The Hounds of Avalon

Fate has a strange way of intruding into lives. It’s possible on occasion to trace back the compounded good fortune of a well-lived life to one event that, if whipped away, would have changed everything that came after to such a degree that the life would not have been even half as well lived; perhaps it would have been quite miserable. The whole edifice of wellbeing built on one random incident. Hunter found the capriciousness shudder-inducing. Walk a little slower, indulge yourself with a more lingering glance at something that has caught your eye, and everything could be different; everything could be bad. The only way it became bearable was if you believed that the universe inherently looked after the living creatures that inhabited it, and that the mechanics of the system would always pull towards the best possible outcome. Hunter liked to think that was true; he had enough evidence from many of the lives around him to consider it to be so. But he was never sure.

Case in point: seven years earlier, a late screening of It’s A Wonderful Life at the National Film Theatre on the South Bank in London. Hunter had come out of a long meeting at the MI6 offices at Vauxhall profoundly depressed. For the first time, it had felt as if his life was slipping into shadow. There had been the incident in Bosnia, one terrible act committed for the greater good; and then the briefing — at which, he recalled, Reid had been a very junior but highly ambitious attendee. The list of potential hotspots was followed by details of Hunter’s next three missions; no feeling human being should have been asked to undertake them, but Hunter had accepted them without batting an eye. It was simply the path he was on.

And so he had wandered, lost in thought. He could have gone into the nearest pub to drown himself in Jack Daniel’s, and then on to the brothel in Battersea, which had been his intention. But something made him pause outside the NFT, with its poster of Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed. A moment later he had bought a ticket and was fumbling in the dark to find a seat.

The film had washed over him, his thoughts too bleak to take it in. But on the way out, he had been following a young man with a large briefcase that had burst open, spilling files all over the foyer. As Hunter helped collect them up, his barbed small talk and louche attitude had been deflected by the young man’s intense nature. Hunter had felt some inexplicable but profound connection with the dark, troubled depths in the stranger’s eyes and when he discovered that they both shared a Government background, Hunter had persuaded the man to go for a drink. As was Hunter’s style, one drink had become many and by the time Hunter had left his acquaintance on the doorstep, vomiting, the basis of a friendship had been formed.

The young man, Hal, had been Hunter’s turning point towards a life well lived. It would be too glib to say that Hal had reset Hunter’s priorities, but certainly in Hal Hunter saw some kind of redemption. When the Fall came, Hal had been ahead of the game, reading the signs, briefing Hunter on the re-emergence of the supernatural while others in the Government had laughed and protested that it was some sort of disinformation campaign to camouflage a terrorist attack. And when the Battle of London had finally burst with devastating ferocity, it was Hal who had convinced Hunter to leave the city to the warring gods and monsters, and to the monstrous beasts that had destroyed whole sections of it with the fiery blasts of their breath. Most of their colleagues had died in the atrocity that had befallen Parliament and Whitehall. And as he had stood on Hampstead Heath looking over the raging fires and plumes of black smoke, Hunter had clapped an arm around Hal’s shoulders and proclaimed that he owed his life to Hal; jokingly, of course, but he had meant it all the same.

They were like two very different halves of the same person, each with their own individual quirks and characteristics, which, when brought together, made a much better whole. They both knew it, and they both knew they were lucky to have found a deep and abiding friendship in the small details of their lives, because it was quite obvious they couldn’t exist without each other.

Heat, flaring intensely, giving way to excruciating pain. Hunter’s thoughts jolted out of their deep introspection into a monochrome world. White snowflakes drifting dreamily down against blackness. White snow all around, black patches obscuring it here and there: heads, legs, arms and blasted tree branches, chunks of rock and earth. His thoughts swirled, desperate to get back to the cocoon of memory.

Someone was tugging at him.

‘Come. You cannot stay here.’ The voice was like shattering glass.

‘Where… where am I?’ Hunter was surprised to hear how weak and sluggish his voice sounded, as if he was coming out of a three-day bender.

‘Come.’

Pain lanced through every part of Hunter’s body as he was lifted effortlessly. It cleared his mind enough for him to realise that he was shaking with cold and shock; he blacked out instantly.

