The Burning Man

8

Hunter sat alone with his thoughts in the white marble room. He refused to give in to grief, though every time he thought about Laura and what she meant to him it became the hardest fight of his life. For a while there, he’d thought he might have had a chance of a normal life, but now he could see it was just an illusion. But as he battled with unfamiliar emotions, his analytical military mind began to reach other conclusions, and so he was not surprised when Dian Cecht came to him again.

‘Here in the Court of the Final Word, death is not always the end,’ the god said. ‘We have examined the Sister of Dragons again, and we have plumbed the depths of our knowledge, and we have come to the conclusion that there may be some hope — though very slim — that we may be able to bring your Sister back from the Grim Lands.’

Hunter mustered a faint smile.

‘You are not enthusiastic about this prospect?’

‘I’m an optimistic man. Cliched motto: where there’s life, there’s hope.’

‘Before we continue, I must ask you: what are you prepared to do to ensure that the Sister of Dragons lives?’

‘Anything.’

‘Even give up your own life?’

Yes,’ Hunter said honestly.

Dian Cecht nodded thoughtfully. ‘Then that will be the price. You submit to the Court of the Final Word for exploration and I will return the Sister of Dragons to life.’

‘Exploration.’ Hunter weighed the word. ‘Why do you want me dead?’

‘I do not want you dead as an end in itself. But to excavate the deeply buried secrets of a Brother of Dragons — that would be the greatest thing. Finally to have access to the mysteries of the Pendragon Spirit. What wonders might that open up for my people?’

‘Why don’t you just get what you want from Laura?’

‘She has already been changed by one of my brothers.’

‘Oh, yeah — the plant thing.’

‘We need to divine the secrets of the Pendragon Spirit in its purest form.’

‘Why?’

Dian Cecht hesitated. ‘The Golden Ones, known to your people as the Tuatha De Danann, face a period of coming crisis. The Devourer of All Things leads destruction to our door, and though we are at the centre of Existence and can never be eradicated, what lies beyond is even worse. Stagnation. Decay.’ The words were almost too difficult for him to say. ‘Some say we will even be supplanted by Fragile Creatures.’ He gave Hunter a piercing stare, trying to see how much he knew. ‘The small victories of the Brother of Dragons Jack Churchill have allowed your people to take the first steps towards the next level of Existence. As wondrous as my people are, we lack the Pendragon Spirit.’

‘And you want it.’

‘The sole reason for the existence of the Court of the Final Word is to break down the very stuff of reality, to tear apart the fabric of all living things to find the constant mystery at its core.’

‘You haven’t found it yet.’

‘No.’

‘Perhaps you aren’t meant to find it.’

Dian Cecht’s face was like stone.

‘So let me get this straight. I have to give myself up to you so you can cut me into pieces, break me down into my smallest constituent parts and then rip out my Pendragon Spirit. And I’m guessing that is going to be beyond painful. And in return, Laura gets to live.’

‘That is correct.’

‘I don’t even have to think about it. I told you I was prepared to do anything to bring her back. But you’ve got to give me some time to prepare myself.’

‘Agreed.’

Dian Cecht bowed and left the room, almost unable to contain his triumphal air. Hunter continued to sit with his thoughts for a long while. He had done many bad things in his life, bad things that had brought about a good end, and bad things he was told would bring about a good end, but which appeared to have no discernible impact. But saving Laura’s life was clearly a good thing, for him personally and for life in general, and so it justified the use of any means necessary.

With that thought in his head, he set out to explore the court. Word had already filtered out of his impending sacrifice. Wherever he went, he was met with the impassivity reserved for someone already dead. No longer a threat, he was allowed to come and go as he pleased.

In the depths of the court, he saw the abattoir halls where living creatures — many of them blinking, befuddled humans — were broken down into their smallest parts by whirling blades and silver drills, and other implements that he couldn’t comprehend. The screams hurt his ears, and the rich, coppery smell of blood filled the air as it gushed through the network of channels cut into the marble floor.

He witnessed the impressive discoveries that had resulted from the Tuatha De Danann’s investigations into the nature of Existence: three-dimensional maps of reality, doors that opened into other times, other worlds, goggles that could see to infinity or just as far within. He spoke to people who had been given strange, troubling powers by the Tuatha De Danann’s alterations.

