recognised they were no longer alone. His ears were attuned to the shifting moods of nature and he felt the pressure drop rapidly. It was followed by rapid footsteps padding in the grass all around, moving back and forth. Although the smoke was too dense to see what was there, he had the unmistakable feeling that it was hunting.
"Be on your guard," he said quietly.
And then they all could hear the running feet, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind. They reminded Laura of a group of preschool children at play. There was no other sound; not the shrieks of Fomorii, no voices at all.
Baccharus motioned for the other Tuatha De Danann to bring their horses close together. They urged their steeds to step lightly, but every now and then the hooves would hit a stone with a clatter.
"What are they?" Laura whispered.
Shavi shook his head. The footsteps moved closer, as if their owners had begun to get their bearings. The Tuatha De Danann reined their horses to a stop and drew their swords.
The throat-rending, bloodthirsty cry behind them made Laura almost leap from her saddle. The Tuatha De Danann whirled ready to lash out, but it was too late. One of them was torn from his horse and thrown to the ground, where a squat figure about five feet tall stooped over it, its muscular arms rending and tearing with a frantic clawing motion. The agonised screams of the god were sickening, but the sheer brutality of the attack froze them in place.
Laura was nauseated to see the figure was wearing a hat made out of human body parts-she thought she saw half a face there-and its tangled, black hair was matted with dried blood. It turned and bellowed triumphantly. Its bloodstained teeth were large and broken, its features monstrous, but its skin was green and scaled in part. Laura felt a wash of cold.
Another launched itself from the smoke towards one of the Tuatha lle Danann. Its huge hands were grasping with long, jagged nails as it roared ferociously. The god reacted quickly, swinging his sword down to split the beast's head open. It fell to the ground, twitching and vomiting.
"What are they?" she gasped.
"You were ill in the van when they attacked before," Shavi said. "In the Lake District. They are called Redcaps. Tom said their natural enemy is man."
"Mollecht's favourite brood," Baccharus said, with something approaching contempt.
Others emerged from the smoke-Laura counted eight of them-and these were carrying short swords that were chipped and soiled. For the first time they saw Shavi and Laura, and the transformation that came over them was terrifying to see: savage before, they were now Berserker, ignoring the Tuatha lle Danann to drive towards the two humans.
Baccharus barked an order in his natural alien language and the Tuatha lle Danann formed a barrier between Shavi and Laura and the attacking Redcaps. Although the gods hacked and slashed in a constant blur of weaponry it did little to repel the ferocity of their attack. While they came at the gods, they were also continually circling to find a route through the defences to the two humans. Laura's heart beat even faster when she realised the Redcaps never took their eyes off her or Shavi for an instant; the look in those eyes was ravenous hunger.
The assaults continued relentlessly for fifteen minutes until it became obvious even the Tuatha De Danann would soon be worn down. One of the gods eventually made a slight error in his parrying that was punished instantly. A Redcap dragged the sword from his hand, oblivious to the deep gashes it was cutting in the creature's fingers, while the one closest to it dived in and ripped out the god's neck with its talons. He had been torn savagely limb from limb before he hit the ground.
An instant later the air was filled with the fluttering of golden moths. The rest of the Tuatha lle Danann saw them and froze, their faces registering unspeakable dread. The Redcaps sensed their moment and prepared to move.
"This is insanity," Shavi hissed, his guilt over the dead god almost painful. He turned to Laura. "Follow me." He dug his spurs sharply into his horse's flank and it shot off in the direction of the Serpentine. Laura was behind him in an instant.
Their escape stirred the Tuatha lle Danann, who were soon following in their tracks. Shavi glanced over his shoulder and was shocked to see how fast the Redcaps were moving in pursuit. Although they were only on foot, their leg muscles were unbelievably powerful. They weaved around trees and rubbish bins without slowing their speed at all, and were soon passing the Tuatha De Danann, who were urging on their terrified horses even more.
Laura noticed the Redcaps approach too. "Jesus, what powers those things?"
"Hunger. And hatred."
"Any idea where we're going now?"
"We could attempt to outrun them. Or we could find a place that will offer us sanctuary, somewhere to rest and lick our wounds."
"In this place?" She laughed mockingly. "Maybe we can take in some sights while we're at it."
The smoke rolled across the surface of the Serpentine where the abandoned boats bobbed and drifted. Shavi pressed on along Rotten Row until Hyde Park Corner came into view. The roundabout was choked with dead traffic, much of it blackened and twisted in the aftermath of a flash fire that had raged through the area. It still smelled of charred oil and singed plastic.
"They're closing," Laura gasped as she sent her horse along the pavement until they found a space to get through the traffic to Constitution Hill. The high brick wall of Buckingham Palace lay to their right.
Their manoeuvres had slowed them considerably, while the Redcaps merely powered over the heaps of blackened metal.
"Shavi," Laura said, "this is the time for your big idea. You have got one, haven't you?" The jungle cat-snarling of the Redcaps was now close behind.
Shavi guided his horse in close to Laura until there were barely two inches between them as they pounded down the centre of the street. With his left hand gripping the reins, he fumbled with his right for the twin-bladed sword, then held it out for Laura.
"What am I supposed to do with that?"
"It is easy to operate."
"Get lost. You're the one with the big soul-charge. The only spirit I've got is vodka and Red Bull."
"Take it."
Uncomfortably she accepted the sword and immediately thumbed the jewel in the hilt. The Blue Fire began to build. "Now tell me how I ride while facing backwards."
"Have you never seen Hopalong Cassidy?"
"Uh, no."
"The Lone Ranger?"
"Get real."
"I am sure you will pick it up."
Laura swore at him violently, then half-spun round in her saddle. The yell erupted from her lips unbidden. Three Redcaps were so close behind they could almost touch the horse's tail. She could smell the rotting-meat reek of their breath. When they saw her face, their eyes flared hungrily with a red light.
One of them threw itself forward. The charge leapt from the sword like a missile, tearing through the Redcap's face in a blue blast. When her eyes cleared, all three creatures were headless, still twitching on the road as their bodies struggled to catch up with the news. The other Redcaps had stopped and were blinking stupidly at this strange development.
"That'll teach them to wear hats out of season," Laura said weakly. This time it was Shavi's turn to catch the sword and steady her with the other hand as she threatened to slip from the saddle. "Shit, I feel like I'm coming off a six-day bender. Is this how it was for you?"
"I feel a little better now, but it will take a while to recover completely."
Baccharus rode up and then past them, urging them on. "Come! They will be on you again in a moment!"
Laura somehow managed to get her horse moving again before resting against its neck, hoping it would find the right direction by itself. Shavi once again took the lead. But they had barely got out into the wide open space surrounding the Queen Victoria Memorial in front of Buckingham Palace when a harpoon trailing fire tore through the air to impale one of the Tuatha De Danann, who fell from his horse.
Fomorii were swarming over the roof of Buckingham Palace, where they had sited an odd weapon that looked like a cross between a mediaeval siege machine and a piece of WWII artillery. Five Fomorii were loading it with another harpoon that mysteriously burst into flame the moment it was in place.
"They're changing the guard at Buckingham Palace," Laura said ironically.
The harpoon rocketed into the Queen Victoria Memorial, which exploded in chunks of stone.
"They are slowly picking us off." Shavi's face had grown dark with anger. "We must not allow this."
Laura felt a tingle run down her spine when she saw the Tuatha De Danann were waiting on the two of them for orders. "This is about as weird as it gets," she muttered.
When she looked back, Shavi had his head bowed and his hands over his face, one of the rituals he regularly used when he was meditating.
"Quickly," Baccharus insisted. "The Redcaps will be coming."
When Shavi looked up, Laura thought she saw blue sparks leap from his eyes. "Church did a good job," he said, moving his horse on.
"What do you mean?"
"The Blue Fire is all around now. So easy to see, I barely need any concentration."
Almost the instant he said the words, Laura realised she could see it too: in some areas just thin capillaries of sapphire, in others like a raging current beneath the ground, as if the road surface was made of glass.
"Trippy! So this is what it means…" Her words trailed off, unable to capture the depth of what she was feeling.
"Then this city is not dead to us," Shavi said. "Church suggested the force would be a weakening power for the Fomorii. They hate it, and what it represents. And here we can see the lines leading to the most potent sources."
"Come, then." Baccharus's voice was strained, his eyes darting all around.
"What is it?" Shavi followed his gaze, but could see nothing.
"Can you not feel it?"
The moment the words were uttered, he could. Against the background of rising anxiety like a deep bass rumble, something unpleasant was stirring. The roar of the Redcaps bouncing off the buildings disturbed Shavi before he had time to analyse the sensation, and then the feral creatures surged into view with renewed vigour.
Baccharus, Shavi and Laura spurred their horses, with the other Tuatha De Danann following a split second later. Shavi, who had his perception fixed on the flow of the Blue Fire, took the lead.
The unbearable speed of the Redcaps was the least of their worries. They had barely broken into the once-serene environment of St. James's Park when Shavi realised what it was he had sensed. When the smoke and icy mist cleared to present a view of the sprawling city, he had the unnerving impression that it was altering its shape like a Night Walker. The edges of the stately buildings along Whitehall, of the sedate and cultured pale stone blocks of The Mall, of those further away in the West End, were continually moving, like some bad, speeded-up animation. When he realised what it was, his blood, already chilled by where he was and what he had seen, became even colder.
Thousand upon thousand of Fomorii were emerging from their hiding places, moving out into the city, across rooftops, down walls; all the sickening, alien activity of a disturbed anthill. The speed of their waking suggested some call must have gone out on a level only those hideous creatures could understand.
"They're coming for us." Laura's voice was drained of all life.
Behind them, the ferocious roaring of the Redcaps drew nearer. "No way back." Shavi spurred the horse on faster. "Only forward."
"This is what they wanted," Laura said dismally, her words almost drowned out by the thunder of the hooves. "To separate us. To get us into a place where there wasn't the slightest chance we could fight back." She gulped in a mouthful of air to stifle the rising emotion. Then: "Do you think they've got the others?"
Shavi wasn't listening. The sea of black, roiling bodies moved in rapidly on either side; soon they would be submerged in the deluge. Dread formed a lump in his throat. Always hope, he told himself, a calming mantra repeated over and over. Focus on the source of the hope, not the source of the fear. Gradually the black, oppressive world faded away into the background until all he could see were the streams of brilliant blue. And the deepest, fastest and most brilliant of them blazed a channel between the enclosing darkness. Shavi guided his horse on to it and prayed.
The scorched grass, blackened trees and thick layer of grey ash that blanketed St. James's Park passed in a blur. The jolt of hooves on hard road. Great George Street. Then the wide open space of Parliament Square, the statue of the great war leader Churchill reduced to a broken stump. Westminster Bridge shattered, ending after only a few yards in broken concrete and twisted iron girders. The Houses of Parliament seething, across the roof, through the smashed windows, bubbling out towards them. The Fomorii that had the ability to fly on leathery bat wings swarmed across the Thames like angry wasps.
"All around!" Laura yelled. "This is it!"
The Fomorii surged down Whitehall and Millbank into Parliament Square, black, gleaming bodies as far as the eye could see. Shavi guided his horse round until the dark, majestic bulk of Westminster Abbey rose up in front of them.
"There," he said.
They raced their horses to the western entrance, where Shavi saw the Blue Fire swirling into a coruscating pillar of energy, lighting up the ornate columned front with its imposing twin towers. Three of the Tuatha De Danann jumped down to try the handles before putting their shoulders to the heavy oaken doors without budging them in the slightest.
"Locked," one of the guards said. Panic bloomed in his face. The Square was completely obscured now; the relentless torrent was almost upon them.
"Who's there?" The voice was timorous, broken.
Shavi leapt from his horse and threw himself at the door. "Let us in! We need sanctuary!"
There was one hanging moment when they feared whoever was within had left them to die, but then came the sound of heavy bolts being drawn.
The Redcaps were ahead of the driving wall of Fomorii, jumping and leaping like crazed tigers. One of the Tuatha De Danann guards attempted to fend them off to give the others more time. They fell on him in a frenzy.
The door swung open and a voice shouted, "Quick!"
Shavi led them in, horses and all, and then the doors slammed shut with a sound like the tolling of a bell.
Within the Abbey there was an abiding stillness. The thick stone walls muffled the noise of the terrible force without, but all Shavi was aware of was the thunder of the blood in his brain. The entire building was filled with the iron tang of the Blue Fire, too potent, he was sure, for the Fomorii to attempt to enter. Yet as he came to terms with the amazing fact that they were safe, he gradually took in his surroundings and was overcome with surprise.
The vast body of the Abbey was filled as far as he could see with pale, silent faces. Men and women, old, middle-aged and young, babies and children, all looking up with expressions riven by fear. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, turned towards the new arrivals, or slumped on pews or on the stone floor, at first glance barely human; sheep, he thought, even less than that.
But there was humanity behind the fear, although it was of a pathetic kind, of people desperately trying to cope with a paralysing disbelief that everything they understood had crumbled in an instant.
"Who are you?" It was the voice of the man who had spoken to them through the door. He was in his early fifties, stylishly dressed, with a sallow face, cropped grey hair and designer glasses. He appeared to notice the Tuatha De Danann for the first time. "Who are they? Are they-?"
"Friends." Shavi rested a calming hand on the man's shoulder. He glanced once more at the expectant mass. Around the edges of the nave were empty cans and boxes, the remains of whatever food supplies they had brought with them, but many of the faces looked hungry. "How long have you been in here?"
"From the moment it all blew up. It took everyone by surprise. We scrambled in here with what we could grab, a few provisions, not enough… How in heaven's name did you manage to get here? We thought everyone else must be dead by now." His voice died; there were tears in his eyes. "We can't go outside. A few tried it, to get more food." He shook his head, looked at his shoes.
Laura pulled Shavi over to one side. "This is a nightmare. They're either going to starve or go outside and get slaughtered."
"We are in the same predicament."
"Yes, but they're not like us. They're normal people. That shit is part of our job description, not theirs."
Shavi still couldn't comprehend how much she had altered. Not so long ago she would have been advocating self-preservation at all costs, and now she was urging them to accept their responsibility. Could someone really change that much? "You are right," he said, smiling. "We owe them what little hope we have, at the very least." He turned to the sallow-faced man. "Are you in charge here?"
He shook his head. "You want Professor Michell, I suppose. He's not really in charge. But he makes decisions. Any decisions that need making."
"Then," Shavi prompted, "could you take us to him?"
The nave was beautiful and awe-inspiring, with fabulous monuments on either side. An air of solemnity hung over it. As they passed through, brief hope flared in the eyes of the refugees. Some held out their hands like the Victorian poor, silently begging for food. A Nigerian woman, overweight in a too-tight coat, offered a tentative smile, her eyes flooded with tears. Children stared blankly into the shadows. A girl in a blue dress, Sunday-best smart, as if she'd been on her way to a special function when her life had been arrested, said, "Have you seen my mummy? I'm waiting for her." Babies shuddered with sobs drained of tears. Shavi and Laura tried to offer reassuring smiles to the first few, but the emotional cost was too great and they averted their eyes for the remainder of the long walk.
To distract herself, Laura nodded to a monument in the centre of the nave. "What's that?"
"The tomb of the Unknown Soldier." Shavi had stood in front of it before, but this time it was laden with meaning. "An unidentified British soldier brought back from a French battlefield during the Great War. He represents all the victims of that great tragedy, indeed, all the lowly warriors who have since given their lives in conflict."
