Darkest hour

Chapter Twenty

Chutch didn't know how he made it back to the house. The sword was his support over the rough ground, levering him up over rocks which were too much for his battered body to surmount. There was so much pain in every inch of him that he no longer focused on it; he simply floated in a cloud untouched by his senses. The most sensible thing would be to black out and rest where he fell, let his body heal a little. But night was not far away, and Lughnasadh was rising after that. Everything depended on the next few hours; a moment's weakness would doom them all.

Laura was waiting for him as he crested the last ridge, a look of such contempt on her face he thought she was going to punch him. "Suicide boy," she sneered. "Looks like you got unlucky." Then she saw the pain that was racking him. "A close thing, though. Maybe next time, eh?"

He expected a supportive hand, but she marched back to the house, leaving him to make his own way.

By the time he reached the house he was feeling much better than when he had started his journey; the Pendragon Spirit was helping, coupled with whatever earth energies were focused within the tor, but he knew it would take many days to get back to full form; longer for his hand to heal properly. He had attempted to bind it with his handkerchief-the agony had almost made him black out. He would need Laura's help to fasten it up tightly enough for the bones to start to knit without any disfigurement.

But the moment he stepped into the house all thought of his own pain disappeared. Ruth was huddled in one corner, her belly distended and mottled grey, green and purple, as if it had been beaten with a stick. Her skin was drained of blood, the crescents under her eyes and the hollows of her cheeks so dark she looked as if she were close to death by starvation. There was no longer any ranting or delirium; her eyelids barely flickered and her breath was so shallow it was almost imperceptible. It was obvious the end was near.

Laura refused to look at her; she kept staring out of the windows or at the walls, as if there was something more interesting to see. "So when are you going to put her out of her misery?" she said bitterly. "I see you've found something for the execution."

"There's still time," he replied wearily; he didn't have the energy to deal with her baiting.

He knelt down and brushed the hair from Ruth's forehead; her skin was clammily unpleasant to the touch. Hesitantly he moved his hand down, hovering over her belly for an instant before he laid it on her skin. The instant he touched it something moved beneath. He snatched his hand away, stifling a cry of disgust. It had felt like a dog had snapped at him.

Laura must have seen something too, for there were tears in her eyes born of incomprehension and horror. "How can that happen?" Her voice was a small child's. "It can't really be inside her. Nothing's inside her, is it?"

Church rubbed a hand across his face, composed himself, then stood up and walked to the door. "We'll give it till nearly midnight," he said without looking at her. He had to find some place to rest so he could find the reserves he prayed were buried deep within him. "We've got to have hope. There's still a chance one of the others could make it back."

He felt her eyes heavy on his back, urging him to go back to her, comfort her. He paused briefly, then walked out into the afternoon sun, mentally preparing himself for what the night would bring.

The sun was uncomfortably close to the horizon when Shavi made it across the park to the nearest road. He was slick with sweat, his throat burned and his stomach was in knots, but none of it mattered; he knew instinctively he was the last hope for Ruth, for all of them. There was still time to make it back with Cernunnos' mysterious potion, just as long as he found a vehicle quickly.

Desperately he scanned the road in both directions. Normally there would have been a constant flow of traffic in both directions, but in the twilight of society's dissolution there was no sign of anything.

"Please," he whispered. "Whatever gods are listening-"

A white Renault Clio appeared from around the bend. Stifling a wave of exaltation, he took a step out into the road, furiously trying to think how he would convince the driver to hand over his vehicle, knowing he would take it by force if he had to.

As he neared he saw the troubled face of a white-haired old woman leaning over the wheel, peering ahead anxiously as if she expected a sudden rush of juggernauts. Suddenly she glanced in his direction and her expression froze in horror, her mouth a growing 0.

What is wrong with her? Shavi thought.

He took another step into the road. She put a foot on the accelerator.

"No!" Shavi shouted. "I need-!"

From somewhere nearby there came the strangest sound. It could have been the wind blowing across the park, but it sounded very much like howling. Sirens went off in his mind; there was something important he hadn't remembered. A second passed. And then he had it: the ritual in the woods with the travellers. The spirit construct hanging in the air, warning him, something about howling. Then he had it: turn quickly.

The pain in his back felt like a red-hot poker had been rammed through his skin. His thoughts fractured. He hung on to the image of the woman's face, her mouth growing wider and wider until he thought it was going to swallow her head; the car speeding up, rushing by, taking hope with it.

No, he tried to call, but his voice had gone with the car.

The howling, like a wolf.

And then suddenly he felt an arm round his chest, dragging him back, across the road, into the park, into the trees. He tried to fight, but in his shock his limbs felt like jelly, his thoughts in disarray.

Roughly he was thrust backwards, hitting the ground hard. His shirt felt wet near his shoulder blade. He could smell the meaty odour of the blood. Quickly his fingers slipped behind him. When he withdrew them, they were dark and wet.

The shock of the image kickstarted his thoughts into life and he threw himself on to his elbows, ready to drive up to his feet.

A boot cracked sharply on his right elbow and he fell back to the ground in pain. Before he could move again a figure was over him, brandishing a knife at his face. Shavi's immediate impression was of an enormous wolf and he knew at once that this was the creature that had stalked them from the Highlands. But gradually his perception fought back, struggling for the truth, and it was as if a mist was shifting from before his eyes.