Samantha was kissing him passionately, and he was feeling emotions that had not been stirred for many a year. He’d always liked Samantha, but he would never have guessed she would ever trigger those kinds of feelings. He wanted to kiss her again and again, but the sensation was drifting away to be replaced by more white, everywhere white…

Hunter emerged into the harshness of the world, still so cold that he could barely feel his body. He was in a sheltered spot that protected him on three sides from the harshest blasts of the gale. Before him, snow-blanketed hillsides rolled away into valleys. More snow was falling.

The battle. The ghost-flight. The shell falling. Memories and all their accompanying sensations rushed back with such force that he jolted against the rocky outcropping that surrounded him. Once again he felt that instant of horrific realisation rip through him when he had appeared back in his body just as the explosion threw him through the air. How had he survived? Hunter quickly checked his limbs — all present and intact, a miracle in itself — but his fatigues were shredded and covered with an inordinate amount of dried blood.

‘The Pendragon Spirit is already healing you.’

Hunter started at the same breaking-glass tones he thought had previously come to him in a dream. The voice emanated from the direction of a deep snowdrift. Slowly his hand searched for his gun; it wasn’t there, nor was his knife. Two red circles appeared in the snow. They disappeared, returned, and Hunter realised with shock that he was looking into a pair of eyes.

What he had taken to be a snowdrift rose up to reveal itself as a strange creature with a crab-shaped head atop the body of a man. It was clad in tattered rags that blew back and forth like the trailing appendages of a jellyfish. Both the physical form and the clothes were so white that they merged perfectly with the surrounding snow.

Hunter bunched his fists, though he didn’t have the energy to fight.

‘I am a friend,’ the creature said.

Hunter weighed this, decided it was probably true. ‘You’re the one who dragged me off the battlefield.’

‘I was walking the hillsides in my search when I saw you blazing like a blue star. But your fire was dying.’

‘I was freezing to death.’

‘Yes. This world has grown very cold, and your injuries were grave.’

‘Hunter checked his limbs again, puzzled. ‘Just scratches.’

‘Now. But not earlier. I brought you to shelter so that the Pendragon Spirit would have time to heal you.’

‘Right. I grew myself some new limbs. I always knew that skill would come in handy one day.’ Hunter’s mind was already racing ahead: he had to get back to debrief. All the information he had garnered about the enemy would be vital. ‘What are you?’ he asked obliquely.

‘I am Moyaanisqui, sometimes called the White Walker. I search for the Cailleach Bheur. She has unleashed the Fimbulwinter in anticipation of the End-Times. She is near. Have you seen her?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Thanks for saving me and all, and not that I’m ungrateful, but I need to get out of here.’ Hunter could feel his strength returning with each passing moment; it felt like a trickle of electricity bringing life to his limbs and his thought processes. There was something so clearly unnatural about the sensation that he paused to reflect once more on what had happened. ‘What did you just say… the Pendragon Spirit?’

‘The Blue Fire. It burns within you.’

Hunter examined his hands. A scratch he had seen moments before had now disappeared. ‘What’s happened to me?’

‘I met one of your kind in recent times,’ the White Walker said, ‘in the Far Lands. But she had ice inside her, where in you the fire burns clearly.’

‘What do you mean, “one of my kind”? A human? The Far Lands… is that… the Otherworld?’ His mind raced even faster.

‘Yes, a Fragile Creature. She was the first of your kind I had met. But she was not like the others with her. She was special — like you.’

In the deep caverns of Hunter’s subconscious, something stirred. The information the White Walker was imparting was something he already knew instinctively, although he had no idea how.

‘Since my encounter with her, I have learned more of your kind,’ the White Walker continued. ‘Brothers and Sisters of Dragons. You are one of the Five.’

Blue sparks flared in Hunter’s mind, and for a second he thought he might black out again. Impossible, he thought. Coincidence, and a score more denials, but he knew it was true. Suddenly the world looked a different place, his whole life turned on its head. He needed time to think about what it all meant. Glancing rapidly around, he searched the bleak hillsides. All roads had been obscured; there was no sign of life.

‘Can you help me to get out of here?’ he asked.

‘I need to find the Cailleach Bheur,’ the White Walker said hesitantly.

Hunter struggled to pull himself up the rocks to his feet. He wouldn’t be able to get far in his current condition.

The White Walker reached forward with fingers that resembled hoar-frosted icicles and grabbed Hunter’s hand. The touch was so cold that Hunter felt it sink deep into his bones. ‘Come, then,’ the White Walker said. ‘I will take you, for how could I refuse such a source of wonder?’