Beyond the nave were the aisles to the choir, which was also packed with refugees. Shavi paused to examine the monuments that lined the walls. Now everything he saw was filled with so much meaning, the emotion was welling up and threatening to overflow. "This is what we are losing," he said gravely. "Not fast cars and computers and mobile phones. This is what truly matters." He pointed to each monument in turn. "Elgar. Purcell. John Wesley. William Wilberforce. Charles Darwin." He pointed towards the south transept. "Down there, Poets' Corner: Chaucer, Auden, Shakespeare, Shelley, Blake, Keats, Dryden, Spenser, Jonson, Milton, the Brontes, Wordsworth, Tennyson, Coleridge, Dickens, Kipling-"
"Don't get maudlin on me, Shav-ster," Laura said gloomily. She wandered off ahead.
Eventually the sallow-faced man brought them to St. Edward the Confessor's Chapel, the sacred heart of the abbey where its most precious relics lay. Here a man in his sixties, with shoulder-length, straggly grey hair, sat wearily in a Gothic, high-backed chair. He was painfully thin, his wrists protruding skele tally from the fraying arms of an old, woollen overcoat. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his face suggested a man burdened by the greatest of worries, but underneath it Shavi saw integrity and intelligence.
The sallow-faced man hurried over and whispered in his ear. Without looking up, the Professor gestured exhaustedly for Shavi and the others to approach. When they were in front of him, he cast a brief eye over them, but if he felt any shock at the sight of the Tuatha De Danann, he didn't register it. "More strays sheltering from the storm?" His voice was achingly tired.
"We are here to confront the invaders," Shavi said.
He counted them off silently. "So many of you. Did you really need to come so mob-handed?"
"We're only part of it," Laura said. "The best part, sure, but there are others. Lots of them. There's a war going on." She gestured towards the Tuatha De Danann. "These-"
The Professor acknowledged them with a nod. "Old gods made new again. I expected they were around, though I haven't seen any of them till now."
"Who are you?" Shavi asked.
"The wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time." He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes for a long period. "An academic. Just what the world needs now. Even better, one versed in anthropology." He laughed bitterly.
"So how did you get the top job?" Laura watched the sallow-faced man slope away.
"Someone had to do it. Not that there's anything to do, apart from preventing everyone from killing themselves. Though even that may be an exercise in futility."
The Tuatha De Danann shifted awkwardly until Baccharus silently motioned to Shavi that he was taking them back to the horses.
"So, introductions. My name is Brian Michell. And you are?"
Shavi and Laura introduced themselves before briefly outlining what was happening in the city. Michell listened thoughtfully, nodding at the correct moments. When they had finished, he said, "When I first saw those horrible things out there I knew they were the template for all the worst things in our old myths. There was something inexpressibly ancient about them, something laden with symbolism. It was only a matter of time before the ones responsible for the other archetypes appeared."
"You'd get on well with our own old git," Laura said. "Same language, same old bollocks."
"I still haven't worked out why they haven't come in here to tear us apart."
Shavi explained as best he could about the Blue Fire, but Michell picked up on the concept quickly. "Good old woolly-minded New Agers. I always knew they were on to something. The spiritual wellhead, eh? Then I suppose it's only natural this place is a potent source of it. It's been a sacred spot for as long as man's been around, so the legends say. A divine island in prehistoric times, bounded by the Thames and the two arms of the River Tyburn that's now buried in pipes. The old Isle of Thorns, sacred to the Druids. Later, sacred to Apollo, where his temple was sited. Home of numerous other now long-lost religious monuments. And still giving up all it has to our generation. Amazing." He forced a smile.
"What have you been doing for all those people?" Laura asked.
"Ensuring the little food we had was distributed fairly. Not much to do in that quarter now. In the early days, mediate in disputes. Try to keep them from taking their frustrations out on each other. They turned to me because they thought, being an educated man, I know about things. Now isn't that a laugh? I haven't even been able to look after my own life. The wife, God bless her, left long ago. Sick of all my cant. And the booze, I suppose. Haven't had a drink since I came in here. Now isn't that a thing? They should have examined my curriculum vitae a little more closely."
"Whatever you say, I am sure you are the right man for the job. You have held them together," Shavi said. Michell shrugged, wouldn't meet Shavi's eye. "I would like to talk to them," Shavi continued.
Michell chewed on a flayed nail, his eyes now fixed on Shavi's face. "And say what to them? I don't want you making their last days any more miserable."
"He's not going to do that." Laura grinned. "Shavi here's the preacher-boy. He's going to uplift their souls."
"I want to tell them there is still hope."
The Professor winced, shook his head. "I think we've all had enough fairy stories."
Shavi rested a hand on the Professor's thin fingers, which felt unbearably cold. "I ask you to trust me."
A tremor ran through Shavi as he ascended to the pulpit and looked down at the array of pale faces turned towards him. There was too much emotion there. It made him feel he wasn't up to the task, not even slightly. I am just a London boy, he wanted to say. Not a shaman, not a hero, not a saviour.
But after a moment, his heart took over and the words flowed to his mouth without any thought. "For centuries, this has been a place of miracles..
They made their base in one of the Sir Christopher Wren-designed twin towers on the western side. Outside, night had fallen; without any lights in the city, the Abbey felt like it was suspended in space.
The Tuatha De Danann settled easily in one corner of the gloomy old room and rested their eyes. Shavi was still not sure if they actually slept.
"That was a good thing you did," Laura said quietly as she, Shavi and Baccharus sat around a stubby candle from the Abbey's store. "You could see it in their faces. What you did for them… amazing. I couldn't have done it. No one else could have done it." She gave Shavi's thigh a squeeze. "You missed your calling, preacher-boy."
"Hope is a human essential."
"Hope is essential for all things in the sweep of existence." Baccharus stared at the flickering candle flame. It is common currency, too often in short supply." He looked up at Shavi. "And to give hope is the greatest gift of all."
"Oh, don't. His head's big enough already." Laura rested on Shavi's shoulder. After a moment she said, "So what are we going to do? We can't sit here forever."
"I fear we have been removed from the conflict," Baccharus said. "Unless my people can fight their way through to us, or one of the others achieves something remarkable that changes the situation, there is little we can do." His voice suggested he didn't expect it to happen.
"But it's so pathetic," Laura protested. "We didn't do anything! We barely got into the city!"
"No," Shavi said. "I have to ensure the cauldron is there for the final battle. Laura and I both need to be there. We have to find a way."
Baccharus held out his hand in equanimity. "But there is nothing we can do. We are surrounded by a city of Night Walkers where we cannot move the slightest step without being cut down. The wise one accepts when events are beyond control."
Laura looked from Baccharus to Shavi. "So we sit here waiting to die?"
"Or," Shavi said, "waiting to live."
At some point the quiet conversation became a distant drone and Laura's eyelids grew heavy, although a dim part of her was amazed that she could even consider sleeping. When she next stirred she realised the talk had stopped. Baccharus was lying next to the guttering candle, his eyes closed. Shavi was nowhere to be seen.
She stood up and stretched, although since her transformation her limbs no longer really ached. But she did feel the cold more, and her breath was clouding. She pulled her jacket tightly around her, the chill of the stone flags rising through the soles of her boots.
She found Shavi in an adjoining corridor lined with windows that looked out over the city. She might not have seen him in the pervasive gloom if not for a brief instant when the smoke and mist cleared to allow the moonlight to break through. Then he was limned in silver, like a ghost, leaning against the wall.
As Laura approached quietly, she was disturbed to see a strange cast to his face. It was heavy with dark thoughts and deep troubles, and she suddenly wondered whether his experience in the Grim Lands had affected him more than they thought. What if it had twisted a part of him, and even he didn't know?
She was considering retreating when he looked up to see her. His warm smile instantly dispelled all her doubts.
"Planning a suicide mission?" she asked.
He held out an arm so she could slide in next to him. "I was thinking about the others."
She felt warm and secure wrapped against his body. The smell of him brought back memories in a rush and she was surprised how happy they made her feel, but there was an edge of sadness to them as well. "That time we did the monkey dance in Glastonbury," she began, "I was being a little manipulator."
"I know."
"Not in a bad way. I just wanted to get close to you. I thought nobody would do that if I didn't try to play them. Anyway, I'm sorry. I should have been more honest."
"Why do you feel the need to tell me this now?"
She thought about this for a moment. "If I screw up… if I'm not up to what you expected of me… I just don't want you thinking I'm all bad. Too bad."
"I could never think badly of you, Laura."
"Yeah, well, you don't know what lies ahead. I might run off screaming at a vital moment. Or something."
"I have faith in you." He gave her a squeeze. "I wonder where the others are now. Ryan and Ruth should have realised how dense the Fomorii forces are in the city by now. I hope their regiment of the Tuatha De Danann had more success than ours."
"The worst thing is that we might never find out, just be stuck here while everything winds down, not knowing if the people we care about are alive or dead."
"And Church-"
"Church will be fine." She nuzzled into Shavi's shoulder. "He's got God on his side. Too damn decent to screw up."
"It must hurt you to still love him."
"Not really. Yes, I still love him. But I've got my head round the fact that we're never going to be together." She put on a fake voice. "It's just one of those terribly tragic love stories."
"It is not the end, you know."
She laughed silently. "That's a good thing to say in this predicament. But if we're just talking about our stupid personal lives, then I know you're right. For the first time I feel optimistic about me. About what I could do. Which is ludicrous when there might only be a day left, and I've got green blood running through my veins. But, you know, I feel… hopeful. And I never thought I'd feel that in my life."
Shavi rested his head against hers, smelling her hair, relishing the new aromas she generated since her change. Above all, he was happy for her, even if there were only hours left. "What do you want to do now?" he asked quietly.
"I just want you to hold me here like I was some pathetic child. And I want to watch the dawn come up with you."
Silence draped across them in the deep dark, with only the occasional soughing of the wind to remind them there was a world beyond their own sphere. And there was peace for both of them.
When dawn rose in intermittent bursts of gold and red through the shifting smoke, Laura was asleep on the floor in Shavi's arms. His thoughts had been too troubled to sleep himself, but the magical colour ignited in the corridor by the light through the stained glass was enough to lift his mood.
"A beautiful day." Michell was standing in the doorway. "I'm sorry-irony doesn't go down too well at this time in the morning."
Shavi slipped out from under Laura without waking her and wandered over to greet the Professor.
"I just wanted to say thank you for what you said to everyone last night," Michell continued. "It did them the world of good. I'm a little too cynical to say I was affected by it myself."
"I am glad I could be of some help." Shavi glanced out of the one window he had left open the previous night. "Has the food gone completely?"
"There's a little left. For emergencies."
"Then I suggest you divide it up amongst them this morning."
Michell searched Shavi's face and then nodded slowly, chewing on his lip. "I'll arrange it. Do you have any plans for the day? Any sights to see? I thought I'd work on a few lectures myself."
Shavi smiled. "No. No plans."
Behind them Laura stirred and yawned loudly, eventually making her way to them, still sleepy eyed. A racking shiver brought her fully awake. "When do you think the end'll start coming down?"
"It should not be too long."
"How do you know that?" Michell asked.
Shavi pointed to the open window. Laura and the Professor peered out together.
The Fomorii stood shoulder-to-shoulder everywhere they looked, packing the main drag of Victoria Street and every surrounding street to the dim distance. The entire cityscape gleamed an oily black in the wan sunlight. None of them made the slightest sound, nor did they move an inch: an army of sable statues. And all their faces were turned up to the window where Shavi, Laura and the Professor stood.
Waiting.
chapter eighteen
down to the river to pray
re you going to talk to me at all?" Ruth had been keeping one eye on Veitch long enough to know he was fighting to ignore her.
She instantly regretted speaking when he flashed her a glance that was so harsh it jolted her. "What do you expect? Happy smiles and blowing kisses?"
"Not from you, no."
His long hair, lashed by the cold north wind, obscured his face so she couldn't read his response, but she had watched his eyes made darker by a brooding brow ever since they had picked up the last leg of the Ml. His handsome face had been transformed by the icy set of his features. Sometimes, when she saw him like that, he frightened her.
The Tuatha De Danann who rode in front, behind and on either side had added to her loneliness by alienating her ever since they had left the camp. They had taken to Veitch immediately, encouraging him to strip off his shirt so they could examine with delight the fantastic tattoos that covered his torso, so she knew it wasn't because she was a Fragile Creature. She had endured enough similar ignorance from men during her working life not to take it to heart. With what lay ahead, she could have done with a friend for support and she hated Veitch a little for not being there for her, even though she had no right to ask that of him.
At the end of the motorway they took the North Circular. It gave her a strange frisson to be riding a horse along deserted roads on which she had queued irritatedly in backed-up traffic so many times. At least the Tuatha De Danann force gave her some confidence. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands, armed with bizarre weapons that made her blood grow cold just to look at them. They stretched as far back as she could see, and fanned out slightly on either side ahead so the force resembled an arrow driving into the contaminated heart of the city. Lugh and Nuada led the way, both of them enthused with a warrior spirit that sickened her. She didn't take any pleasure in fighting, certainly not in killing; it was a job that they had an obligation to fulfil, but that was all. And she also despised the jealousy, or contempt, she felt coming off the two gods at her possession of the Spear. The weapon rested on her back in a specially made harness Lugh had grudgingly handed over, its power warming through her clothes to invigorate her spirit.
They broke off from the North Circular, passing down North End Road until they arrived at Hampstead Heath. The expanse of greenery was looking a little washed-out in the October chill, but it had been protected from the ash falls by its lofty position above the city and the direction of the wind.
From the heights all they could see was the pall of thick smoke and mist that drifted along the Thames Valley. Occasionally, though, it shifted enough for the black tower to loom up ominously in the east.
A blast from a strange horn resembling a conch shell brought the force to an abrupt halt. Ahead, Ruth could see Lugh and Nuada in deep discussion. After a moment they beckoned to Veitch. It was noticeable that they were ignoring her, but out of bloody-mindedness she spurred her horse to keep pace behind Veitch.
Both of the gods kept their eyes fixed on Veitch's face as they spoke. "We are debating crossing this heathland," Nuada said. "It is a wide expanse that could be dangerous."
Veitch scanned the heath. "If there are any of the Bastards out there, there can't be many. There aren't that many places to hide."
"The Night Walkers are a cunning breed," Nuada said.
"I say we continue," Lugh said. "It would not do to waste the hours following the edge. And if there are Night Walkers, they will fall before the might of the Golden Ones, as they always must."
Veitch rubbed his chin. "Well, I don't know. I wouldn't like to be caught out there."
"I heard you were a mighty warrior," Lugh gibed. "That strangest of things, a Fragile Creature who is not fragile!"
Ruth willed Veitch not to be swayed, but after a moment's thought, he shrugged. "It's your call, then. Let's get to it."
Ruth sighed, but none of them looked towards her.
When they returned to their positions, Ruth said to Veitch, "Why did you give in to them? You know better than they do. You're good at what you do, Ryan. You should have more confidence in yourself."
He grunted unintelligibly, but renewed his effort to scan the heath. Clusters of trees dotted the rolling grassland, with thicker woodland to the north. They were aiming for Parliament Hill, where they could press down speedily into Kentish Town, and then on into Camden, Islington and finally the City. Ruth was dreading the final leg of the assault where the winding streets and soaring buildings would make any mass approach impossible. She expected a long, gruelling fight to their destination, and if the Fomorii could hold them off for just thirty-six hours it would end in failure. If only there were a better way, she thought.
The Tuatha De Danann fanned out across the heath, giving Ruth an even more impressive view of their numbers. So concentrated were they that her perception could barely cope; the gods lost their individuality, became the untarnished power that lay at the core of them, merging into one, bright glow. It reminded her of a sea of gold, licking up to an oil-stained beach. The sight was comforting and she relaxed a little. The Fomorii wouldn't stand a chance.