The wolf began to grow smaller, the yellow eyes becoming less and less intense, until it coalesced into the shape of a man. At first, details were hazy, but as the veil was drawn back a feeling of revulsion slowly engulfed Shavi. The veins of his attacker stood out in deep black on his pale skin, as if they were filled with ink instead of blood. His eyes were lidless, the unchanging stare charged with a mix of insane fury and crazed despair. His teeth were rotting and blackened too, which made his mouth look like the gaping maw of an alien beast; although he couldn't possibly survive in that form, whatever the Fomorii had done to him kept him going.

It was almost impossible to consider him a man; yet in the straggly mane of silver hair and the shabby, dark suit, Shavi recognised him.

"Callow," he hissed. Ice water washed through him at the thought of what monstrous things must have been perpetrated on the itinerant to transform him into such a thing.

But once the initial shock had dissipated, Shavi was overcome with a deep loathing. Normally he tried to maintain an equilibrium for all living things, but here was the man who had slashed Laura's face, sliced off Ruth's finger and delivered her into the hands of the Fomorii to be tortured; who had tried to sell humanity to the beasts for his own gain.

Shavi clapped his hand on his wound to staunch the blood flow; it didn't seem too bad. "What have they done to you, Callow?" he asked, biding his time while he looked for a way out.

"What have they done?" Callow rolled his eyes insanely. "Look at me! They've ruined me! Calatin's punishment for my involvement in the farrago which you and your pathetic colleagues brought about in the Lake District. Punishing me more for his own failures. The indescribable bastard!" He made a strange noise in the corner of his mouth which could have been a laugh or a curse; the insanity brought on by his suffering was writ large in every movement he made. "And once he had tormented me, he didn't even keep me around. He threw me out into the world to make my own way."

"You paid a terrible price-"

"Not fair!" He wiped his mouth feverishly with the back of his hand. "It was your fault! All of you! You are the ones who should have suffered! That was why I sought you out. To make you pay." He waggled his filthy fingers in front of Shavi's face. One was missing; the first severed finger they had found next to Loch Maree had been his own. "Each one of you, a little pinkie!" He chuckled. "The five fingers that held my fate in their grasp. I will sever each of you until I am free. And any other one who dares to hold me back."

Cautiously, Shavi dug his heels in the ground and shifted his weight, ready to throw himself at his attacker if Callow dropped his guard. "If all you wanted was revenge, why then did you deliver Ruth to the Fomorii?" Desperately he tried to keep the conversation going.

Callow's expression grew rueful. "I thought she might buy my way back into the Midnight Court. She is the most powerful of all of you, you see. More powerful even than you. I explained to Calatin that this would make her the perfect vehicle for the return of their Dark Lord. The delicious irony! The champion of this world bringing about its demise! Calatin had no sense of irony, but he realised her strength would make her more likely to withstand the rigours of the pregnancy." He chuckled crazily to himself. "Pregnant! A virgin birth! They were going to use one of their own up to that point. So he took her, and then he threw me out again! But once I have eliminated the rest of you, he will take me back. I know he will."

"Why do you want to return when they have done this to you?" Shavi could not keep the disgust out of his voice.

Callow did not seem to notice. "He loves me. He shaped me with his own hands. I hate him and I love him too. There is nowhere else in this world for me now, unless it's by his side."

In his words Shavi heard echoes of Tom's twisted relationship with the Tuatha De Danann. What was it in the psyche of humankind that made them complicit in the actions of their tormentors, he wondered?

Callow wiped his knife on Shavi's trousers, leaving a thin trail of blood. "You have to give in to them, you see," he continued, almost to himself. "They're our gods. They control our lives."

Shavi eyed the sinking sun nervously. He had to break free from Callow soon or all would be lost. "We give in to no one. If humanity is to rise again, it will not come from kowtowing to any earthly power. We must seize control-"

Callow's painful laugh cut him short. "You think they can be beaten?"

"Not easily. Not without a great struggle. But I believe it is man's destiny to rise, not to kneel in servitude." The pain and the wetness in Shavi's back was starting to spread. The wound might not have been deep, but it still needed treatment or he'd bleed to death there, in conversation with a lunatic.

"You'll be the first to die. Then I'll take your finger. Or perhaps I'll take the finger first." Callow watched him slyly with those permanently uncovered orbs like twin moons, glowing unnaturally white. He started to turn the knife slowly in his filthy fingers. Shavi watched his muscles tense, preparing to strike.

"We may be able to help you," Shavi said with a comforting smile. "The Tuatha De Danann have remarkable abilities and their opposition to the Fomorii may induce them to find a cure for you."

"Really?" Callow's muscles untensed.

Shavi felt the relief creep into his chest. Now was the time to act. "Yes. We can-

Callow lunged forward like a cobra. The knife plunged into Shavi's chest with the force of a hammer, knocking him back on the ground. And again. And again. For an instant his thoughts flashed out and he was left in infinite darkness. When he came down he seemed to be buried deep in his head with only a tiny window to look out on to the world. There was an unbearable pain in his left hand, but he couldn't move to drag his arm away, couldn't even move to see what was happening. A receding part of him knew, but what remained of his conscious mind wouldn't accept the knowledge. It couldn't make sense of any thing; there were just random impressions: the comforting feel of the grass against his cheek, the summery aroma of woodland, the feel of the heat slowly fading as the sun slipped down the sky, an overwhelming but fleeting grief that he had failed everybody, a snapshot of Ruth, Church, Laura, Veitch, Tom, Lee, his mother and father.