Hunter found himself lifted effortlessly on to the White Walker’s back. Flickers of frost crusted Hunter’s eyelashes. The cold infused every part of his body until it seemed as though the whole world had turned white.

The White Walker set off down the slope with a fast, loping gait. The Scottish countryside fell by in a blur. Hunter clung on as tightly as he could with fingers he couldn’t feel, yet inside, mysteriously, his soul had started to soar.

They hadn’t gone far when Hunter saw a figure standing on a hilltop nearby. It was indistinct at first, but gradually Hunter made out an old woman with wild hair, like a black crow hunched over against the wind. Clinging on to a tall staff for support, lightning danced around her so that it seemed as if she was at the heart of a storm.

‘That is the Cailleach Bheur, known by some as the Blue Hag,’ the White Walker called above the wind. ‘The one I seek. I will return to beg her to stop the Fimbulwinter.’

In that instant, the cryptic comments the White Walker had made earlier fell into place. ‘She’s causing this weather,’ Hunter noted aloud. ‘And it’s not going to stop, is it?’

‘Not until all the worlds are white, and the only ones left are the Cailleach Bheur and me. As Existence falls into the dark, the winter shall go on for ever.’

Hunter closed his eyes against the knives of the wind and clung on tightly, urging the miles to fall away quickly. Events were turning bad faster than anyone had realised.

‘It was here,’ Hal stressed when he saw the condescendingly weary expression on Manning’s face. She wore a long fur coat with a muffler and a tall fur hat, like some Russian aristocrat out of Doctor Zhivago. Hal had watched her warily since the night he had seen her talking to an invisible companion, but since then she had exhibited no other unusual behaviour. In the background, four bag carriers and advisors in suits shifted uncomfortably in the biting cold.

‘Mister Kirkham?’ Reid stamped his feet as he indicated the bare brick wall on the side street where Hal had said The Hunter’s Moon had been situated. Reid, at least, had taken Hal seriously. When Hal had turned up at his office at 9.00 a.m., he had quickly arranged for a visit to the site.

Kirkham examined the wall carefully. He had an ultrasound probe, a Geiger counter and an EMF monitor, which he proceeded to set up in the thick snow that had been falling all morning. ‘I have to say, in all our research we’ve never come across any buildings translocating, or the appearance of any clear portals to the Otherworld through which a mortal could travel,’ he said.

‘Doesn’t mean it can’t happen,’ Reid said. ‘Bloody hell, in this world right now, anything can happen.’ He clapped hands clad in expensive leather gloves. ‘When is this weather going to turn? I swear it’s even colder than yesterday.’

‘One degree lower, according to the latest figures,’ Kirkham muttered as he examined a swinging needle on a display.

‘We can’t stay here too long,’ Manning said, checking her watch. ‘You haven’t forgotten the emergency Cabinet session?’

‘How could I?’ Reid snapped. ‘But after what happened up north, any information we find here could be even more essential.’

Hal sensed a tension between Reid and Manning that had escalated since the last time he had seen the two of them together. Since he had joined the civil service, Hal had been aware of politicians jockeying for power and influence, something that had, if anything, grown more intense since the Fall. But there was an added dimension to Reid and Manning’s rivalry that he couldn’t fathom.

‘I can’t find anything,’ Kirkham said. ‘We could always put this position under surveillance in case it reappears.’

‘Or in case this young man gets drunk again and hallucinates another experience,’ Manning added tartly. She turned on her heels and marched back in the direction of the main thoroughfare, with the four assistants slipping and sliding to keep up.

While Kirkham packed up his equipment, Reid said quietly to Hal, ‘Ignore her. Probably her period. Look, I think this is vitally important information and I think you should take it to the highest level.’

‘Me?’

‘The PM needs to know about this and it should come from the horse’s mouth, not be buried in the middle of some report that he only has ten seconds to read. Or from some lackey he probably doesn’t trust anyway. This could be a turning point.’

Hal was taken aback. The chain of command had always kept him well away from any minister not directly involved in his particular sphere, and certainly never allowed him near the PM. But Reid appeared sincere; whatever had happened in Scotland clearly had everyone rattled.

‘How do I go about getting an appointment?’ Hal said.

‘Leave that to me. I’ll find a slot in his diary. Difficult at the moment with the war on, of course, but the sooner we can get you in there, the better.’ As Kirkham finished packing up, Reid leaned in to Hal and said, even more quietly, ‘Just keep this to yourself. Everyone’s plotting at the moment and I don’t know who I can trust.’ He searched Hal’s face. ‘I think I can trust you. Is that right?’