They moved across the heath slowly. Nuada and Lugh were leading cautiously, constantly scanning the terrain. Veitch kept his eyes on the tree line.
Briefly the sun broke through the thick cloud cover, warming Ruth's face. She closed her eyes and went with the gentle rocking of her mount, enjoying the aroma of greenery the breeze brought from the north. In her mind she pictured a perfect autumn day, walking with Church amongst a wood turning gold, red and brown somewhere peaceful, Scotland perhaps, or the New Forest. Her mind plucked a soundtrack from her memory that had been pressuring to come forward since the journey began.
"What are you thinking?"
She opened her eyes to see Veitch watching her suspiciously. "I can't get an old song out of my head. It's sort of gospelly, traditional, but it was in a George Clooney film a while back. It's called-"
In the blink of an eye, the Fomorii were there. They rose up out of the ground, not there, then there a second later, an opposing army created from thin air. By the time she had realised what was happening, chaos had erupted.
Ruth was caught in a hurricane. Her nightmares of the forthcoming confrontation had suggested it would be as sickeningly ferocious and bloody as any mediaeval battle, but what she saw around her was much, much worse. The Fomorii wielded their ugly, serrated swords like propellers, hacking and slashing in a relentless whirl. Limbs, heads and other body parts showered all around, filling the air with a blizzard of golden moths.
The Tuatha De Danann were just as brutal. Their weapons were unleashed in furious rounds, turning the Fomorii into a mist of black droplets or a thick sludge with only the hint of component parts. And where the fighting was too close, they resorted to their swords, jabbing and hacking as fast as their enemy. In the fury of movement and the ear-splitting din of combat, with the mud and grue covering all, Ruth could barely tell them apart.
Veitch was matching them all for ferocity. His sword whisked around with the efficiency and blurring speed of a machine, while he somehow managed to manoeuvre his horse back and forth to attack and retreat, even in close quarters. It was a staggering display of instinctive ability that left Ruth breathless. That was why he had been chosen: he wasn't just good at the role that had been presented to him, he was the ultimate warrior.
The Spear was in her right hand-she didn't recall withdrawing it-and she clutched the reins with her left. Numerous Night Walkers fell at the touch of the weapon, but she was nowhere near as good as Veitch. In fact, she felt a liability. Her own abilities were useless in that kind of situation, while the sheer senseless slaughter left her unable to think clearly.
Veitch appeared to sense this for he suddenly spurred his horse round to her side. "Let's get out of this fucking hell-hole!"
With his sword cutting down any opposition he drove the horse in as direct a line as he could to the open ground beyond the battlefield. Ruth was quick to follow in his wake, bracing the Spear against her side to take down any opposition Veitch missed. By the time they had forced their way through the final ranks, her ribs felt as if they had been beaten with metal bars.
Veitch continued until they had put a hundred yards or more between them and the fighting, then he rounded to survey the scene. "Shit. Look at that." His voice was barely more than a whisper.
From their new perspective the true horror and brutality of the fight could be seen. The Fomorii and Tuatha De Danann never turned from a confrontation, driving on from one fight to the next until they eventually dropped. The heath was thick with the essence of both of them-hundreds had already been slaughtered-but the Fomorii had a slight advantage in that they had no concern for their own preservation; one would sacrifice itself so another could gain a better position in a fight. The shimmer of golden moths over the scene added an incongruous touch of beauty to the horror, so that after a moment Ruth felt she was watching a strange, detached cartoon, shifting in a syrupy slow motion as golden snow fell languorously.
"Are they going to fight to the last man?" she said when she couldn't bear to look any more.
"They're not men." Veitch was seized with a cold anger. "They've forgotten the job. We're going to lose everything because they're locked up in their own stupid, bleedin' rivalry."
Before Ruth could answer, their attention was caught by frantic movement in the air down in the valley. Rising from the drifting smoke were black shapes that looked like flies from their perspective. "Fomorii," Ruth said. "Flying ones."
It was never easy to get a fix on the fluid shapes of the Fomorii, but Ruth was sure she could make out wings like a bat, but gleaming and rigid, as though they were made of metal. As the creatures fell down towards the heath, their insectile body plates shifted, folded out and slotted into place until they were covered with a hideous ridged and pitted armour. Numerous horns rimmed the skull while the eyes glowed a Satanic red from deep within Stygian orbits.
As Ruth and Veitch watched, a pair of the flying Night Walkers broke away from the formation and targeted the two of them. "Come on!" Veitch turned his horse in a bid to outrun them.
The flying Fomorii were like small jets, flattening their wings against their backs to build more speed. As their shadow fell over Ruth, she threw herself to one side. It was enough to avoid a killing blow from talons of black steel but she still felt a ringing impact on the side of her head, knocking her from the horse. She hit the ground hard, seeing stars, feeling a wetness seeping into her hair.
When she next looked up, the two creatures had zoned in on Veitch. They hovered, avoiding his blows, then diving in between his sword thrusts with the speed of hummingbirds. Even so, they'd only managed to land a couple of minor blows on him; blood trickled from a cut on his temple, another on his cheek.
As Ruth pushed herself dazedly to her feet, she saw Witch feint and then rip his sword along one of the creature's bellies. Thick, black liquid gushed out, steaming in the cold air. It narrowly missed Veitch, splattering on the grass where it sizzled like acid. But in the Fomor's dying spasm it had knocked Witch's sword from his hand, and the other one was preparing to sweep in for the kill.
Though her head felt like cotton wool, Ruth acted on instinct. She snatched up the Spear from where it had fallen and hurled it with all her strength. As the creature dived down, the Spear rammed through its skull, neck and out of its belly. It dropped to the ground like a stone.
Veitch snapped round towards her. At first his face was unreadable, but then a grin crept across it. "So you can be as big a nasty bastard as the rest of us."
After reclaiming the Spear and Ruth's horse, they only had a second or two to consider their options before they realised a section of the Tuatha De Danann force was rushing towards them. The flying Fomorii were wreaking havoc amongst the outer reaches of the Golden Ones, but hadn't yet progressed to those fighting in the thickest of the melee. It was obvious they had tilted the balance firmly in the direction of the Fomorii.
Lugh and Nuada patently recognised this for they were in the forefront of the retreat. The conch-like horn sounded insistently above the clash of battle and the bloodthirsty screeches of the Fomorii. The Tuatha De Danann attempted to extricate themselves from the thick of the fighting. Many fell in the course of the retreat.
Soon Ruth and Veitch's horses thundered across the heath. The airborne creatures continued to harry those at the rear, but away from the battle there was more room to use Goibhniu's weapons. Once a handful had plummeted from the sky the other Fomorii hung back, waiting for the right opportunity. Dropping back further, the Night Walker forces regrouped to drive the Tuatha De Danann eastwards; once the gods hit the built-up areas, their retreat would fragment.
Ruth could see this was not lost on Nuada. His face was drained of the arrogance that had turned his earlier smiles into a sneer; a stony cast hid his concern.
Veitch knew it too, was probably aware of it before anyone else. "We can't keep running!" he yelled above the pounding of a thousand hooves.
"Then what do you suggest?" Nuada snapped.
The thoughtful expression that crossed Veitch's face brought a smile to Ruth's lips; she recognised it instantly. "There's one route that'll take all this lot, horses and all, right into the heart of where we want to go," he said.
"Then why was it not proposed earlier?"
"Because it's probably bleedin' dangerous." Veitch turned to Ruth. "The tube."
Ruth was struggling to keep up, but Veitch's suggestion gave her added impetus. "Of course! The whole city's got tunnels running under it everywhere!"
"Not just the train tunnels. There's other shit down there. Secret passages for the Government and the army. Disused lines and everything."
Nuada reined in his mount; they had reached the eastern edge of the heath. Within a couple of minutes, the rest of the Tuatha De Danann would be milling around them, jammed into a bottleneck and ready for the slaughter.
"Make haste! There is little time!" Ruth thought she sensed a hint of respect in Nuada's voice.
"Okay, here's the deal. If we all head to the nearest station the Bastards'll follow us down and pick us off. But what they really want is you, Lugh and the other top dogs. Me too, probably. We're going to draw some of them off, try to lose them. Ruth's going to lead as many of your lot as she can to Archway station and then move up with some more to Highgate." He winced. "The rest are going to have to fend for themselves."
"Agreed. They can honour themselves by holding off the Night Walkers until we reach our destination." He made to go before turning back to Veitch. "You are a true champion of your kind, Brother of Dragons." And then he was away, passing on the plan to his lieutenants.
The flush of pride rose up in Veitch's cheeks and he tried to turn away before Ruth could see. She rode up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder so she could pull him closer to whisper in his ear. "You're the hero, Ryan. Everybody knows it."
He looked deep into her face, unable to find any words that could express his thoughts. Instead he pulled her closer to kiss her just once, on the cheek; it was a kiss for old time's sake. And then he spurred his horse to round up the men he needed.
Veitch, Lugh and Nuada led a band of about thirty eastwards through the pleasant streets that bordered the heath. Within a couple of minutes they were at the place Veitch had identified from his encyclopaedic strategic memory. Highgate Cemetery brooded behind stone walls and chained iron gates, a maze of paths amongst the crumbling Victorian monuments to the dead, festooned with ivy, shadowed by clusters of dark, overhanging trees.
Lugh smashed down the main gate with one blow of his boot. They drove their horses deep into the heart of the cemetery where they dismounted. Veitch knew he had made the right choice: plenty of places to hide amongst the stones and mausoleums, the groves and hollows and mounds that gave no clear line of sight.
Yet he couldn't help a shudder when he looked round at the stones. It was the Grey Lands all over again. Images of the dead beneath his feet rose unbidden into his mind, and however much he tried he couldn't stifle the thought of them listening and shifting, gradually clawing their way up to the light.
Before he made any further move, he climbed into the low, twisted branches of an ancient yew. Through the thick greenery he could just make out the cemetery perimeter. He had been right there too: the Fomorii were milling around in the streets beyond, confused. Their hive-mind was good for any obvious confrontation, but anything involving guile and difficult choices left them at odds. It helped that he could not see any that stood out as leaders. No flapping crows, no enormous, powerful warriors like the one that had pursued them from Edinburgh.
After a moment the main body of the force set off to track Ruth through the trees, but they had hesitated long enough for her to have a good headstart. A large group turned towards the cemetery. A chill ran through Veitch as they flowed over the walls and amongst the stones like shadows at twilight. Several of the flying Fomorii joined them, swooping low over the graves, searching for any sign of their prey.
Veitch dropped from the branches to Nuada and Lugh. "You know what guerrilla warfare is? We split up into ones and twos, pick off as many as we can while we make our way across the cemetery. We meet up on the other side and head to Highgate station."
"What about the horses?" Nuada asked.
"We scatter them. They'll confuse things."
Nuada and Lugh barked something to the others in a language Veitch couldn't understand. A moment later they had slipped into the surroundings like ghosts.
A film of sweat covered Veitch's entire body despite the cold. He stepped out from behind the lichen-streaked obelisk towering over his head into plain view of three Fomorii, who moved cautiously along the path two hundred yards away. They heralded their discovery with a barrage of monkey shrieks.
The other Fomorii nearby were too distracted by the wildly galloping horses to heed the call. The mounts ran back and forth along the winding paths, in sight just long enough for their presence to be registered but disappearing before the Fomorii could see if there was a rider on their backs.
Veitch's heart thundered as the Fomorii started towards him. They moved so much quicker than their bulk suggested: efficient killing machines filled with unquenchable energy. There was something hypnotic about their power that kept him rooted and they were dangerously close by the time he had turned and was running over the lip of the hill. He knew he wouldn't be able to outrun them for long.
The strain of the last few days was beginning to tell as he darted from the path amongst the stones in the hope that it would slow down his pursuers. Exhaustion brought a dull, aching heat to his thigh muscles, his usually bountiful reserves of energy close to empty.
The Fomorii veered from the path, smashing down grave markers that had stood for a hundred years with a flex of their leg muscles or a sweep of their arms. The wind picked up the thick, unpleasant musk of them; every time Witch smelled it he felt sick to his stomach. Now he didn't even have the strength to combat the queasiness. He hurdled a tilting cross, ripping his calf on one of the arms, then landed awkwardly back on the path. He was convinced he had broken his ankle, but after he limped a few more paces he realised it was probably only a twist, but it was enough to hamper him.
A chunk of old stone crashed against a statue of an angel, missing his head by only an inch. He rounded a bend in the path and came up on a large mausoleum covered with so much ivy it looked like a natural formation.
Gripping the ivy hard, he hauled himself on to the roof to leap to a tree branch beyond. His reactions were still sharp enough to catch the shadow falling across him. The talons of one of the flying Fomorii raked the air where his head had been. Quickly he lashed upwards with his silver hand. Nails extracted as Nuada had showed him, slicing through the creature's left leg. It lost control of its flight and he hacked again, half-severing a wing. It crashed down amongst the graves, still alive but badly wounded.
He didn't have time to catch his breath. The Fomorii were now dragging themselves up the mausoleum, but they were slowed by the ivy, which was being pulled away by their bulk; they were still managing to find enough of a foothold to progress.
Veitch leaped for the branch and swung, dropping down on to another path. Pain flared in his ankle as he landed. He stifled a yell, clutched at it and hobbled off as the path wound round into a dense thicket of trees.
A minute later the Fomorii were there. But as they turned into the shadowy grove they were confronted by Nuada and Lugh poised on either side of the path.
Veitch was leaning against a tree, taking the weight off his ankle. "Could be worse," he said with a shrug. "You could be dead."
The Fomorii were still struggling with their surprise as Lugh stepped in and gutted one, while Nuada lopped the head off another. As the third started to transform into something more offensive they both swung their swords to dismember it.
"Oh, well." Veitch eyed the steaming corpses with a confident grin.
Across the cemetery, golden shapes flitted like autumn shadows. The remnants of gleaming sable bodies hung from crosses and angels, were strewn across stone boxes or were slumped against the walls of mausoleums where the ivy flapped against their caustic cavities.
Veitch guided it all with a consummate eye for detail, and when he was convinced enough damage had been done in the limited time they had available, he directed the Tuatha De Danann to depart. They slipped amongst the stones to the perimeter wall, and even with Veitch limping, they were not seen once.
Ruth waited in the shadows of Highgate Station ticket office, watching the loosed horses canter along the road in the fading afternoon light. Hundreds if not thousands of the beasts were now roaming through the streets of North London, covering their tracks with great efficiency.
Barely a quarter of the Tuatha De Danann force had streamed down the cramped winding staircases of Archway tube station under her guidance before she had decided to move on to avoid the Fomorii. Many more now waited at the foot of the terrifyingly deep shaft at Highgate, the deepest-if her memory served correct-on the entire tube network. Without any of the lifts working, it had taken them an age to filter through the tiny station and on to the stairs, clutching makeshift torches from any wood they could find in the vicinity. And all the time her heart had been in her mouth, expecting the Fomorii to sweep down on them when they were in no position to defend themselves.
But somehow they had done it, leaving her to wait alone in painful anticipation for Veitch and the others to arrive. She clutched the Spear close to her side for comfort, feeling the warm pulse of it, the soothing heat. Strangely it appeared slightly different from when she had first received it, less rough, with more delicate inlays of brass and silver.
She hadn't given a thought to what the next twenty-four hours would bring; indeed, if she were honest with herself, she would have admitted that for several weeks she had anticipated a terrible end for all of them. It didn't frighten her anymore. When things were so likely, you made your peace with the outcome and moved on. As she stood there, she was surprised and a little disturbed to realise the worst thought that crawled around her head was that Veitch would not make it. Had his uncontrollable anger driven him to make some stupid mistake? Had his overweening bravado left him lying in a pool of blood in some Godforsaken backstreet? She was afraid of examining the subject too deeply for fear of what she would find.