And then he heard Callow's voice as if from across a desolate pain: "There is no cure. This is all there is-pain and suffering."

The sounds of Callow shuffling away. Silence. Another face moving in towards him, familiar, but insubstantial; and it wasn't even dark. The guilt and regret. The voice that tormented him on a nightly basis, softly, so softly. "You'll be with nae soon, Shavi." Lee bending closer to tell him terrible things that would stay with him in the Grey Lands forever.

And then there was nothing.

The sun was low on the horizon and long shadows ran across the Windsor parkland. Darkness had started to gather among the trees. From somewhere nearby came the forlorn baying of hounds. One shadow separated from the others and moved across the grass until it found Shavi lying in a pool of his blood. There was a brief snuffling around the recumbent form and then Cernunnos raised his antlered head and howled at the sky. It merged with the questing of the dogs into a sound that would have broken the heart of anyone who heard it.

Complete silence followed; no bird called, no insect chirruped; it was as if a blanket had been lain across the parkland, and that was somehow as unbearable as the noise that preceded it. Finally, Cernunnos groped inside Shavi's jacket and removed the smoky bottle he had handed over earlier. The god held it delicately for a moment, his head moving slowly from side to side, and then he loped back into the undergrowth.

Church sat on his favourite rock, watching the sunset. The sky had turned an angry red, almost apocalyptic in its intensity. His body felt like it belonged to someone else, a mass of aches and bruises highlighted by the throbbing in his hand, which had receded from its initial agony to a dull pain that made him feel sick. He had passed out briefly as Laura bound it tightly for him and she had chided him for that, although there wasn't much heart in her mockery.

The sword felt uncomfortable in his good hand, the strange, cold, metal more like the skin of a snake; sometimes he was even convinced it moved beneath his palm. The way he felt, though, he doubted if he would have the strength to use it.

He couldn't help continually checking his watch as he counted off the min utes until midnight. More than anything, he thought of Ruth. He recalled when they first met how he had the overwhelming feeling they were kindred spirits. Lying together beneath the sheets in her Salisbury hotel room when one of the Baobhan Sith was stalking only feet away. Sitting beside the campfire on Skye when she told him, "We're not all going to come out of it alive."

He bolstered himself with the thought that until Lughnasadh rose there was still a chance of the cavalry riding in to save all of them from damnation. Yet in his heart he knew a little piece of hope went with each glimmer of light that ebbed out of the sky.

Could he kill the woman he felt closer to than anyone, even though she was going to die anyway? Could he drive that last piece of life out of her, and watch as her face returned to innocence? For the first time in many years, he covered his eyes and prayed.

Laura sat in the corner of the room where Ruth slept, hugging her knees, watching the tremors that ran through the sleeping form. Seeing Ruth's suffering played out before her had been agonising, as much for what it made her think about herself as the effect it had on the woman she had professed to dislike. For so long she hadn't even been able to look at Ruth; now she could do little else. She didn't know if she was punishing herself, some subconscious reflex instilled by her parents' religious education, or if she was merely waiting for something to happen.

And she could sense they were on the cusp of something monumental. There was a feeling in the stale atmosphere of the room of unpleasant tension, as if a storm were about to break.

"Don't die," she whispered. She told herself it wasn't a prayer, but then added, "Bring Ryan or Shavi back with good news."

She felt useless sitting around doing nothing, while heroic events were being played out around her. Was that why she'd been pulled into the whole damn mess-to act as little more than a cheerleader for others who had greater depths and more significant abilities? In fact, if she admitted it to herself, she had no skills, nothing to contribute at all; not even any homely wisdom to guide them out of a sticky situation. She'd been a coward, a fuck-up, jealous, divisive, manipulative, while secretly hoping some of the others' strengths would rub off on her. But all she'd got was some hideous blood disorder that was doing God knows what to her insides.

Why had she been marked as a Sister of Dragons? What did she have to offer?

She covered her eyes, then regretted it when Church walked in because it made her look weak. He was too distracted to notice. His face was pale and drawn from the pain of the day; in the queasy, fading light he looked ten years older.

The deep currents of affection she felt for him began moving, as they always did when he was around, and her biggest regret was that she had never let him know how she really felt. Now it was too late. She could barely believe how, only a few weeks earlier, it had seemed perfect. She'd finally found someone she felt in tune with after a lifetime of searching; someone who was decent, hopeful, everything she wasn't. And, true to form, it had fallen apart almost the moment it had started.

"'s up?" she said blandly.

His features grew dark and she knew the answer even before he spoke. "I think it's starting."

They crawled out on to the overhanging boulder and looked down at the pooling blackness far below. It took Laura a second or two to realise it was moving.

"They know where we are," Church said. "They're coming up."

Laura shrugged. "So, it's Alamo time. Well, it's not like it's a surprise or anything."

Church looked at that fat, red sun hanging on the horizon. "It's too soon."

Laura followed his gaze, couldn't see anything. "What do you mean?"