And then he made his way to an enormous underground bunker filled with weapons developed as a by-product of Dian Cecht’s questing. Many were beyond his ability to comprehend; some had sickening biological components that squirmed and spoke when he approached. But for someone whose business was killing, others were clear in their function.

And finally he found his way to a room of silver and glass where Laura was lying on a slab. It looked as if she was only sleeping, and perhaps she was, for around Dian Cecht the truth was as elusive as the Pendragon Spirit. Hunter’s options, though, were limited.

Dian Cecht found him there, deep in thought, his eyes never leaving Laura’s face, but his focus deep within himself. The god was accompanied by six others in crimson robes, masks and skullcaps, the bright colour only emphasising the deadness in their eyes.

‘The time has come,’ Dian Cecht said, with barely restrained eagerness.

‘I reckon it has,’ Hunter replied.

As one of the Tuatha De Danann approached him, he turned and plunged his hand through the god’s chest and out of his back. Those unfeeling eyes recognised a moment’s shock, and then the body exploded in a flurry of golden moths.

As the moths soared up through the ceiling, the other Tuatha De Danann remained rooted. It was only when Hunter had destroyed the next god that Dian Cecht exclaimed, ‘The Balor Claw!’

Hunter wore an elaborate gauntlet with silver scales around the wrist and on the back of the hand, edging into brass talons. He had recognised its potential in the weapons hall and had forced one of the attendants to describe how it had been constructed from a shard of the essence of Balor, the one-eyed god of death of the Fomorii, the race enemies of the Tuatha De Danann.

Another god fell. Dian Cecht fled, but the others were too slow. The clouds of golden moths became a storm.

Hunter had planned his strategy carefully and followed it to the letter. The security of the Court of the Final Word demanded only one entrance, with the worst of its atrocities taking place in the impregnable far reaches of the compound. He jammed the lock of the door, and with no other exit available proceeded to run his quarry to ground.

Moving relentlessly through the court, he sought out every member of the Tuatha De Danann and despatched them mercilessly. Gods cowering in the corners of gleaming rooms. Others, oblivious, as they flushed gallons of blood into the sewers or worked silently on some screaming subject. Some saw the Balor Claw and knew what it meant, giving in to their fate with a sense of bewilderment that could only be mustered by those who thought they would never die. Many ran, and Hunter let them, knowing it wouldn’t be long until he felled them. He took his time, searching and herding and slaughtering dispassionately.

He lost count at two hundred and seventy-seven, but he took the time to commit every face to memory before it exploded into shimmering wings. He only paused when he came to the final, extensive killing room, where half-dismembered victims still writhed on the tables in front of the two hundred or more Tuatha De Danann packed against the rear wall in shocked disbelief.

He took his time locking the door and then let his gaze wander slowly over the faces. He guessed they could swamp him eventually if they all attacked at once. Mortality, however, and the fear it brought, were new sensations that paralysed them.

Hunter moved forward.

When he was finished, only Dian Cecht remained.

‘What you have done this day is an abomination,’ the god declared.

‘Well, it kind of is, and it kind of isn’t.’ Hunter examined the gauntlet. ‘Nice bit of kit, this. You must be very proud you invented it.’ He stretched. ‘After all that hard work I’m looking forward to some r ’n’ r. Good wine, bit of sex, know what I mean? But first, we’ve got one more bit of business to sort out.’

Hunter herded Dian Cecht back to the glass and silver room. ‘No more double-speak. No more “there’s a price to pay”. Wake her up. Any malarkey and you’ll be spitting moths.’

Seething, Dian Cecht went to work. Hunter had no idea what happened in the room. Afterwards he remembered light and distant chimes, glimpsed the wriggling movement of a silver thing, but all he really recalled was Dian Cecht standing back with hateful eyes and announcing, ‘It is done.’

Hunter leaned over Laura to feel the warm blush of her breath on his cheek. Her breasts rose and fell. Her eyelids fluttered.

‘What you have done this day will not be forgotten or forgiven,’ Dian Cecht said. ‘You will be hunted down and made to pay.’

‘I know. That’s usually how it goes. Which is why I never leave any loose ends.’

Hunter punched the Balor Claw into Dian Cecht’s chest. And within a few seconds, for the first time in its history, there was silence in the Court of the Final Word.