She loved Church-she knew she did-but a part of her still had deep affection for Veitch; more than friendship, less than amore, not enough to make a song, more than enough to fill her with a consuming sadness that she might never see him again. Even her emotions had been so much simpler before the big change; now she couldn't even count on herself.
When she saw the glimmer of gold skin in the grey streets, and Veitch at the centre of them, dark hair flying in the breeze, she wiped her eyes, heaved in several deep breaths and turned towards the stairs.
"You're falling apart, Ryan. Losing a hand, now twisting an ankle." Ruth held the torch higher. The darkness receded along the walls of the stairwell like a living creature.
"We all heal quick." Veitch limped down the steps heavily, clutching on to the rail for support. Behind them Nuada, Lugh and the other Tuatha De Danann traipsed silently.
Veitch's mood had turned dark once more. Ruth saw it in his face the moment he had entered the tube station. Once he had passed into the gloom of the stairwell he locked himself off even further, his replies to her questions clipped and curt. There was something ineffably dangerous about him. In its milder form it was attractive, but when he got like this she was glad he was on their side.
By the time they reached the platform, Ruth's heart was pounding and her breath was short. She was surprised and disturbed by how much the claustrophobic darkness was affecting her; even with the torches, it was impossible to see more than a few feet. Although she'd been on that platform several times before, in that state it was oppressive and alien. She was acutely aware of the massive weight of earth piled up over her head. The air was stale without the circulation system working and it smelled of damp and burnt oil. It was also extremely cold. With an effort, she fought back a desperate urge to get back to the light.
"Where's the rest of them?" Veitch asked.
"I sent them down the line to rendezvous with the others at Archway." Her voice sounded strained, with incipient panic tightening its grip around her airways.
"You know it's a bleedin' maze down here. They could get lost-"
"Sorry," she snapped, sarcastically. "I foolishly thought there wasn't any time to lose."
"All right. I suppose we just have to take chances." He lowered himself down and slid off the lip of the platform on to the tracks.
Ruth hesitated a moment before following suit. She moved in close to Veitch. Lugh and a couple of the other Tuatha De Danann led the way cautiously, while the rest guarded the rear.
At the end of the platform, the black hole of the tunnel loomed up in the flickering torchlight; a mouth ready to swallow them, Ruth thought. Her skin grew cold as she stared into the darkness and she was overcome with a sudden premonition of a grave and none of them ever seeing the light again.
"What's that?" Her heart rattled frantically when she glimpsed a fleeting movement on the edge of the light.
Everyone froze. "Didn't see anything," Veitch whispered.
"There's definitely something there." Her voice was taut.
Lugh had found some oily rags on the tracks, which he tied into a large knot and lit with his torch. He whirled it once round his head and hurled it along the tunnel in front. The shadows rushed fearfully along the arc of the tunnel, but what was caught in the light for the briefest moment made Ruth shudder.
A sea of rats were frozen in the sudden glare, from wall to wall and as far as the light carried, their eyes glittering coldly. The sickening tableau was there only for an instant. As the burning rag fell, they retreated frantically, one brown-furred mass, rippling sinuously, until a second later the entire area was clear. The sound of scratching on metal rails faded away down the tunnel.
"Good job we have light," Veitch said. "They're fierce little bastards when they're hungry or cornered. I wouldn't fancy our chances against them in the dark."
"There were so many of them!"
"These tunnels were always infested. The whole city was. They used to say you were never more than three feet away from a rat. I expect it's worse now, with all the bodies and everything."
The image conjured by Veitch's comment made Ruth sick. "You know there's a danger some of the tunnels could be flooded," she said, changing the subject. "None of the pumps are working."
"That's the least of our worries."
"Do you think the Fomorii are down here?"
"They might use some of the tunnel system, but they'll be going about their business. They won't be looking out for us."
Ruth thought about this for a moment. "Are you sure? They've always been pretty smart in their planning. Second-guessing us, setting up all those backup plans if the main one didn't work. I know Calatin's gone, but there's always Mollecht and God knows what else-"
"Well, you be the bleedin' strategist, then."
"I'm just offering an opinion. I'm allowed to speak, you know."
"That's all you bleedin' well do."
"Get lost." She shoved him hard so he fell on to his injured ankle.
He cursed vehemently and turned, his face transformed by fury, his fists bunched. It was so terrifying she dropped the torch, which sputtered and fizzled but didn't go out.
"Give me that!"
"No!" She fended him off and snatched up the burning wood.
"If the torches go out we're screwed!"
"I know that!"
"Well, keep a hold of it then, you stupid-"
"What?" She rounded on him.
"Nothing." He realised he'd overstepped the mark.
"What were you going to say?" Her voice was edgy and shrill.
"Come on." He marched on ahead sheepishly. "Don't do this here," he said under his breath, "not in front of them."
"Who cares what they think?"
"I do."
They continued in silence for several minutes while Ruth's seething temper calmed. Finally she said, "You should see a therapist about all that repressed anger. The slightest thing and it comes bursting out."
He wasn't going to answer, but then he said quietly, "It never used to be a problem."
"You've had it as long as I've known you. And let me tell you, it's a liability. You fly off the handle at the slightest thing and you stop thinking rationally-"
"All right."
"We can't afford that-"
"I said all right!" He realised a second later that he'd done it again, but instead of apologising he speeded up his step until he caught up with Lugh and the point men.
They continued that way for half an hour, with Ruth wrapped in a shroud of loneliness, listening to the unforgiving echoes bounce crazily around, hinting at strangers nearby but never quite revealing anything. No one spoke; the atmosphere had grown more intense the further they progressed into the tunnels. Ruth couldn't shake the feeling there was some terrible threat lying in front of them, staying only a step or two ahead of the advancing torchlight.
Veitch kept his head down, but she could tell from his rigid shoulders that he was aware of her behind him. She wondered if she had been too harsh on him; the strain had been making her increasingly snappy. The niggle of guilt she felt told her it probably wasn't as one-sided as she had pretended. Veitch had performed an exemplary service; if only the stupid emotional side didn't keep getting in the way, she would be able to give him the wholehearted praise he really deserved.
As they passed through Archway station, the torchlight flared up over the tiled walls and a nagging doubt grew full-born. "Where are the others?" she asked to no one in particular.
Veitch hesitated before turning round. "Probably took a wrong turn somewhere," he replied. Ruth thought he sounded a little abashed.
"With a whole army traipsing through here, you'd expect to hear some echoes. Wouldn't you?"
They all halted to listen. There was nothing at all; the air felt dead. "Maybe they accidentally crossed over to the northbound tunnel," Veitch suggested. "Who knows? There might be a whole load of service tunnels we don't even know about. In the dark back there anyone could have taken a branching track without knowing."
Veitch could easily have been right, but the weight on their hearts grew heavier nonetheless.
Ruth lost all track of time. The only sign of the passing minutes was the growing ache in her legs and the dull parade of platforms that had once meant nothing more than a commuter liminal zone between work and home. Now they were stations on the road to Hell, their names emblazoned on her mind: Tufnell Park, Kentish Town, Camden Town, Euston, King's Cross, Angel. She knew the next one would be Old Street and then they would be in the heart of the City. And by that time, she guessed, they would know exactly what troubles they were facing.
At one point, near King's Cross, they had heard the dim sound of clashing weapons and shouts echoing from one of the myriad tunnels converged there. They presumed it was the main Tuatha De Danann force encountering resistance somewhere.
Nuada was keen to reunite with his comrades to offer support if needed, but Veitch argued fiercely against this. The tunnel system was so complex the chances of locating them were slim-they could spend days wandering around down there, he stressed. And time was not on their side; at least some of them had to reach their destination.
After a heated debate, Nuada once again gave in, though Ruth could sense his patience with a Fragile Creature was growing thin.
Veitch came back to her side once Old Street and Moorgate stations were behind them. The air had grown several degrees colder and there was a deeply unpleasant smell that Ruth didn't want to examine too closely.
"Back in your good books now, am I?" she asked tartly and instantly hated herself, but she had been unable to resist the gibe.
This time it washed over Veitch; he had other things on his mind. "Bank next. We'll have to go up top soon." He paused. "That fighting we heard must mean there are Fomorii down here. We've been lucky not to meet any of them."
"Luck doesn't begin to explain it. I can't believe they've left one of the main routes into their most sacred places completely free from guards."
Lugh hurried back, hushing them into silence.
"There," Ruth hissed childishly, "tempting Fate again."
Distant sounds carried to them from ahead. It suggested many bodies on the move; the occasional foul stink caught on the air currents told them it was the Fomorii.
"They're going to push us all the way back to Moorgate before we can find somewhere to lie low," Ruth said dismally.
"Shit!" Veitch looked around like a cornered animal. "We can't waste the-"
One of the Tuatha De Danann was motioning to a shadowy area on the eastern wall. They hurried over to see a small tunnel wide enough for a couple of people. Veitch dived in to investigate. Less than a minute later he was back, grinning broadly. "It leads to another tunnel. We can hide in there."
"Haste, then," Nuada said. "They are almost upon us."
They bustled in as silently as possible. They had barely vacated the Northern Line when they heard the heavy tramp of many feet drawing closer. From the noise and the time it took them to pass, Ruth guessed there must have been at least five hundred, possibly on their way to fight the Tuatha De Danann. She hoped that meant the Fomorii forces they were joining were doing badly.
At one point, it sounded like the Fomorii were coming down the connecting tunnel so they all hurried several hundred yards away and flattened themselves against the wall, desperately trying to shield their torches. After a couple of minutes, Ruth's pounding heart subsided a little.
The tunnel had patently not been used for a long time. Most of the tracks had been torn up, and the occasional signs appeared to date back to the earliest days of the tube system in the late nineteenth century. Ancient junction boxes rusted against bricks covered in the white salt of age and damp. Where the rails should have been there were numerous hummocks and rough piles that Ruth guessed were the dust-covered detritus of work on the other tunnel.
Once all the sounds of the Fomorii had faded away, they relaxed. "God, they smell so bad!" Ruth protested.
"They are being driven by their Caraprix." Nuada was looking back and forth along the tunnel. "When the Caraprix take an active role in direction it stimulates a powerful aroma."
"Even in you?" she said acidly.
"We, of course," he said with a smile, "smell divine."
They set off back the way they had come, but after they had been walking for five minutes it became apparent to Ruth they had gone past the connecting tunnel in the dark. "We must have missed it," she called out to the others.
"I didn't see anything," Veitch said, much to Ruth's irritation. "Let's carry on a little way."
Three minutes later their torches began to illuminate irregular shapes in the distant gloom. "Look, it's a station," Ruth sighed when they were closer. "I told you we'd gone past it."
Veitch held up his torch to read the sign over the platform. "King William Street?" he said. "Never heard of it."
"It must be one they don't use any more," Ruth said. "There are quite a few, aren't there? But you're right, I've never heard of this one."
Veitch's torch illuminated dirty, broken tiles and some torn, peeling posters. One said Light's Out! Another, Loose Lips Sink Ships.
"Looks like it was used as an air raid shelter in the Second World War," Ruth said.
"We need more wood," Lugh said. "The torches are burning through quickly."
"There might be some here," Veitch said. "Send your men in to check."
Lugh eyed him darkly; this sounded very much like an order, but then he motioned for three of the Tuatha De Danann to investigate.
"What time do you reckon it is?" Veitch said, leaning against the edge of the platform.
Ruth shrugged. "My body clock says eleven… midnight… Maybe later."
"We should rest."
Ruth was glad Veitch had raised it. She felt exhausted, but she was afraid to bring it up herself in case the others thought her weak. Nuada nodded in agreement and passed the information to his followers.
"We're close enough to spare a couple of hours," Veitch continued. "And we'd be no use to anyone if we turned up at the Big Bastard's door completely knackered."
"You don't have to convince me." Ruth clambered wearily on to the platform and found a spot against the wall at one end. Behind the windows of an old office she could see the torches of the Tuatha De Danann moving around like lazy fireflies as they searched for wood.
Nuada, Lugh and the others sat quietly at the other end of the platform, talking in low voices. Ruth was surprised when Veitch sat next to her; he didn't speak, but the fact that he was there was a loud statement. He closed his eyes and was asleep in an instant. Ruth wished she could rest just as easily, but by the time the thought had entered her head she was out.
She stirred uncomfortably, irritated by the cold surface of the hard platform floor against her behind. As her eyes flickered open when she tried to shift into a more comfortable position, she realised she couldn't have been asleep for very long at all because lights were still moving behind the office windows, beautiful, like a golden snowstorm, lulling her back to sleep.
She was so tired, enjoying the comfort of rest. Her limbs felt light and airy, after the leaden weight of the long march. Her troubled mind was cocooned in a fuzzy, yellow warmth. Yet as she tried to snuggle back into her pleasant state, she was annoyed to feel something nagging at the back of her mind. With annoyance, she tried to damp it down, but it wouldn't go away. The warmth slipped further away. Finally she realised the only way she was going to get any sleep was to examine it; something about what she had seen.
She opened her tired eyes again. The platform and track was quiet and still. The Tuatha De Danann sat in close conversation. Veitch was beside her asleep. Nothing out of the ordinary.
She tried again to get back to sleep, but it was lost to her now. The feelings of alarm wound up a notch. There was something there. What was she missing?
She looked around once more before settling on the light in the windows. She pulled herself shakily to her feet. Still half asleep, she focused hazily on the light shimmering through the panes. Earlier she had thought of it as fireflies, and now it seemed even more like that. Through her daze it was hypnotic in its dreaminess. Fireflies. No, more like butterflies. And then she had it. At first she felt shock, and then a deep iciness, before she was running along the platform to raise the alarm.
A face loomed up against the glass, hollow cheeked, contorted with terror, a sight made worse by it being the face of a god. The eyes bulged, pleading with her, with anyone, and then it snapped away as if it was on elastic.
The clouds of golden moths ebbed and flowed, fluttering against the glass, caught in the torchlight.
"No more!" Lugh was yelling. "How many Golden Ones must depart this day?" All the Tuatha De Danann looked on in horror, paralysed by the realisation that even away from the field of battle their kind were being wiped from existence in a manner they could never have realised in all their time.
Veitch powered past Ruth, his sword already out. "No rest for the bleedin' wicked." He levelled a flying kick at the office door. It burst from its hinges.
The three Tuatha De Danann lay dying on the floor, their bodies slowly breaking up. All around grey shapes flitted, although at first Ruth thought they were shadows cast by the flickering torches that lay where they had fallen.
While she was transfixed by the activity, Veitch was backpedalling along the floor where he had fallen and then propelled himself to his feet with undue haste, his sword waving in front of him. "Shit," he muttered.
"What is it?" Ruth asked.
Four figures burst from the doorway, their mouths held wide in an eerie silent scream, grey like mist, and at times just as insubstantial before there was the faintest shift and they took on a terrifying substance. They moved like light reflected off mirrors; Ruth only had an instant to take in their appearances: all women, beautiful in a haunted way, dressed in shrouds, their hair flying wildly behind them as if they had been caught in a storm. Ruth had a flash of talons like an animal's, of too-long teeth, sharp and pointed, and then they swept by her and she had only a second to throw herself out of the way.
The talons caught in her hair, ripped out a chunk, but she had avoided being caught; she had evaded those teeth.
"The Baobhan Sith!" one of the Tuatha De Danann said in fearful awe.
But Ruth didn't need reminding of the bloodsucking creatures that had attacked them on the lonely Cumbrian hills when Tom had betrayed them.