"I didn't expect them to make their move till after dark." He gnawed on a knuckle, even more worried than he had been a few moments earlier. "I've got to try to hold them off for a bit."

Laura snorted with mocking laughter. "Throw stones at them! That'll do some good."

He rounded on her bitterly. "I'm sick of your carping. Couldn't you say anything useful, even here at the end?"

"Sorry to be such an irritant, shithead." She looked away so he couldn't see her face.

The black tide was rising quickly. Church was transfixed as it swallowed grass and stone, lapping ever upwards. At that distance Church couldn't make out any shapes within the greater mass, adding to the illusion of an ocean stretching out around the island of the tor; and with the sun so low it was impossible to guess how far it did reach, the night and the Fomorii merged into one. He guessed, from the average size of them, there must have been thousands gathered round the tor, ready to celebrate the rebirth of their own dark god and bear him back to whatever burrow they had made their own. And there he sat with a sword, nearly crippled by his injuries. If the situation wasn't so tragic it would be laughable.

The bitterness had drained out of him by the time he turned back to Laura. "I want you to go back and sit with Ruth," he said tenderly.

"Well, aren't you the big macho bastard. Send the womenfolk back to the homestead while you do men things."

"It's not like that. Ruth deserves to have someone sitting with her, you know-"

"Up to the end?" She seemed to understand this. She stared back at the house impassively, and after a long pause, she said, "You're not expecting me to do it, are you?"

"No. Don't do anything. That's my job."

`But what happens if…" She struggled to find words that wouldn't hurt too much to say them.

"I'll find some way to get back in there to do what needs to be done before it's all over."

She nodded slowly. "This is it then. The fuck-ups fuck up big time." Still nodding, she began to walk back to the house. She hadn't gone far when she turned and came striding back to him. The last rays of the sun highlighted the glimmering wetness in her eyes. She wiped them with the back of her hand, then threw her arms round his neck and hugged him tightly. "I'd like to say it was fun, Church-dude. Bits of it even were. But I can say this-I'll never forget it until my dying day." She kissed him passionately on the lips and then she was gone.

Church's thoughts turned to what lay ahead. He desperately tried to think of some delaying strategy to give him the added time he needed, but there were so many, whatever he did, they'd keep going right over the top of him towards the house. The building wasn't even protected enough for him to make any kind of stand. A pass in the mountains, that's where he needed to be, or at a bridge. Instead he was on a flattened ridge on a bleak mountaintop where they could come at him from every direction at once. Clever.

"Shavi. Tom. Ryan," he said out loud. "If you're going to make a move, now's the time to do it." His words were picked up by the evening breeze and flung out over the countryside.

He sat on the boulder, his stomach muscles knotting, his heart beating faster and faster until he thought it would explode with anxiety. They were moving slowly, staying together in one tight corpus. It allowed him time to consider their nature. The times he had seen them en masse they had moved almost like one creature. He remembered the Lake District and how he felt like he was being borne along on a river of darkness. Perhaps that was the way to perceive them, as the embodiment of evil, one mind, one form, which could break itself down into smaller parts when called for. That line of thinking made his head spin. The Fomorii, and the Tuatha De Danann too, were so alien the only yardsticks he could apply to measure them were human ones which made no sense. There was a whole new set of rules and regulations out there which mapped the existence inhabited by those two races.

He wondered, with a note of dark humour, how the scientists were coping right then. Madly trying to apply their laboratory conditions to something which could not be measured or categorised? Going crazy trying to force all those square pegs into the round holes which comprised their intellectual life?

Yet, strangely, there were some parts of the Fomorii that were parallel to human experience, as if people had learned the baser part of their existence from the Night Walkers long ago. Or perhaps, he mused, everyone was cut from the same cloth. That thought was so depressing he wiped it from his mind immediately.

They certainly had a hierarchical structure, tribal in nature, with the different factions constantly rivalling. He guessed only the iron rule of Balor could keep them united, in fear and in the promise of ultimate victory over all existence. But while the Fomorii were like the barbarians in the outer darkness, the Tuatha De Danann reminded him of some emperor's court structure, but one that had passed its peak and was winding down into decadence and decay. How could they be gods when aspects of them were so human?

And so he waited. Halfway up the tor he began to hear those horrible animal cries and grunts that tormented his sleep. Then came the zoo smell, thick and stomach turning. And then, finally, he could see them, no longer as one dark mass, but as swarming black insects, thousands upon thousands of bodies, scrambling upwards, clambering over each other, their shapes flickering in and out of his perception so that sometimes they seemed to have bony shells and wings, other times gleaming black armour, sometimes wielding twisted limbs with scorpion stings and lobster claws, other times brandishing cruelly deformed battle axes and those terrifying swords with the serrated edge along one side. It was too much. He had to withdraw from the edge as he felt the nausea rise to the point where he was almost blacking out.

He retreated until he was a few yards from the house door and then he took his stand again.

Laura watched the impending confrontation from the house with a mounting sense of desolation. All the suffering and heartache had come down to this: more failure. Behind her, Ruth had started to buck and writhe once more. Getting ready to give birth, Laura thought.

She wondered what it would be like to die, almost welcomed it in a way. But in contrast the thought of Church or Ruth passing filled her with an overwhelming sickness; it brought tears to her eyes.

As she blinked them away, she caught sight of a movement close to the house. Her stomach turned. The Fomorii had outflanked Church and were coming. It was an obvious ploy; they wouldn't leave their god in the hands of others for longer than they had to, she thought. She glanced round frantically for some kind of weapon. She'd go down fighting if she had to, protecting Ruth to the last. If only she could have had time to say sorry for all the terrible things she had done; for being so weak and pathetic and twisted when confronted by someone so unselfish.

Before the thought had barely formed, the door burst open and it was in there with her. Terror bloomed in her face and in that instant she knew it was over.

An age seemed to pass while the atmosphere grew charged with the overpowering force of an electrical storm; he tasted burnt metal in his mouth, felt disturbing vibrations run through the ground and into his legs. Although he tried to find that place deep within him where all his aspirations to heroism and bravery lay, when the Fomorii rose into view the cold fear that washed through him almost drove him to his knees.

The black tide came over the edge relentlessly. Images were caught briefly in his mind, disconnected: limbs that became tentacles before turning into articulated legs like a spider's, staring eyes that occasionally became multifaceted like an insect's, body parts that looked like knives, wings that weren't, other shapes he couldn't decipher but which would haunt him forever. There was one brief moment when everything just hung. Before him stretched the glistening blackness, the upper surface tinted deep red by the rays of the dying sun, swaddled in a stifling atmosphere of heat and tension. The acute impression of decay and corruption was almost beautiful in its intensity.

The sheer speed of their approach was terrifying; how pathetically naive he'd been even to think he could do something to delay them. They swept across the turf and then rose up until they blocked out the sun. He waited for the black wave to crash down on him, pounding him into grains, but then it separated and flowed on either side until the serried ranks of the Fomorii formed a crescent around the house. And he was suddenly smothered in the stink of them, the sound of them.

Somehow he found the reserves to steady himself. He focused on some dim spot deep in his head so he didn't have to look at them, forced himself not to think about what the next minute would bring, hoped he didn't look like some weak, frightened Fragile Creature.

And then, in an instant, everything grew still. Wherever his eye flickered, nothing moved; the Fomorii may as well have been obsidian. The only sound was the plaintive whispering of the wind as it began to growing in intensity with the dying of the day.

What are they waiting for? he wondered.

And then he knew. A shiver of anticipation ran through the assembled throng and a second later the last glimmering of the sun winked out and darkness fell across the land. A sound rose up into the night like the rending of metal as the Fomorii gave voice to their feelings; Church gave an involuntary shudder. A second later silence fell once again, heavy with a different kind of anticipation.

Away near the edge Church noticed the darkness start to part, then reform, moving slowly towards him like a stingray slipping through the waves. He held his breath. The ripple broke at the front of the ranks and Calatin stepped out to face him. He was wearing a filthy white silk shift beneath unsettling black Fomorii armour and he was lightly holding the rusty sword that had killed Church at their last face-to-face confrontation.

"Here we are again, on the eve of another festival." Calatin's fey voice was rich with contempt and triumph. "Is one death not enough?"

Church said nothing, but his mind was whirling. The sun had set; perhaps there was still time.

"You chose well, Dragon Brother," Calatin continued mockingly, "hiding here in the blur of blue light rather than confronting us. Still betraying the tradition of the Pendragon Spirit. You recognise your abiding weakness in the face of a greater power-"

"We caused you enough problems in Edinburgh. Destroyed your base. Stole your… " Church paused for emphasis "… prize."

A shadow crossed Calatin's face; his smile grew darker. "And you discovered high-born Night Walkers are not easily despatched." He limped forward a few paces, the sword almost too heavy for him to carry. The effort allowed him to compose himself after Church's gibe. He gestured up to the dark arc of the sky. "This is a night filled with power and wonder. Soon, all of existence will align harmoniously, the cycles will turn further away from the light, and the Heart of Shadows will return once again to the centre of all there is. And you and your brethren will have played a part in that glory, Dragon Brother." Another ripple ran through the Fomorii.

Church knew he would have to do anything to buy time. "Why Ruth?" he asked.

"She is a powerful and resilient vessel, Dragon Brother. Stronger even than you." Calatin smiled, as if this were the ultimate insult. "The birthing cauldron must be able to contain the significant forces at play. She had that strength. It was not my initial belief, but when she was delivered to me the thought of a Sister of Dragons bringing about the return of the Heart of Shadows was so richly imbued with meaning, it had to be."

Church tried not to let himself become angered by Calatin's words. "You've been planning this-"

"This has always been our design. In the Far Lands, we were bereft-that was part of the pact agreed with the Golden Ones after the Sundering. But that could never have been our state in perpetuity. Without the Heart of Shadows, the Night Walkers are…" he made a strange floating movement with his hand "… insubstantial. And so we built the Wish-Hex to break the barriers and propel us out into this world once the cycles turned. And once here, we simply had to wait for the right alignment to set events in motion." The light of someone seeking glory began to burn in Calatin's eyes. "And it will always be remembered that I was the one who brought the Heart of Shadows back into existence. My tribe will hold the highest place. None of the others. Mine."

"Balor isn't in your hands yet."

Calatin stifled his tinkling laughter with the back of his hand before it broke into a hacking cough. Then he rested on the sword, one hand drooping over the handle, his chin almost hanging on top of it, while he surveyed Church with languid eyes. "What goes through your mind now, Dragon Brother? Regret? Self-loathing at your inability to meet your responsibilities? What?"