"They did have bleedin' guards posted!" Veitch threw himself out of the way of clutching hands, rolled and jumped to his feet. He lashed out with his sword, but it either passed through the creature or the Baobhan Sith avoided the blade so quickly Ruth didn't see it.
Veitch grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the way of another of them. He chopped with his sword again. This time the spectral woman became mist as the blade cut through her, reforming as it passed.
"Christ, there's no fighting them!" He yanked Ruth hard and they both fell off the platform, landing with a bone-jolting impact on the hard stones of the track.
The Baobhan Sith moved up and down the platform wildly, twisting and turning in an imaginary wind, avoiding any attack the Tuatha lle Danann made with any of their weapons. As Ruth watched in horror one of the creatures distended its mouth seemingly wider than its head and the razor sharp teeth folded out like kitchen knives. It flew towards one of Lugh's soldiers and clamped on his neck, the teeth snapping through the substance to suck up the god's essence; and however much he threw himself around or lashed out with his sword it could not be removed. A moment later the golden moths began to fly.
"Let's get out of here," Veitch said quietly.
"We can't leave them!"
"We stay here, we die. There's too much at stake." He could see she was still unconvinced and added, "They'll soon catch up with us."
The Tuatha lle Danann already had formed a phalanx and were backing rapidly across the platform. One of the Baobhan Sith tore another from their midst.
"Look at that," Veitch said. "No point dragging our heels. Just bleedin' run."
He made to grab Ruth's hand again, but she had jumped up to snatch a torch from the edge of the platform where it had fallen. Then she was sprinting at his side, glancing over her shoulder. One of the Baobhan Sith had left the platform to pursue them. "They're coming!" Ruth gasped.
Their breath formed white clouds in the cold. Ruth was afraid she wouldn't have any energy left to escape. The ground was uneven, threatening to trip them, and the motion put the torch in danger of going out so that she had to shield it with her body. She didn't dare look over her shoulder any more because she couldn't go any faster if she tried.
"Which way? Where's the other tunnel?" Her thoughts fell over each other in her panic. This is a nightmare. The words blazed white against the background darkness of her mind.
"What's that?" Veitch was pointing into the shadows ahead; the edge in his voice turned her panic up a notch.
No more, she prayed.
There was movement on the ground ahead, not just in one spot, but in many. The soil and stone of the track floor was moving in little piles. Obliquely, Ruth realised it was the strange hummocks she had taken to be building rubble.
From one of them, a grey hand rose slowly.
Ruth couldn't restrain a brief shriek. They skidded to a halt. The hand became an arm as the stones and soil sloughed away. Across the myriad other humps the same scene was being played out as the Baobhan Sith emerged from their resting places. Earth showered from their wild hair and fell from their open mouths as they levered their shoulders up, then their torsos. Their faces turned towards Veitch and Ruth, all of them shrieking in silence, scattered from wall to wall and away into the shrouded distance. Ruth was too terrified to consider how many of them were waiting there in the tunnel.
The sheer weight of terror elicited by the Baobhan Sith emerging left Veitch and Ruth rooted for an instant. But then Veitch shoved Ruth forward and they were sprinting once more, throwing themselves into a wild dance away from grasping hands.
Behind them, the first to emerge were already on their feet, shaking off the lethargy of slumber, flitting in pursuit. Ahead, the hummocks in gradual upheaval stretched on forever.
The Baobhan Sith rose up with increasing swiftness, and however fast Veitch and Ruth ran it was obvious they would soon be surrounded. Talons bit deeply into Ruth's ankle. She yelped as Veitch's flashing sword forced the creature to become insubstantial. They continued to drive forward, knowing that if they slowed an instant they would be lost, but already the Baobhan Sith were massing ahead of them.
A few seconds later the route ahead was blocked with shimmering bodies. "Shit." Veitch ground to a halt and whirled round, his eyes feral. The Baobhan Sith swept up from all sides.
Ruth jabbed a finger excitedly. "There's the tunnel!"
To get to it would mean passing through the flickering creatures. Veitch gave Ruth a reassuring smile. "Head down. Stay right behind me. Don't let them get a hold of you."
He barrelled into the mass of them, lashing his sword in front of him. Ruth kept exactly in his step, her heart thundering as hands clutched at her clothes; some caught but were pulled free; others ripped through her hair without getting any purchase.
Just as they were about to dive into the tunnel, one of the Baobhan Sith latched on to Veitch. Ruth saw the transformation from mist to solid form as its mouth tore wide to expose the unbelievably pointed teeth. The powerful jaw muscles heaved as the head swept down to Veitch's neck.
At the last moment Ruth jabbed the Spear into the creature's mouth. The fangs smashed down on it and the thing shimmered into nothingness. Veitch dragged Ruth into the small tunnel.
Though breathless, they couldn't slow down. They could feel the presence of the Baobhan Sith at their backs like an icy shadow. In the main tunnel they headed southbound, acutely aware that they might run into more Fomorii and be trapped between the two forces.
The torch cast barely enough light to see, and it was hard running across the uneven tracks without tripping, but the Baobhan Sith drove on ceaselessly.
"They're not going to let up, are they?" Ruth gasped. "What do we dokeep running until we're face to face with Balor?" At the mention of the name the air temperature noticeably dropped several degrees and a deep, resonant rustling, like whispering voices, rose up on the edge of their hearing. Ruth resolved not to say that name again.
"We've got to lose those grey bastards before we can do anything." Veitch spotted another side tunnel, this time leading to the northbound tracks. He headed towards it. They continued southbound, both beginning to flag. A hundred yards further on they came upon a doorway leading to the conduit for power lines and fibre optics. The Baobhan Sith were almost upon them as Veitch wrenched the door open, thrust Ruth inside and slammed it shut behind him. He jammed his sword into the frame and twisted it so the handle wouldn't open.
They could sense the Baobhan Sith moving beyond the door as they collapsed against the wall and sucked in mouthfuls of air. "That should hold them until they raise the alarm." Veitch rubbed his tired eyes. "Good job they're morons with no initiative."
"We better get moving before the Fomorii turn up," Ruth said. "I tell you, I could do with a sleep."
"We'll get some downtime once we find a safe place to hole up."
"I suppose we've lost the others?"
"We can't go back for them, can we? They'll be there." A heavy pause. "At the end. You can count on it."
The conduit lay beyond another door. It was lined with cables and wires, but they could walk along it at a stoop. Every time they came to a branching conduit, they turned, right, then left. After half an hour they found another inspection door and exited into a tunnel.
"Well, I have no bleedin' idea where we are now." Veitch headed left, hoping it would lead them back towards the City.
"All we need to do is find another station." Ruth eyed the torch worryingly; the flame was burning very low.
They continued along the tunnel for a little way until their path was blocked by a large, dark object: a tube train. "Don't worry-we can squeeze by it," Veitch said.
But as they edged along the side of the train, Ruth looked up and cried out in shock. The torchlight revealed the dirty windows were streaked with blood in explosive, paint-gun patterns. Inside she could just make out the shapes of bodies. It was hard to tell from her perspective, but they didn't appear to be in one piece. The sour-apple stink of decomposition was thick in the air.
Veitch noticed it too. "The doors have been torn off," he noted.
Ruth could just make out small figures too, and frail, old ones. She fought back tears; the terrible waste still tore a hole in her heart. "The Fomorii must have moved out across the city through the network when their leader was reborn."
Veitch peered in through the ragged doorway. "Poor bastards. Didn't stand a chance."
From ahead came the tramp of many feet. Ruth and Veitch were halfway along the carriage, squeezed tight against the dirty, oily walls. They wouldn't be able to make it back to the open tunnel before the Fomorii arrived.
"In here," Veitch whispered. He crawled up through the doorway into the body of the carriage, pulling out his handkerchief and pressing it against his face. Ruth shook her head furiously in primal disgust, but she knew it was the best option. She screwed her eyes shut, covered her nose and mouth and followed Witch in.
He guided her along the floor away from the open doors, but even with her eyes shut she had a visceral image of the scene around her. She brushed against hard and lifeless things that swung or shifted dramatically with a soft, wet sound. The floor was puddled with a thick, sticky substance; though her mouth was covered, the stench made her retch. Her stomach heaved time and again, and she didn't know how she managed to keep it silent, but then her eyes filled with tears at the thought of what had happened and somehow that helped.
Veitch took the torch, which was so low it barely cast any light, and said he'd shield it with "something he'd found"; Ruth didn't ask what that was. They'd barely ended their exchange when the carriage rocked madly as the Fomorii barged past on either side. The two of them slid backwards and forwards on the slick floor. Ruth had to jam her hands and feet against the sides of the seats to stop herself skidding back towards the doorway. She almost lost her grip when Veitch slammed his boot heel into her face, but a moment after that the violent movement subsided. They exited the carriage a little sooner than safety would have suggested, but even then they couldn't escape the stink from their fouled clothes; nor the thought of all the atrocities that had been committed.
A little further on they smelled smoke, and as they progressed they realised they could make out a faint glow tinting the tunnel walls. They moved in closer to one wall and edged forward cautiously. The smoke grew thicker, the light brighter.
Round a bend in the tunnel they glimpsed several fires burning. After so many hours of darkness it took a while for their eyes to adjust to the glare, and when they did they pulled back quickly. Several Fomorii were moving amongst piles of burning rubbish. It was obviously some kind of checkpoint or guard camp.
Veitch cursed quietly. "We're never going to get past that."
"I bet they've got camps like that all around the perimeter of their core area."
"There was a door further back. We will find a way past the bastards."
"I wish we could get some of that fire." Ruth examined what remained of the torch.
They retraced their steps to an unmarked door almost lost in the gloom. Veitch used his dagger to smash the lock and they slipped into a clean corridor that led on to a large thoroughfare. It had a hard Tarmac surface and there were military-style stencils on the wall pointing to locations obviously written in code.
"These must be the tunnels the Government set up in the fifties and sixties in case of a nuclear strike," Ruth said. "A good way to save all the great and good and leave the poor bastards to die. Probably a favour. Who'd want to live in a world filled with politicians, the military, businessmen and the aristocracy?"
"We're well and truly bleedin' lost now," Veitch said angrily. "Why did it have to be me who fucked up again?"
When he was like that there was no consoling him. "Pick a direction," she said dismally. "It'll take us somewhere."
His anger grew more intense as it became obvious they were moving off the beaten track. The well-tended road gave way to rough ground, the tunnel became unfinished: bare brick, then girders and scaffolding, before they came to a thick barrier of sleepers and planks.
Veitch smashed his fist against the wall, as hard as if he was punching someone in the face, but his rage wiped away any pain he might have felt. When he turned, Ruth could see his knuckles were ragged.
She cowered as he stormed around searching for something to attack. "We fucked up!" he yelled.
"We can go-"
"No! We! Can't!" His furious face thrust an inch away from hers. Suddenly she was terrified; she couldn't see any sign of the funny, gentle Veitch she had known from the quieter times they had shared.
She took a step back, but didn't show her fear. "Pull yourself together."
"What?" His eyes ranged wildly as though she wasn't there.
"I said, pull yourself together. You're the hero here-"
"Hero! I'm the bleedin' loser! Same as I always was!" He flailed his arm, obviously some sort of primal gesture to wave her away. But instead he caught the torch and knocked it from her weak grip. It smashed into pieces on the floor, the flame now a faint flicker along one of the shards.
"Ryan!" Ruth dropped to her knees desperately, but there was nothing to save.
"Oh, fuck! Now look what I've done!" He ran over and kicked the wall hard.
Ruth only saw what happened next from the corner of her eye as she bent down trying to pull the remaining pieces of wood together to keep the flame going. Weakened by his punches, the wall collapsed. Veitch plunged forward into a gulf beyond and a shower of rubble fell down reclosing the opening.
Ruth covered her head until the fall had ended, but none of the debris touched her. She looked at the faint flame and then slowly took in her surroundings.
"Oh, Ryan," she whispered. And then the tears came in force.
When she finally regained control of her emotions, Ruth wiped her eyes and resolved to find a way out of her predicament. She wasn't going to be beaten. She certainly wasn't going to die down there. Balor had to be beaten, humanity had to be saved and, more importantly-she had to laugh at that strange truth-she had to see Church again. Even if she had to crawl along pitch-black tunnels to find a way out.
The flame was barely more than a candle's height on the splinters of wood. It became trimmed briefly with blue and then began to gutter.
Here we go, she thought. Prepare yourself.
Then, as the flame finally began to die, she became aware of other lights in the dark. At first she dismissed it as an optical illusion caused by the sharp contrast of shadow and light on her retina. The flame became the size of her fingernail.
Almost gone now.
But the other lights remained; tiny, glittering stars sweeping across the firmament. She scanned them curiously, and then, just as the flame finally died she realised what she was seeing and her blood ran cold.
Darkness swept up around her and she heard the sharp skittering sound as the first rat moved forward.
Veitch fell fifteen feet into freezing water, slamming his head hard on the way down. The cold and wet kept him conscious, but the dark was so all-consuming he couldn't tell up from down. The water came up to his thighs and by stretching out slowly on either side he realised he was in some kind of small tunnel or gully as wide as the span of his arms. He spent ten minutes trying to find where he had fallen and attempting to climb back up, but it was impossible to see, and more rubble kept falling. Dejected and afraid he might be pinned by another collapse, he began to wade wearily forward.
He continued for what he guessed was around an hour, pausing occasionally to rest against the wall and catch minutes of microsleep. He couldn't even feel his lower legs and he wondered how long it would be before hypothermia set in. But whatever set him apart as a Brother of Dragons made him resilient, helped him to heal; he'd keep going, he thought dismally. He hated himself. He hated himself so much he considered lying down in the water and drowning himself, but it wasn't in his nature. So he had to continue with the infinitely worse burden of his guilt, thinking about what he had done to Ruth, punishing himself by images of her wandering along inky corridors until the inevitable end came. It had all been his fault; he could almost have scripted it.
The water began to rise soon after, a half-hour later it was up to chest height. He was racked by convulsive shivers, drifting in and out of a fugue state brought on by the cold. Gradually he became aware that the tunnel was becoming increasingly steep. By the time he had grasped how sharply it was falling away, his feet would no longer give him purchase and suddenly he was sliding down. He barely had time to take a breath before the water washed above his head, and then he was rattling down an incline, faster and faster, until it became a vertical drop.
The rush of water burst out into thin air. He could vaguely feel his legs bicycling as he plunged thirty feet into more water, deeper this time and rushing in a torrent. One random thought flickered through his head: Ruth's beautiful face as she told him about London's old River Fleet, now buried beneath the city as it rushed down towards the Thames. And then the impact stole his consciousness and the water closed over his head.
chapter nineteen
in the belly of the beast
ave Sweeper was moored not far from Southend when Church came sweeping down from the northwest with the remainder of the Tuatha Df Danann force. The journey skirting Greater London and through the green fields of rural Essex had passed in a golden blur. He was accompanied by Tom, the Bone Inspector and Niamh, but he didn't recognise any of the other gods, although he sensed many of them were not sympathetic to the cause of the Fragile Creatures. He wondered why his particular task force was burdened with more dissenters than the other two, but Tom wasn't too concerned when he raised the matter.
On board it felt strangely good to be back in the familiar detachment of Otherworld with its heightened sensations, away from all the suffering of the real world. There was an atmosphere of stillness that eased the anxiety coiled in his chest; even the sun was shining brighter than on the shore. He made his way to the rail where he quietly enjoyed the tang of the sea and the warmth on his skin, until Tom joined him.
"You're going to bring me down, aren't you?" Church said without looking round.