"I'm not the person you met three months ago, Calatin. Now all my emotions are focused outwards. I feel contempt, for you and your kind, for all you outsiders who think you can come here and tell us how to live our lives. I feel a cold, focused anger for the pain you've inflicted on our lives. And for what you've done to Marianne-"

"Ah, yes!" Calatin made a flourishing gesture. "Another failure on your behalf. I expected you to seek me out for vengeance, at the least. But you chose to abandon the one who occupied your heart while you entertained yourself with brief dalliances with others." He punctuated his sneer with a sly smile.

Church knew it was designed to hurt, but it drove home nonetheless. "Not chose, Calatin. I have learned to accept my responsibilities, whatever the cost to myself."

Calatin laughed.

"You don't believe me?" He motioned towards the house. "She's dead. I killed her earlier. And your god has died with her."

A shiver ran through the breadth of the Fomorii, accompanied by a sound like knives being sharpened; there was a timbre to it that sent a corresponding shiver through Church. An incandescent fear alighted briefly on Calatin's face before he brought it under control. "No! The resonance would have torn through us!" A tremor ran through his body; it looked like it wasn't going to stop. He couldn't prevent himself glancing towards the house. Then he half turned towards the wall of darkness at his back. "If the Heart of Shadows was gone, we all would know."

Now it was Church's turn to laugh.

Calatin rounded on him angrily. "Besides, you do not have it within you. I have looked inside you, Dragon Brother, and you truly are too much of a Fragile Creature."

"The only way you're going to find out is by going in there."

The expression which rose on Calatin's face showed this was a prospect he relished; his smile froze cruelly. He raised one hand to bring the razored might of the Fomorii down on Church.

"What? You're not going to do this one-on-one again?" Church glanced towards the distant sky; still nothing.

"You remember-"

"Last time you'd hampered me with the Kiss of Frost. It wasn't a fair fight, it was a big cheat. You knew you'd win. Without that, I could beat you easily."

Calatin's gaze wavered; Church could almost see every thought passing across his face: the reputation of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons had sifted into Fomorii myth in the same way the Night Walkers and Golden Ones had entered human mythology; he couldn't quite be sure there wasn't some weight to it, that Church really could destroy him in an instant.

Church's palms were sweating as he gripped the handle of the sword. Things had reached a head. Every part of his rational mind told him it was time to throw in the cards, to run into the house and slay Ruth with one swing of his sword. But whenever he thought about it, his legs felt like lead.

And there was still time, he thought, still hope.

He raised his sword and prepared to face Calatin. And as he did, the strangest thing happened. Confusion, disbelief, then shock crossed Calatin's face, he took a shaky step back. Another unnerving sound reverberated among the Fomorii, almost querulous this time.

"That sword…" Calatin pointed a tremulous finger.

Church eyed it curiously, then shrugged. "Come on," he said with a confi- dente that belied his thoughts. His hand was afire with pain and his body was racked with aches. "Or are you going to back out now you know I'm ready to take you?"

Calatin raised his chin nobly, but his eyes flickered from side to side as if he were searching for a way out. There was an instant of brief despair that was so profound Church was taken aback, and then Calatin raised his own sword and advanced.

They circled each other warily; if either of them had expected an echo of their previous confrontation, they both soon realised the dynamic had changed. Calatin was cautious, his step unsure, afraid to come within Church's circle; that in turn gave Church confidence, although he couldn't grasp quite why things had altered.

Church knew his only hope was to eliminate all the negative impressions bearing down on him: the pain he felt from his many injuries, the physical and spiritual accumulation from weeks of striving, suffering and numerous setbacks. The upsetting wash of threat and evil that came off the Fomorii had to be put on one side, however much it felt like pins stabbing his flesh; but he had trouble shaking the rumbling paranoia that they were moving in to strike every time he turned his back to them. He fixed his attention on Calatin's face, a cauldron of conflicting emotions the Fomorii leader would have done better burying deep. In there, for the first time, Church saw hope.

The tension rose as they continued to move, feinting but never quite striking. And with each faux beginning to the battle Church could see Calatin's anxiety rising; he was afraid to attack, and just as afraid to continue dodging the battle for fear of losing face.

Eventually his twisting emotions proved too much for him. He lashed out, but even in his unfocused blow his remarkable skill came to the fore. All Church saw was the rusty, stained blade suddenly become a blur, whirling in circles before licking out. He ducked at the last minute, but the serrated edge still took a jagged slice out of the meat of his cheek; an instant's hesitation and he would have lost his head. He cried out in pain and a brief cruel smile leapt to Calatin's lips. The Fomor felt a surge of confidence from first blood, and pressed his attack with a rapid scything motion.

Church barely saw it, but his sword leapt up to block and Calatin's blade slid off with a bone-jarring clang. A coldness washed through Church's limbs; his sword had blocked it of its own accord. By rights he should be dead; in his paindulled state he hadn't seen enough of the attack to make any move himself.

He took his eye off Calatin to survey the grim, black sword. Calatin saw this opening and attacked again, lunging in an attempt to disembowel Church. The sword forced Church's arm to parry and then came up sharply, ready to attack if Church gave it the lead.

Church felt sick from the sensation; it was as if there was something alive in his hand. It no longer really felt like a sword at all; it was almost slimy and resilient in his grip.

When Calatin attacked again, this time swinging low in a bid to take off a kneecap or two, Church blocked it with ease. And at the same time he allowed the sword to guide him, putting his weight behind the attack. It passed through Calatin's defences easily and ripped open his forearm. Calatin howled wildly in pain. When it had passed Church saw the hesitancy of true fear in his flickering eyes. Church expected the ranks of Fomorii to show some sign of emotion at this weakness, but there was only utter silence; and that was more damning.

Church took a step back to inhale deeply; sweat was soaking through his clothes. He was ready for Calatin to seize the opportunity, but now his opponent was even more wary than when they had started.

Calatin moistened his dry lips, couldn't take his eyes off the sword. "He gave it to you, did he not?"

Church ignored him, still breathing deeply. He was surprised to notice the perception of the blue fire Tom had taught him was now almost operating independently. Across the landscape he could see the thin azure lines growing brightly in the deep darkness. Some were broken, others intermittent; the land still needed to be truly awoken. But they were growing stronger. And there on the tor the earth force was strongest of all. He had a sense of being engulfed in a brilliant blue light shining up out of the ground; it was awesome and transcendent, and he could feel it seeping into every fibre of his being, refreshing him, starting to heal him. Above all, it gave him a deep sense of connectedness that added meaning to his existence, and from that he drew a deep, abiding strength. He was ready.

"I should have destroyed him," Calatin said bitterly.

In desperation Calatin drove himself forward, hacking and slashing like a wild man. There was no sign of the decaying, fey persona he normally exhibited, just a driven, cruel ferocity.

But it was not enough. Infused with the blue fire, with the black sword dancing like a beast in his hands, Church moved sleekly to block every blow, returning each with a harder strike that drove Calatin back and back. A lunge came through and ripped open the Fomor's breastplate. Another sliced across the bridge of Calatin's nose; he howled again, flicking black droplets from the wound as he shook his head.

And still Church moved forward. A blow came down so hard that Calatin went to his knees to block it. He wriggled out and danced away as Church's next attack missed him by a whisker. But Calatin had nowhere to turn. The Fomorii forces were pressing too close, as if they were refusing to allow him to retreat; nor were they giving him any aid. And that was just how Church expected them to see it: in a race without any compassion, the weak should be allowed to perish so that the collective would grow stronger.

Although Calatin knew his end was coming, to his credit, he never gave in to his fear. It was only visible in his eyes, but to Church it shone out like a beacon.

Church bore down on him with the last reserves of his energy, all his joints aching from the explosive vibrations of sword on sword. A flurry of thrusting and slashing smashed through Calatin's defences, knocking his sword hand to one side. His chest was wide open for the killing strike, but Church knew there would be only a second before Calatin brought the sword back to block the blow. It was his moment of victory, yet he couldn't take it. Although Calatin was a god, there was too much humanity in his eyes.

Not a god at all, Church thought.

But the sword would not be deflected. With cruel efficiency it attacked, almost leaping from his fingers as it propelled itself into Calatin's chest, burrowing deeper like a worm in sand. There was too much black blood; Church had to cover his face with his free arm. Calatin bucked and writhed like there were thousands of volts going through him. As Church looked back he was struck by the expression on the Fomor's face: utter desolation that was almost painful to see. Calatin knew he was dying, finally and irrevocably, and for a being that thought he was an inexorable part of existence it was an ultimate terror that Church couldn't begin to grasp.

Sickeningly, the sword continued to vibrate in Calatin's chest, seeming to suck the life out of him, everything out of him. His cheeks grew hollow, his clothes and then his flesh began to fall in drapes on his bones, and then even the skeleton itself was pulled out of him. Church let go of the handle, but still the sword continued until there was nothing left of Calatin but a smear on the ground, and soon even that was gone.

But that wasn't the end of it. As the sword clattered on to the stone and turf, it began to change shape, growing smaller, sprouting legs like a scorpion, until it scurried off rapidly across the ground to disappear in the enclosing dark. And Church knew then that it was not a sword, but Mollecht's own Caraprix, the strange, symbiotic creature that all the gods carried. But the vampiric qualities it had displayed in its final attack gave Church pause; he wondered whether the odd little creatures really did act at the behest of the gods, or if the gods were their puppets.

He didn't have time to consider the notion any more. The moment Calatin passed on, the Fomorii had begun to move warily, but now they had seen the Caraprix depart they were advancing on him menacingly. He wanted to fight them too, but all he could do was drop feebly to his knees, every last reserve of energy drained out of him.

This is it, he thought, more with weariness than despair. He'd done his best, more than he thought he ever could do. If he had failed, that was all he could truly ask of himself.

The Fomorii rose up in front of him, an enormous wall that must surely have been death. And up and up it went, his perception giving up as it tried to comprehend the eternal permutations of form. It hovered over him, like a tidal wave waiting to smash down on a coastal village, and he was cast in the coldest shadow he had ever experienced.