"I'm the last person to advocate an injection of reality, but-"
"I know: responsibility, obligation, and all that. Is this the standard precrisis pep talk?"
"Something like that." Tom leaned against the rail, facing the sun, his eyes closed. "You know, I can remember the days of my youth as clearly as if they were yesterday. Hundreds of years-although it's not really, not by Otherworld time. But it's still a long, long time and so many experiences." He took a deep breath. "I smell the blossom in the garden of my childhood, so powerful, like incense and fruit wrapped up together. I remember distinctly the way the sunlight caught the dew on a spiderweb in an old yew tree, one dawn when I had crept out of the house before anyone had awoken. The rosewater on the neck of the first woman I ever loved. The touch of her fingers on the back of my neck." He shook his head dreamily. "Amazing."
Church watched Tom curiously. He had never heard him speak so tenderly, nor talk of any of the happy times in his human life before his transformation at the hands of the Tuatha De Danann Queen. It was as if he had wanted to keep them secure from the horrors that had assailed him since.
"Now I begin, for the first time in many years, the memories come thick and fast." Tom's eyes glistened in the sun. "Days of tenderness, composing songs and poems. Nights watching the stars over the Eildon Hills. My mother and father, at Christmas, leading the singing before the fire. My best friend James, playing hide-and-seek in the kitchens, then later courting the girls from the village together." He turned fully to Church with no attempt to hide his tears. "Remember your own bright moments, Jack, and hold them in your heart. They will keep you warm in the coldest nights."
"Why are you telling me these things?"
"Nothing I could say would help you to comprehend right now. You will understand everything presently."
Church tried to glean some insight from Tom's face, but he was taken aback to see it was packed with complex emotions. For so long, Tom had appeared to have no feeling in him at all; as inhuman as he always believed himself to be. It felt like a sea change had come over him, even in the last hour. "What's happened to you?"
"Time has come a-calling. Finally."
Church could see he was not going to get anything out of the Rhymer; infuriatingly, his friend's unexplained words worked their way deep into his mind, where they set off a troubling resonance.
While he wrestled with his thoughts, he scanned the deck where the crew busied themselves for departure. The main Tuatha De Danann force had all disappeared below with their weapons. Manannan stood at the wheel, overseeing the activity. He raised a hand in greeting when he saw Church.
"I hope you're telling him what a pathetic little runt he is." The Bone Inspector's gruff voice shattered the mood in an instant. He leaned on his staff, the wind whipping his grey hair.
Tom snapped, "No-"
"I was talking to him." The Bone Inspector nodded towards Church.
"Don't start with your useless prattling." Tom eyed him murderously.
"You may have been honoured by the Culture in the times of my ancestors, but that doesn't mean I can't give you a good whupping with my staff." The Bone Inspector underlined his point by twirling the staff around his arms as if it were alive.
"Great. Two old people fighting," Church muttered. "It'll be like watching your granny barge her way into the bread queue."
"Don't forget," Tom cautioned the Bone Inspector, "the Culture dies out with you." He smiled sadistically.
"Well, that's where you're wrong. I've been making some plans-"
"Don't you think that's a little premature?" Church said.
"You shut up and concentrate on your job, you lanky-arsed weasel." The Bone Inspector returned his attention to Tom, nodding superciliously. "Yes, I've been thinking. Now the seasons have turned and all the materialistic, logic-obsessed bastards have had a rude awakening, it might be time for a reflowering of the Culture. I can see the colleges now, maybe at Glastonbury and Anglesey, like we used to have in the old, old days. Passing on the wisdom to a new generation of bright-eyed-"
"You think you'd make a good teacher?" Tom sneered. "After all that time sleeping in ditches they'll need to hose you down with industrial cleaning fluid just to get somebody in a room with you."
The Bone Inspector scowled. "At least I know my arse from my elbow."
"Yes, but do you know your arse from your mouth? I think not."
Church sighed and made to pacify them, but they turned on him so venomously he backed away. "Okay, go ahead, knock yourself out," he said tartly. "Literally, if possible."
The bickering ended when Niamh walked over. Tom gave a restrained, deferential bow, but the Bone Inspector simply looked away, as if he were alone on deck and lost in a reverie.
"The Master is preparing to sail," she said. She glanced round to ensure she could not be overheard, then added quietly, "Taranis oversaw the arrival of a container brought aboard by Nuada's personal guard. It was stowed in a section of the hold where access is restricted only to the Master and Taranis. Those faithful to Nuada stand guard without."
"I think I saw it," Church said. "Was it a large wooden chest with bands of iron around it and a gold clasp?"
"That may be how you perceived it." Niamh looked from one to the other. "I believe it to be the Wish-Hex."
"They won't even let you near it?" Church asked.
She bit her lip. "I could attempt… It would cost…" She shook her head. "No matter. There is too much at stake."
Church looked to Tom. "When do you think they'll detonate it?"
"When it's close to Balor and they're well away."
"Not on board ship?"
"Good Lord, no!" Tom looked horrified. "And lose Wave Sweeper? This isn't just a collection of timber and nails, you know!"
Church took Niamh's hand and led her to one side. "I know this is hard for you, working against your own people, but if there's anything you can do-"
"Do not feel you have to ask anything of me, Jack. I do what I do freely because I believe in the rightness of this course. And I believe in you." She looked down at where her slim, cool hand still lay in his. "You have changed my existence, Jack. And to one of the Golden Ones, who are as constant as the stars, that is a humbling and profound thing."
"I don't see how I could have, Niamh," he protested. "I'm nothing out of the ordinary."
She leaned forward to kiss him gently on the cheek. "Things are coming to a head, Jack. All will be made clear soon."
Her smile was filled with such deep love he was left floundering. She turned and drifted away amongst the frantic activity of the crew, an oasis of calm and dignity.
The ship hove to soon after and made its way into the Estuary. Though it still remained a tranquil place, the strain on all who sailed was apparent. Tom rejoined Church at the prow, looking around nervously. "Now if we can get to that pep talk without any interruptions from that old curmudgeon…" He pointed to the makeshift rucksack hanging from Church's shoulder. "You have the Wayfinder?"
Church removed the old lantern with the flickering blue flame that had guided him through the earliest days of the mystery to show him. "But I don't know what use it's going to be. I was thinking of leaving it here. I don't want to be carrying any more weight than necessary."
Tom shook his head furiously. "There is still one talisman to find." His smile suggested this was another long-kept secret he was relieved to be revealing. "The biggest one of all."
"Where is it?"
"Somewhere near our destination. You recall when we summoned the Celtic dead for guidance in Scotland? They said: You must find the Luck of the Land if you are ever to unleash the true power of the people."
"Yes," Church said suspiciously, "and you said you had no idea what they were talking about."
"At that exact moment, I did not. But it came to me soon after. There was only one thing it could be."
Church bared his teeth. "And you didn't see fit to tell me until now?"
Tom shrugged dismissively. "The time was not right."
"Tom… "
"All right," he snapped. "I wanted only you to know. And I left it to this late stage because I did not want you to confide in any of the others, as you undoubtedly would have done with your various romantic liaisons," he added sniffily. "And then it would have been all over the place."
"All right. No need to act like my granddad."
"It is my role to be-"
"All right, all right! What is the bloody Luck of the Land?"
"The Luck of the Land is the severed head of Bran the Blessed. He was a great hero, and the closest of the Golden Ones to humanity. He knew about the destiny of the Fragile Creatures and he was even prepared to sacrifice himself to see us achieve it. The old stories tell how he was murdered by a poisoned arrow. On his deathbed, he told his followers to cut off his head, yet even removed, it could still eat and talk. It was brought back to London and buried beneath the Tower, where it became the source of the land's power. Of humanity's power. Another myth said King Arthur sought it out as the source of his own strength. You can see the symbolism."
"So it's linked directly to the Blue Fire? That's what all the Arthur myths mean, isn't it?"
"Correct."
Church looked out at the quiet, dead countryside that bordered the river. "But what can it do?"
"The Celts revered severed heads, believing them to have great magical power. In their view, the head is the source of the soul. They knew the truth at the heart of this legend. And don't forget…"
"… myths and legends are the secret history of the land. I'll be happy when I don't hear that phrase again."
"The head has great power, both in real terms, and symbolically. It encompasses everything you have discovered about the Blue Fire."
"So, in the day and a half we have left, we have to avoid Balor and about a million Fomorii in the heart of their power, locate this head somewhere under the Tower of London-like it's going to be just lying around ready to be picked up-and then find some way to use it or activate it or whatever the hell you're supposed to do with it?"
"Well, you didn't expect it to be easy, did you?" Tom said curtly. "If you only had to waltz in there and chop off a head or two they could have got anyone to do it."
"I'll take that as a vote of confidence," Church said moodily.
All that remained of the Thames Barrier flood defence system were columns of concrete and twisted steel jutting out of the slow-moving water. It looked as if it had been smashed into pieces by a giant fist. The rubble just beneath the surface formed a treacherous defence that would have sunk most ships coming up the river, but Manannan's magical skill picked the only path through. It slowed them down a little, but they were still on course to be in the heart of London by noon.
As they progressed further into the eastern fringes of the capital, the mood on Wave Sweeper darkened considerably. The pleasant sunshine was soon blocked out by continually rolling black clouds whipped by the powerful winds circulating the city. It brought the temperature down several degrees while adding a permanent gloom to the cityscape. Vast swathes of southeast London were burning, bringing huge clouds of smoke rolling across the river. Church fastened a scarf across his mouth, but the foul smell of charred plastics and rubber still stung his throat.
As he saw the city up close for the first time, Church thought of all the people he knew who lived there, his old friends, like Dale, who had done so much to try to lift his spirits in the dark weeks after Marianne's death. Had they survived? Had they suffered? It was too depressing to consider, and he was almost pleased when Tom grunted, "Not as bad as the Great Fire."
"Things always were better in the good old days, weren't they?"
The ship suddenly lurched dramatically to the starboard. Church gripped the rail to avoid being thrown into the grey waters. A second later it was swinging back the other way. "What's going on?" he shouted over the wild activity that had erupted on deck. The crew struggled to restrain any item that wasn't lashed down, while Manannan fought with the wheel to keep Wave Sweeper steady.
Tom pointed into the water further upstream. A black, sinuous shape stitched white surf into boiling water.
"Their guard dog," Tom said.
"Dogs," Church corrected. Two more serpentine shapes rolled in the waves. Their attacks were throwing up so much backwash the ship was buffeted back and forth. They were tiny compared to the monster that had attempted to sink Wave Sweeper in Otherworld, but their speed and random, darting movements made them equally dangerous.
The ship sloughed towards the north bank before executing a sharp turn towards the south, rapid manoeuvres that no real-world craft would ever be able to complete. Members of the crew sprawled across the desk, clutching for handholds. Church and Tom were drenched by the eruptions of water as the serpents threw themselves against the sides, either in an attempt to hole the ship or to turn it over.
A shadow fell across them. Church knew what it was before he looked up. The serpent's head towered over them, the same terrifying features he had glimpsed in the sea off Skye: a flattened cobra head, yellowish eyes glowing with an alien intelligence, strange whiskers like a catfish tufting from its mouth, which contained several rows of lethal teeth.
It hovered for a second or two, during which time Church felt the faintest contact with an intelligence that fizzed in the back of his head. He knew what it was going to do before the head darted down towards them, jaws prised wide. Church rolled over and pulled the Sword from its scabbard, jabbing it upwards towards the descending darkness. It impaled the head as if it were slipping through crude oil. The serpent made a high-pitched mechanical whine as it thrashed madly. Church felt an electric jolt in that deep connection the serpent had made with him. An instant later it transformed into a searing scream. Caledfwlch's particular powers ensured that death always resulted from the slightest injury it inflicted.
Church tried to retreat from the bond the serpent had made with him, but it was locked in place. He felt its life force flare briefly, then dwindle down into a dark tunnel before finally winking out. Its body slipped back into the water, lifeless.
The shock of feeling the beast's final moment left Church dazed and distressed. Tom shook him roughly to bring him round, but the sensations stayed with him like a shadow in his subconscious.
Wave Sweeper continued to lurch from side to side. By then the Tuatha De Danann forces had made it on to the deck with several silver weapons resembling harpoons plugged into grenade launchers. Three of them manhandled one to the rail and launched it.
Lightning crackled out across the water. It headed towards the north bank, and then made an unnatural dogleg to the right to strike one of the serpents as it attempted to dive. The creature burst from the water, stinking foully as it charred. A moment later, its shrivelled form drifted downstream.
The remaining serpent was retreating as the Tuatha De Danann struck. It was eradicated just as quickly.
Tom saw Church eyeing the weapons cautiously. "Yes," he said. "They are too powerful to be in hands that cannot be trusted."
Manannan forged on quickly along the centre of the channel. Church watched the banks intently, but he could see no sign of any Fomorii threat. Yet the air of incipient danger grew more and more intense until deep, rhythmic vibrations began to run through Church's legs; it was accompanied by a distant noise, almost too low to be heard beneath the wind. Something about it made his stomach turn. "What is that?" he asked.
Tom stared into the water darkly. "The beating of Balor's heart." The wind whipped at him.
Soon after the smoke and river fog closed in around the ship, limiting vision to a few yards ahead. Manannan let Wave Sweeper drift slowly. The crew remained silent, listening intently for any sound of attack.
Thoom. Thoora. Thoom. The beating had grown a little louder. Church felt it in the pit of his stomach.
And then the obscuring mists parted and Church's blood ran cold. A black tower soared up from the northern bank, its top lost in the clouds above. It rested on the remnants of the Tower of London, the ancient fortress that symbolised the defence of the nation, and was constructed like a termite nest from rubble, crushed vehicles, plastics, household refuse, girders torn from other buildings and anything else that came to hand. Slowly Church looked up the structure as far as he could see. Fires blazed at various points, some inside seen through ragged windows, some on the surface where the leftovers of the twenty-first century still burned. It was a sinister mockery of the gleaming skyscrapers that rose out of the City's financial district only yards away, another source of unbridled power.
As he watched, there was movement through the windows and a second later winged Fomorii burst out in a massive swarm. They swooped up as one, then hurtled down towards Wave Sweeper.
The Tuatha lle Danann were prepared. The harpoons that had made short shrift of the serpents were hooked upwards and unleashed. Lightning crackled across the sky, tearing holes in the Fomorii swarm before the harpoons were drawn back, reloaded and fired again.
Some of the Fomorii made it through and engaged with the Tuatha De Danann in fierce fighting across the deck. Church ran into the fray wielding Caledfwlch. Wherever he went the Tuatha De Danann stepped aside deferentially. The Fomorii he encountered shrivelled in the air like dry autumn leaves and fluttered into nothingness on the wet boards.
But the Fomorii were proving too numerous. Many of the Tuatha lle Danann were driven over the rails into the river or carried off into the black tower to meet an undoubtedly hideous fate. Others were torn apart as the winged menace descended on them like raptors. Manannan kept the ship going at full speed, steering it as far towards the south bank as he could without running aground.
A difficult course had to be navigated through the remains of the shattered bridges-London, Southwark, Blackfriars and Waterloo-but eventually they rounded a bend in the river and the swarms of Fomorii began to fall back.
Finally, the aerial assault ended. Church slumped against the mast, exhausted. "I can't believe they've left us alone."
Tom, who had kept well out of the trouble, replied, "It is just a lull, a regrouping. They will be back in force soon."
"Then we better get to where we're going quickly."
The parade of broken bridges continued apace: Westminster, Lambeth, Vauxhall, Chelsea. But then the familiar site of the Battersea Park Peace Pagoda loomed up out of the smoke, reminding Church of Sundays spent walking there with Marianne. Finally the remains of Albert Bridge came into view, as misty as the day when it all started for Church so many months before.