Church bowed his head, waiting for the strike. But the wave seemed to hang there interminably. In hesitant disbelief, he looked up just as it trembled, then twisted and finally broke apart in a wild thrashing. Dark, frantic motion erupted all around him, and he suddenly felt he had instead been sucked into a sable whirlpool. There was that strange rending metal noise he had heard earlier, faces that were alien, yet still filled with a recognisable fear, the rapid movement of fleeing forms.

And suddenly the whole night was lit in gold.

"Finally," Church said, barely able to believe what was happening. "The cavalry. "

The still-thrashing, dismembered body of a Fomor crashed into the ground in front of him, spraying foul gunk all around.

Another Fomor sent him flying several feet, and for a few seconds he blacked out. When he came round, chaos had erupted everywhere. The Fomorii were scrambling back and forth and the air was suffused with a high-pitched squealing like pigs in an abattoir. Church had to keep on the move to dodge the rampaging beasts, now oblivious to him. The ground had grown slick with the ichor that served as the creatures' blood and he was slipping and sliding, feeling his skin burn where it splashed up on him. Body parts rained from the sky, bouncing off him as he ran. In disarray and shock he had the awful impression he was looking at a vista from hell.

And then the blackness of the Fomorii parted and suddenly everywhere there was golden light, and before him was Maponus, moving through the scurrying forms like the righteous wrath of God, dealing out death and punishment on either side. Bodies burst into flames or just fell apart. Others were crushed by his powerful hands. His face was beautiful and serene, as if he were doling out salvation instead of carnage, but his clothes and his golden skin were covered in the black muck that sprayed out of his victims. As he advanced, his wide, innocent eyes staring out of a now-black dripping face, Church knew it truly was Hell. He fell to his knees in the face of such power, not strong enough to run any more. Maponus bore down on him relentlessly.

Before the Good Son reached him, a blur shot out of the corner of Church's vision, yanked at his shirt and dragged him across the grass out of the insane god's path. Church crashed, gasping, on to the ground and rolled over to look up into the face of the Bone Inspector.

"Nearly didn't make it." The old man's eyes rolled with a hint of madness at the terrors he had experienced. "Trying to drive him up here… get him to follow me…"

"You did good." Church gripped the old man's forearm in gratitude. "To be honest, I'd started to give up hope."

"Never do that." The Bone Inspector slumped down wearily, clutching his staff for support.

No longer able to talk, they both turned to watch the retreating darkness as the Fomorii swept down the tor like oil running off glass. Behind them the Good Son followed, wreaking his crazed vengeance for a spoiled existence; light flashed off him, wondrous and terrifying to see.

But when Maponus reached the foot of the tor, Church was surprised to see an odd effect in the sky, as if it were folding back on itself. And through it came riding members of the Tuatha De Danann, swathed in a diffuse golden light. At their head Church recognised Nuada Airgitlamh, who had helped bring him back from the dead on Skye. He was wielding the sword of power, Caledfwlch, which they had liberated from its hiding place. The five or six gods behind him were not known to Church, until he saw the final rider on a white horse with glaring red eyes. It was Niamh.

She couldn't shirk her responsibilities either, Church thought.

The Tuatha De Danann rounded on Maponus, herding him towards the rift in the air. At first he was reluctant, but then it seemed as if a small acorn of sanity in his mind recognised his brethren and he moved speedily and willingly towards the rift. A second later it closed behind them and the Golden Ones were gone.

Despite all the suffering he had caused, Church hoped the Tuatha De Danann would be able to find some kind of peace for Maponus after all his centuries in Purgatory. The Fomorii didn't appear to notice that their harrower had departed, or if they did, they were consumed with too much fear to give up their fleeing. The streams of shadows disappeared into the greater darkness of the night.

And then they were alone on the tor, a small island in a sea of carnage, as a sudden stillness descended over everything.

It was a moment that should have been savoured, but Church could no longer turn away from the horrors of his responsibility; there was nothing to distract him any more. He stood up, looking back and forth. Tears sprang from nowhere to brim his eyes.

"I wish I'd died," he said honestly.

The Bone Inspector stared at him, uncomprehending. "Where are you going?"

"To face up to my responsibilities." Church looked along the bleak, millionmile walk to the house.

He flexed his fingers, wondering if he had it in him, knowing he had no choice. He sighed, brushed the tears from his eyes. He took the first step.

He was halfway across the distance, feeling his legs grow more leaden with each yard, when the door of the house swung open.

Oh God, not Laura now. He couldn't help a sweep of dismay at having to deal with her acid tone and cheap mockery.

But the figure that lurched out in a daze had a pale, beautiful face and long, dark hair. Church felt a swell in his chest that he thought would tear him apart.

And then he was running crazily, not knowing where the reserve of energy had come from, and he swept Ruth up in his arms and crushed her to him like some fool in a stupid romantic film. But it was honest, raw emotion: relief, and joy, and most of all, love. It filled every fibre of him to such a degree it was as if he were feeling the emotions for the first time.

He looked up into her face, afraid the features would change in some last, cruel blow, but it was definitely her. When he began to speak she silenced him with her fingers on his lips.

"No," she cautioned. A panic seemed to be growing deep in her eyes. "No. It's not like that. It's still bad."

"What do you mean?"

She shook her head, unable to find the right words. Instead she made him put her down, then took his hand and led him back into the house. He looked round for Laura to join in the celebrations, but the place was empty.

"I'm so sorry," Ruth said in a small voice.