He felt a brief frisson as the images flooded into his mind: the figure washing his head in the water, the first meeting with Ruth, the trip beneath the bridge and his first encounter with one of the Fomorii before it murdered Maurice Gibbons.
"If I'd known then what I know now…" he said.
"Be thankful you don't know what lies ahead," Tom said darkly.
As they prepared to drop anchor, Church headed below deck to find Niamh so he could say goodbye to her; he felt he owed her that at least. He searched for fifteen minutes with a number of Tuatha De Danann pointing him this way and that. Eventually he saw her emerging from a cabin in an area set aside for the Tuatha De Danann force. He called her name and was instantly surprised by what he saw on her face: unmistakable shame. She attempted to walk away as if she had not heard him, then thought better of it.
"What's wrong?" he asked, honestly concerned.
She forced a smile before leading him away from the door a few paces. "I will be allowed to accompany the small group Nuada has placed in charge of the Wish-Hex."
"To Balor? I don't think I like that. You'd be better off here."
"Why? Because you think I have not been in a dangerous situation before?"
"No, because I don't want you to get hurt." He shrugged, uncomfortable at the open way she was watching him. "The others I don't care about-"
She placed a hand on his forearm to stop him. "That makes it all worthwhile, Jack. There is no need to say any more. But I must come, for the WishHex is now my responsibility, and your survival is my responsibility. If I am not there, you may die."
"Maybe-"
"That is the way it is."
The door swung open on the cabin Niamh had just exited and one of Nuada's lieutenants swaggered out. He cast a glance at Niamh, then moved lazily towards the stairs.
Church looked from him into Niamh's face, but he couldn't find the words to express the thoughts that were suddenly falling into place.
She saved him the trouble. "We all do what we can, Jack."
Deeply troubled at what he had forced upon her, Church made his way back to the deck where Tom and the Bone Inspector were waiting for him. They would be going ashore with a small group of Tuatha De Danann briefed by Nuada before he'd left with Lugh and Veitch. Another group would remain to guard the entrance to the tunnels so no Fomorii could come up behind them, while the remainder would stay on board Wave Sweeper to take the fight back to the enemy, as a distracting ploy more than anything.
"I want to know who's in charge," the Bone Inspector said. He patently wasn't going to accept any answer that included the Tuatha lle llanann.
"The Brother of Dragons will lead the way," Taranis said in his usual aloof manner. "However, the Golden Ones who will be accompanying you must be free to follow their own hearts if the need arises."
Church knew what that meant-they must be free to sneak off to unleash the Wish-Hex.
While they prepared for a boat to be lowered, no one noticed the dark figure slip out from the place where he had been hiding for so long, living on the blood and meat of rats and other foul creatures. Nor did they hear the faint splash as he slipped into the cold water and swam quickly to the shore. Callow had bided his time well and now things were working out better than he could have dreamed.
The area beneath the bridge gave Church an uncomfortable feeling. Despite the fact that most of the span was missing, it was still uncommonly dark. An unpleasant atmosphere set his nerves on edge.
The Tuatha lle Danann stood back to allow Church to search for an opening. They gathered protectively around the large chest that he knew contained the Wish-Hex. Niamh was with them, pretending to be aloof from the Fragile Creatures.
"I don't know how I'm going to find this," he said after five minutes wandering around the featureless area.
The Bone Inspector swore profusely. "Call yourself a leader of men?" He marched past Church and rammed his staff against a stone set into the wall on which the bridge's foundations were set. The ground fell away with a ghostly silence. "After you," he said sarcastically.
The tunnel was rough hewn, dripping with water that ran in rivulets along the edges. It was only wide enough for two people to walk side by side, though the ceiling was high enough to accommodate the Fomorii bulk. It sloped down quickly into deep shadows. Tom lit a torch they had brought with them, as did one of the Tuatha De Danann.
Then, when they had all steeled themselves, Church and Tom led the way, with the Bone Inspector close behind and the rest coming up at a distance as if they were barely connected.
When the tension of entering enemy territory had ebbed a little, the thought that had been troubling Church the most rose to the surface. "I've just been talking to Niamh," he whispered to Tom. "I got a hint she knows what's going to happen."
"They all do."
"I don't get it. How does that work? Even you, you're always talking darkly about what the future holds like you know it inside out."
Tom said nothing, but Church wasn't prepared to let it lie. This was fundamental.
"If everything is set in stone," he stressed to get a reaction, "what's the point?"
"It isn't like that."
"Then what is it like?"
Tom sighed. "It is beyond your perception."
"Then put it in simple terms. For a stupid old country boy." Church thought about adding a few choice words, but decided it would be unproductive.
"Those who can see the future-although that's really not the right term for it-see it as a series of snapshots, not as a movie. Sometimes there is no context. Sometimes the photos are out of order. Reading meaning in them is a dangerous business. You recall, I described it once as catching glimpses from the window of a speeding car."
"But it's still fixed."
"Nothing is fixed. Anywhere."
Church cursed quietly. "Just give it to me straight, instead of packaged around your usual-"
"Everything can be changed by the will of a strong individual. One man. Or woman. There are no rules, not at the level the great thinkers of humanity examined, anyway. Only the illusion of rules. The future runs right on like a river, but it can be turned back by someone with the right heart and drive and state of mind. What the old storybooks laughingly call a hero. The Tuatha De Danann pretend they know everything that's going to happen and that has happened, pretend it even to themselves, but you can see from the way they've been acting in the last few hours that in their hearts they know the truth. What they perceive might not turn out to be the way it appears, or perhaps they have missed part of the equation. Or perhaps someone like you will come along. There is a reason for free will, jack."
Church thought about this for several minutes. It gave him a deep feeling of comfort, although he couldn't quite tell why. "Then you don't really know anything."
Tom remained silent for a long, uncomfortable moment. "That's not quite true. Some things are so weighed down by the monumental events around them that they might as well be set in stone."
However much Church questioned him about this, he would say no more. But Tom's words had set other thoughts in motion. Barely daring to ask, he said firmly, "Do you know who's going to betray us?"
Tom kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead.
"You do, don't you?" His anger rose quickly. After all the months of worry, Tom could have told them at any time. "Why didn't you say something? You know it could mean everything might fall apart! You've got to tell me!"
"I can't." Tom's face was unreadable.
"Even with the potential repercussions? Why not? Do you want to see us suffer?"
Tom rounded on him furiously. "Of course not! I can't tell you because there's too much that might be changed."
"How long have you known?"
"I've always known."
"Always?"
"Always. And if you'd been paying attention, you would have known too."
The words were like a slap to the face. In the space between seconds, a million memories flashed across his mind as he turned over everything he had seen and heard over the previous months. Had he missed something? Had he screwed up again? "I guess I'll know soon enough," he said with bitter resignation. "I just hope you can live with yourself when it comes out."
The tunnel followed an undulating path, the changes in the air pressure telling Church it regularly ran under the river. He had taken to holding the Wayfinder permanently aloft so the walls were painted with a sapphire wash. The tiny blue flame gave him a measure of encouragement in that dark place, and raised the spirits of Tom and the Bone Inspector too. The flame pointed dead ahead.
"Why didn't it lead us to the head before?" Church asked.
"Because it is responding to what you hold in your heart," Tom replied.
"It's alive?"
"As much as anything can be said to be alive, yes."
When they'd been walking an hour or more, the Wayfinder flame began to grow brighter. At the same time, the unnerving background beat became rapidly louder. Within ten minutes it was coming through the walls all around-BADOOM, BA-DOOM-a war drum marking their passage to disaster.
Two and a half hours later, the tunnel rose up, while at the same time becoming more formed, with props and stone lining the walls. The Wayfinder's flame had started to point away from the main route of the tunnel so that when they came to a large oaken door Church was prepared for it.
"Looks like we're here," he said. The door was locked, but Caledfwlch sliced through the rusty iron mechanism easily. Church looked around at the others. Tom and the Bone Inspector were grim faced, the Tuatha De Danann impassive, Niamh concerned and colourless; they all nodded.
He yanked open the door.
It felt like they had walked into a foundry. After the chill of the tunnel, the heat was stifling, the air suffused with the smell of acrid smoke that caught the back of their throats. The thunder of Balor's heart was almost deafening.
The stone walls and flagged floor suggested they were somewhere in the lowest level of the Tower of London. The Bone Inspector breathed deeply, despite the atmosphere. "Can you feel it? Ancient power, even though those bastards have tried to pervert it. I haven't been here for years-too many people. Should have come back sooner." He looked at Church. "This place was sacred long before they threw up this mountain of stone over the top of it. If any place can be called the heart of the country, it's here."
The Tuatha De Danann set the chest containing the Wish-Hex down in the middle of the room. "What is in that box?" Church said mockingly. Nuada's lieutenant didn't reply, didn't even acknowledge he had spoken. Church caught Niamh's eye as he turned back to the others and she gave him a secret nod. "We need to move quickly," he continued. "They might already know we're here-"
"The Wayfinder will blind Balor's perception to you, at least for a while," Tom said. "And if you hadn't brought the energy flow back to life at St. Michael's Mount you wouldn't be here at all."
Church made to follow the lantern's flame until he saw the Tuatha De Danann were not moving. "We shall wait here," Nuada's lieutenant said.
"I'd say we've got even less time than we thought," Church said under his breath to Tom and the Bone Inspector as they left the room.
The seething heat had them all red-faced and soaked in sweat before they had got very far along the maze of once-dank corridors. Church had visited the Tower before and had never seen any sign of that area, so he guessed it must lie beneath the zone normally open to the tourists. He had the Sword at the ready, but the entire lower level was deserted.
"They're all up top throwing rocks at the boat," the Bone Inspector said, but Church wasn't convinced.
The Wayfinder led them to a short corridor that ended in a dead end. At first sight there was nothing out of the ordinary, but then Church allowed his perceptions to shift until he could see the lines of Blue Fire running through the stone like veins, converging into the circular design of a serpent eating its own tail. He steeled himself, then placed his hand hard on the pattern. The wall ground open to reveal a shaft plunging down into the earth, the bottom lost in shadows.
The Bone Inspector leaned in to inspect it. "There are handholds cut into the stone." He tucked his staff into the back of his shirt and levered himself over the lip. "Don't know why they made these things so bloody lethal. One slip and there'll be a mess on the floor."
The Bone Inspector had disappeared from view and Tom was just about to follow when they heard the faintest sound behind them. They spun round to find the corridor filled with Fomorii. And at the head of them was a frantically fluttering mass of crows.
Church had sheathed Caledfwlch to open the doorway, but it was back in his hand in an instant. Before the first Fomorii could move, he was advancing quickly, swinging the Sword back and forth in an arc. His target was Mollecht, the leader, the most powerful. Faced with the enemy, the Sword was even more alive in his hands than he recalled. Its subtle shifts of weight forced his hand in different directions to make the most exacting of strikes, while at times he felt it squirm so hard it almost leapt from his fingers.
But before he had gone three paces, the Fomorii had closed around Mollecht to protect him. They were obviously aware of Caledfwlch's abilities, but they showed no sign of self-preservation at all. Church carved through them as they flooded forwards ceaselessly, the bodies falling then shrivelling to nothing at each cut of the blade.
Sweat rolled off him as he hacked and lunged in the sweltering heat. Eventually he began to make some headway. Soon he could see Mollecht once more, directing the Fomorii silently. It was enough to drive him to renew his efforts. He hit one high, spun round and caught another low, and then took out three with one blow. And then Mollecht stood before him once more.
But the hideous creature was prepared. As the final Fomorii fell away, Church saw the birds moving aside to open a hole that revealed the entity inside; his mind was as unable to accept it as the first time he had witnessed it at Tintagel. The energy inside the hole was already swirling and on the brink of erupting.
Tom thrust Church out of the way. The blast hit the Rhymer full on and within a second the blood was starting to seep through his pores. Church had no time to help. The Sword was tugging at his hand, as aware of the opportunity as Church himself. Mollecht had drained himself. It would be a moment or two before he had the strength to make another attack, or even to defend himself. The hole was already closing. Church drove the Sword horizontally towards the centre of it. The creature would be skewered, finally.
The dark shape exploded out of nowhere. Church only caught the briefest glimpse out of the corner of his eye before it slammed into him with force, knocking him to the hard stone floor. Caledfwlch went flying from his grip.
"Do I have to do everything round here?"
The voice stunned Church just enough to hamper his reactions, and by that time a figure had jumped on to his chest, pinning his arms over his head. He found himself looking up into the monstrous black-veined face of Callow. He was gloating in every fibre of his being.
"I want your finger, Mr. Churchill, and I want it at the knuckle. I've decided to make a necklace," Callow said gleefully.
And then the Fomorii were all around him, swamping him in darkness.
Church came round in a place that was dark and so unbearably hot he thought he was going to choke. Twisted leather bonds bound him to a splintered table fastened to an iron gear system that angled it forty-five degrees from the upright. Aches and bruises buzzed in his limbs, but beyond that he was in one piece. Scant, scarlet light was provided by a glowing brazier in one corner. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw with a sickening chill where he was. Cruel, sharp implements hung from a rack on one wall, reminding Church how adept the Fomorii were at torture.
The thought was knocked aside by the blunt realisation that he had failed, at the very last, after so many obstacles had been overcome; and that it wasn't even he alone who would pay the price. It was all of humanity, everyone he had ever loved.
He tore at the bonds until he was disturbed by a low groan away to his right. The figure lay like a bundle of old rags in a slowly growing pool of blood. The moonlight glow of his skin, tinged blue at his fingers, told Church he was dying. "Can you hear me?" Church asked gently.
There was no reply or movement for a second or two and then Tom tried to lever himself up on his elbow before slipping back. He made two more attempts and then managed to roll on to his back so he could look at Church. His face was covered with blood still seeping from his pores. Church felt a wash of despair.
"If there's anything you want to get off your chest, now's the time to do it," Tom said gruffly, though his voice could barely be heard above the thunderous heartbeat.
"You saved my life."
"Lot of good it did you."
"I'm sorry," Church said, "I let you down. If only I'd moved quicker."
"Nonsense." Tom coughed violently. "You have exceeded my wildest expectations. From the first time we met I could see you were the right man for the job. Oh, I know I never said it-couldn't have you getting a big head-but you were the best possible choice, Jack. The very best."
"I wish you'd said that before." Church closed his eyes, trying to deal with all the acute emotions bubbling through him. "I've still failed, though."
"You're breathing, aren't you?"
A thought sparked in Church's still awakening mind; he looked around as best he could. "Hang on. Just you and me?"
"So it seems." There was a note of caution in Tom's voice not to say any more.
Church knew how resilient the Bone Inspector was. If he had managed to evade the Fomorii, there was still a slim chance. "How long was I out?" he said with renewed enthusiasm.
"I would say it's getting on for dawn. Not long to the feast of Samhain. The gates will be opening soon. The Heart of Shadows will get all the power he needs." He coughed then added quickly, "Don't mention its name. Not here, not this close to it. The repercussions might be…" His voice faded.
"The Sword?"
"Behind you. And the Wayfinder. They can't touch them, you know, even with the massive advances in their power. They have to rely on Callow."
"That bastard. I was convinced he'd died on Wave Sweeper. He's like a cockroach-stamp on him and he just keeps on running."
"If you get free…" Tom gave a hacking wet cough "… you must use the Wayfinder."
"To find what? The head?"
"No. Think of the symbolism. What it means. It is a lantern that will light your way to the true path. It has a direct access to the source of the Blue Fire. I always told you to keep it close to you because…" Another cough; something splattered on the stone "… it's more important than you thought."
Tom fell silent; Church couldn't even hear his ragged breathing any more. "Tom?" he called out, fearing the worst.
"Yes. I'm here. It's nearly time."
"For what?"
"Remember what I said to you. On the ship. About keeping your memories close to you. They're your Wayfinder, Jack."
Tears stung Church's eyes. "Just hang on-"
"No. This is no surprise to me. I've had the chance to prepare myself."
Church forced himself to keep his voice steady. "How long have you known?"
"A long time. Longer than you've been alive."
Church couldn't begin to imagine how that could have been: to know when your death would be, to have the shadow falling over your whole life, yet still managing to keep going, to make friends, to care for people. It threw all of Tom's difficult character into a new light. Church was overwhelmed with guilt at the bad things he had thought of his friend, certainly in the early days, and all the harsh words he had ever said. There was so much he still wanted to say. Despite their prickly relationship, Tom had been an excellent teacher, and a father figure and the best of friends; he had made a deep and lasting impact on Church's life.
Tom appeared to know what Church was thinking. "I've had a long life, Jack. Too long. Too much pain and suffering. I'm looking forward to moving on."
"I'm sorry these last few months have been so hard for you."
"They have been hard, but they have also been some of the best months of my life. I've learnt a lot from all of you, Jack. You reminded me of all those things I thought I'd lost when the Queen got her hands on me. For centuries I thought I'd become less than a man. But you-all of you-showed me the truth. And now it doesn't matter what the Queen's games did to my body, because the thing that really counts, my humanity, comes from somewhere else. And it's still there."
Tom coughed again, and this time it sounded like the fit wasn't going to stop. When it did finally end, he was noticeably weaker. His eyelids fluttered half-closed; his skin grew ashen.
"Tom," Church pleaded futilely. He had always been so flawed and weak compared to the heroic legends of Thomas the Rhymer, but in truth his heroism was even greater; deeper and more complex than the shining, courageous myth, infinitely more worthy, because it came from the best of humanity.
"The spiderweb." The Rhymer's voice was a papery rustle. "Diamonds all along it. Little worlds." Another cough, slow and laboured. "Beautiful, little worlds."
And then there was silence and a heavy stillness.
His eyes burning, Church rested his head on the hard wood. He would miss his old friend immeasurably.
His sorrow had turned to a cold, hard anger when the door swung open and Mollecht entered, flanked by three Fomorii guards. Behind them, Callow danced a little jig. Mollecht led the Fomorii to the array of torture tools, ignoring Church completely.
"They're going to punish you, you know." Callow moved across the floor in a manner that reminded Church more of an insect; insanity burned bright in his eyes.
"I'd call you crazy if it wasn't stating the obvious," Church said. "Throwing your lot in with these bastards again, after all they've done to you. Do you think they'll give you what you want?"
Callow cast a sly, admiring glance towards the mass of flapping birds. "Oh yes, oh yes. My new best friend."
"I had some sympathy for you, Callow, but it was misplaced. You aren't how you are because you didn't get the breaks in life. There have always been too many people like you, blaming everybody and everything for their suffering because they're too weak to face up to the selfishness or the greed that drove them into bad situations. Doing the right thing is difficult, and there's always some kind of hardship, but it pays off-for yourself, for society, for humanity. You were just too lacking to go down that road. Too pathetic. You wanted things for yourself and you wanted them quick and easy. Face up to it, Callow. All your misery in your life is because of the choices you made."
"No!" Callow protested childishly. "Nobody looked after me! I never had what others had!"
"You said it yourself, the first time we met. Longfellow, wasn't it?" Church drove the nail home harder, enjoying every blow.
"Shut up!" Callow covered his ears.
"In ourselves, are triumph and defeat."
"No!" He ran over and kicked Tom's body hard, then looked to Church for a reaction.
"He can't feel it, you know," Church said. "He's away taking a rest from this big mess. It's all of us left behind who still get to feel the pain."
Callow scuttled forward to Church's side so he could whisper in his ear, "And that's just what you'll get, old boy. Once he's finished with you"-he pointed to Mollecht-"I'll have my finger."
Mollecht completed whatever task he had been carrying out on the other side of the room and turned back. Church couldn't tell if it was his imagination, but the crows appeared to fly even faster, like a heart speeding up at the anticipation of pleasure.
"Enjoy it while it lasts," Callow whispered gleefully.
The three Fomorii guards were each carrying one of the cruel-looking implements; Church tried not to look at them, nor to think what damage they could wreak on his frail body.
Close up the sound of flapping wings was deafening, the smell of the birds potent. Church couldn't comprehend how they could fly so fast, so close together without once crashing.
Callow sloped back to the far corner of the room, obviously unnerved by Mollecht, even though he considered him an ally. The Fomorii guards roughly flipped the board back so it was horizontal, and Mollecht moved to stand at the head, where his presence was oppressive, but only partly seen. Two Fomorii positioned themselves on Church's right, one over his knee joint, the other close to his hand. The third Fomorii moved in on his left and held a rod tipped with a corkscrew over his groin; Church remembered that one well from the tunnels beneath Dartmoor.
Something was happening with Mollecht, although it was impossible to see exactly what. Church had a sense that the birds were moving their formation slightly; he could feel the air currents from their wings on his forehead. A moment later an unpleasant sucking sensation throbbed deep in his head, though he was sure it was not physical.
He writhed on the table in an attempt to shake it off, but it grew more and more intense until he felt something deep in him rushing out. There was a moment of utter darkness and then the torture room was gone, although he felt his body still lying in it. Everything was infused with intense, smoky colours, unreal, like a distorted Technicolor film from the sixties. A large, armoured insect appeared to be crawling around the inside of his head. His whole being recoiled; it was the mind of Mollecht.
Church had flashes of a nightmarish landscape where threatening creatures loomed up before receding in speeded-up motion. There was a shift and he glimpsed a building as big as a mountain made of black glass. Another shift and he was inside, in a room as dark as the deepest well despite a brazier glowing a dull red in one corner. One of the Fomorii stood hunched over the hot coals pouring some dust on to them from a glass philtre. This Fomor-whom Church knew was Mollecht-was a half-breed, just like Calatin, but while Calatin had more of the Tuatha De Danann in his physical appearance, Mollecht was closer to the grotesque Night Crawlers.
As the dust fell on the coals, a cloud of smoke rose up in purples and reds. Church had a sudden sense of a great Evil, greater even than Balor, lying somewhere on the edge of the universe. He felt its attention turn on him/them, and was convinced he was going to die from dread.
The smoke billowed with a life of its own. Finally it folded back and out of it flew the murder of crows, although there was something sickeningly alien about them; they were much larger, their eyes glittering red, and Church could sense in them an awful intelligence. They fell on Mollecht, pecking at his skin with blades as sharp as razor blades, tearing through flesh and bone.
As Mollecht fell to his knees, he howled in the insane monkey-gibbering way of the Fomorii, but there was nothing he could do to fend them off. At the same time as they ate him alive, they spun a chartreuse web, like spiders, that coagulated, folding within his body to make another form. As he shrank, it grew, not as large but more powerful, and when he was completely gone, it lay there, infinitely more hideous, both within and without. It was so fragile it threatened to fall apart in an instant, but the crows began to fly, faster and faster, weaving a binding spell that created a network of restraining energy. And when it opened its eyes…
The shock jolted Church out of the trance state; he would never, ever forget the sickness of seeing the world through Mollecht's eyes.
Mollecht retreated from his head and moved to where he could direct proceedings.
"Have you lost hope yet?" Callow jeered from the other side of the room.
"Mollecht belongs to something else," Church gasped. "He wants to challenge Balor."
All the Fomorii stopped; Callow dropped to his knees whimpering. The air pressure in the room fell; a wind rushed through it. Church was aware of a presence in the room, unbearably threatening; fear surged through him. It was only there for a second or two before moving on, but it left deep scars on his mind.
Somehow he forced himself to speak. "Where is-"
"Don't say the name!" Callow pleaded.
"Where is he?"
Church thought Callow was going to cry. He looked around in terror. "Don't you know? You are inside him."
Church had no time to ask what that meant. The crows that made up Mollecht shifted their formation; a signal. The Fomorii moved in with the torture instruments.
Before any of them could hurt him, there was another drop in air pressure, only this one felt different: Church's nerve endings tingled, warmth flooded into his limbs. The Fomorii felt it too, for they looked towards the door as one. Mollecht backed away.
The door was growing a dim blue, distinct in the darkness of the room, and it was from there that the electric atmosphere was flooding. Mollecht let out a series of barks and yelps. The Fomorii guards threw away the torture instruments and pulled out their swords, but before they reached the door, the blue glow became noticeably brighter and a resonant hum filled the room. An instant later the door exploded in thousands of shards. Church was close enough to the blast to have been torn to pieces by the flying wood, but nothing touched him at all.
When he looked back he was confronted with a miraculous sight. On the stone floor outside the door was a severed head. It was the source of the brilliant blue glow that now flooded the room. The head of Bran, the Luck of the Land; the god who had sacrificed himself for the sake of humanity. Church could make out long, flowing hair, but where the eyes and mouth should have been there were only holes out of which the blue light streamed. The most unnerving thing was that the head appeared to be still alive. Its mouth moved, the muscles on its cheeks twitched, the eyes grew wider and then narrowed.
The Fomorii guards hesitated, but another command from Mollecht drove them on. They barely had time to move. The light became a river of surging Blue Fire rushing towards them. Church was mesmerised as he watched it burn away everything down to the skeletons, and an instant later they were gone too.
In the corner, Callow was shrieking. Church's attention was drawn to the door as a tall silhouette slipped in. The Bone Inspector hurried over, his face drawn in pain. Church saw that his hands had been charred black.
"Too hot," he said in a fractured voice.
Somehow he managed to undo Church's bonds, although Church could barely look into his face at the pain he was experiencing. "You did a good job," Church said.
The Bone Inspector grunted. "I've suffered worse."
Once Church was free, he dived behind the table and snatched up the Sword. Mollecht was pressed against one wall, unable to leave the room while the head was there. Even so, the birds were shifting formation ready to unleash another of the plague attacks.
Church knew how fast they came, and this time he didn't hesitate. Bounding across the room, he began to thrash wildly with the Sword. Black feathers showered across the room. Deep puddles tinged with red formed as the crows' bodies fell heavily all around.
There was a sound that made Church's gut turn, and it was a moment or two before he realised it was Mollecht screaming. The remaining birds had to fly harder to maintain the binding pattern, but every time the Sword nicked one it plunged to the ground.
Church lost himself in a storm of black and red until there was only one bird flying frantically around the hideous shape that lay within; the thing he still couldn't bring himself to look at. He paused briefly, took a deep breath, and then struck the last crow.
The bird hit the stone flags, followed by the thing within. It thrashed and shrieked wildly for a full minute, and then slowly it began to break up, then melt away. Eventually there was only a black sludge on the floor, and soon that, too, was gone.
Church rested on the Sword, shattered from fear and exertion, and in that moment Callow broke his frozen position and darted for the door. He skirted the head, glancing back once at the threshold.
Church pointed at him. He didn't need to say a word, and he knew from the look of terror on Callow's face as he disappeared that his message had been received.
Church hurried back to the Wayfinder, lying on its side behind the table. "What do we do now?" the Bone Inspector croaked. He was resting heavily against a wall.
"I don't know. But this lantern is going to show me." He sat down and pulled it upright before him. "I hope."
Closing his eyes, he focused on the Blue Fire as Tom had taught him at the foot of Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh. The Rhymer had been a good teacher; it took him only a second or two to reach the necessary state of heightened perception.
The lantern flame surged and the energy crackled into his fingers, his hands. For the first time on his own he saw in the flames the tiny faces and minute bodies he had witnessed when Tom had introduced him to the earth power at Stonehenge. He knew what they were now. "All stars," he whispered.
Things fell into alignment.
It seemed to him that the Wayfinder had moved deep in his head, and the flame was now blazing as bright as a lighthouse. It was a direct connection with the source of the spirit fire, wherever that might be. Church felt it flare in his head, in his heart, as a doorway opened, and then the Blue Fire was streaming out of him.
Veitch awoke on a mudflat next to a grille that looked across the Thames. Next to him the River Fleet rushed out on its journey to the sea. He felt like he was dying: too cold, too exhausted, broken-spirited.
On the south bank he could see the dawn light painting the buildings in beautiful pastel shades. It was only a second or two later that he realised there was a corresponding light in the culvert in which he lay, only that illumination was a deep sapphire; and it was coming from him, from his very pores. With it came not only a tremendous sense of well-being, but also renewed vigour.
He clambered to his feet, stamping the last remaining cold from his limbs as he cracked his knuckles. "Bleedin' hell," he said in awe.
Then he was at the grille, attempting to prise it open.
The Fomorii marched back and forth at the camp in the underground tunnel, oblivious to the foul-smelling smoke rolling off the burning piles of rubbish. They were long used to the foraging rats that ventured close before scurrying back into the shadows, so they paid scant attention to the movement further along the tracks.
It was only when the activity refused to recede, indeed began to move closer than any of the rats had dared before, that they looked up, and by then it was too late.
A torrent of undulating brown bodies swept towards them from the dark, covering every square centimetre of the tunnel floor. The rats surged past the perimeter bonfires up on to the Fomorii, biting chunks out of their forms, tearing their way into any orifice they found. Their relentless speed and vast numbers belied the weakness of their size; however many the Fomorii crushed or swatted away, there were a thousand more to take their place and within seconds the Night Walkers were lost beneath the deluge.
Walking amongst them was Ruth, her eyes blazing with righteous fury. She was untouched by the scurrying creatures that moved exactly where she wanted, did just what she required. The information had been there in her mind, ready to be accessed, all part of the detailed lore she had soaked up from her familiar while imprisoned in Edinburgh. She had always thought she might be able to control one, perhaps two, maybe even three, but the extent of her abilities stunned her. She felt able to do anything.
As she passed the camp, the Blue Fire surged into her limbs, driving out the exhaustion so her physical strength could match the overwhelming confidence she had discovered. She had a sudden, deep connection with Church, and knew he had made it through to his destination. Now all she had to do was join him.
Muttering beneath her breath, the rats responded, surging on beyond the camp, with tens of thousands more coming up behind her.
"Did you feel that?" Laura's jaw sagged in cartoon style as the electric jolt jerked her limbs.
Shavi held up his hand towards the end of the corridor where the dawn light had still not penetrated. A ghostly blue aura could just be made out around his fingers. "It is Church."
Laura closed her eyes in relief. "Good job we're not all losers."
Shavi looked back out of the window at the army of silent Fomorii staring back. "We have to join him. All of us need to be there."
"That's all well and good, Shav-ster, but I'm still waiting to hear the cunning plan. Maybe the one that turns us invisible so we can waltz past the hordes of Hell."
As the sunlight slowly moved across the rooftops, the deathly silence was suddenly broken. From somewhere in the distance came the dim but instantly recognisable sound of a hunting horn, low and mournful, but drawing nearer.
And the Blue Fire rolled out across the city, joining up with the Fiery Network, and with it flowed Church's thoughts and hopes and prayers. The Wayfinder had lit the way for the very essence of his being, the part that had been transformed from base lead into gold by his experiences at St. Michael's Mount. Deep in his subconscious, encoded in his spirit, was the link he had with the vital energy that flowed into everything. He was, finally and truly, its champion, the Brother of Dragons. He was One.
When he had achieved what it became apparent that he had to do, he broke the link and put the Wayfinder aside.
"Tell me that did some good," the Bone Inspector said.
Church looked up at him with bright eyes. "The Fabulous Beasts are coming," he said.