‘Of course,’ Hal replied.

Reid nodded curtly, then strode away before Kirkham noticed his interaction with Hal. Hal was concerned by the spy’s parting words. Why didn’t Reid know who to trust? Surely everyone was pulling together with the crisis looming. As Hal trudged back towards Magdalen, he had an uneasy sensation of movement behind the scenes, and threads being drawn closer together.

Hal found Samantha on his office doorstep, her face unnaturally pale. ‘Can I come in?’ she asked with urgency.

‘Sorry about the mess,’ Hal began, motioning to the desk where piles of files had been stacked two feet high. He had never been so behind with his work before.

‘Have you heard the news?’ she said breathlessly. ‘Ninety per cent of our force was wiped out in Scotland.’

‘Hunter?’

Samantha chewed her lip. ‘He’s listed amongst the missing.’

Hal felt sick, but he put on a brave face. ‘You know what Hunter’s like. Hit him in the face with a hammer and he’ll keep coming back for more. Anyone who can survive the free-drink weekend at Mrs Damask’s isn’t going to fold up at the first opportunity.’

When Hal saw that nothing he could say would ease Samantha’s worries, he said, ‘Do you want a coffee? I’ve got some stashed away for special occasions.’

‘That’s like gold dust,’ Samantha said. ‘And isn’t it on the protected substances list? You’re supposed to hand in any supplies.’

‘So some minister can have it for their personal stash?’ Hal caught himself. ‘Listen to me, I sound like Hunter.’

From the back of his top drawer, Hal pulled out a tiny jar wrapped in masking tape so that the contents couldn’t be seen. He shook out a few precious brown grains into a couple of mugs, topped them up with water from the kettle suspended over the fire and handed one steaming mug to Samantha.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Hal. You’ve been a real friend to me. It’s hard to find anyone in this place I can really talk to.’

Friend. The compliment stung as much as if she’d slapped him.

‘You know, I never thought you really cared for him,’ Hal said.

‘Neither did I. Until I realised I did, about five minutes before he flew off. He’s a loudmouth, a bighead, a slut who’s probably crawling with God knows how many sexual diseases and a drunk. There’s absolutely no reason why I should like him.’

Hal laughed quietly. ‘I know exactly what you mean. We have nothing in common at all. Whenever I go out drinking with him, I’m unconscious halfway through the night, without fail. He always gets me home, though.’

‘But there’s something about him. I just can’t put my finger on it.’

‘He’s a good man, once you get past the front. He’s got morals, ethics… hard to believe when you consider what he does. I think he hates himself a bit, which is sad. He’s complicated. There are two Hunters — one you see and one you only catch glimpses of.’

‘Do you know what made me think he might be all right?’ Samantha warmed her hands on the coffee mug. ‘That you’re his friend, and I think you’d only be friends with someone who was… worthy.’

‘That’s a funny word.’ Hal stared deep into her eyes, which were green like a cat’s, immeasurably deep.

‘He’s lucky he’s got you in his corner.’

‘You’ll make a good couple,’ Hal said and meant it.

Samantha luxuriated in the taste of her coffee. Then she said, ‘Do you know what one of the PAs said to me the other day? With all the strange stuff in the world today, all the magic and the gods and the wonders, we’re now living in a world where wishes could come true. So tell me, Hal, if you could wish for anything, what would it be?’

He thought for a moment and then replied, ‘Nothing. I’ve got everything I need.’

‘You know, I think I believe you. You’re so calm, so centred.’

‘And you’d wish for Hunter to be back here, right now.’

‘I think I probably would. I want a chance to see if it could work, you know?’ She took a deep breath, and to Hal it sounded immeasurably sad. ‘Though I might also wish for some music. I miss the radio… new songs… old songs.’

‘All right,’ Hal said, ‘the best old song: “Wichita Lineman”. Glen Campbell. No argument. Do you know it?’

Samantha wrinkled her nose. ‘Sounds like something my mum would like.’

‘There’s a line in it that goes: “And I need you more than want you, and I want you for all time.” I don’t think there’s a better way of describing love, anywhere.’

She giggled. ‘You’re such an old romantic.’

‘Yes,’ he said with a smile. ‘I am.’

In his cell, Mallory brooded and planned and waited for his moment. He still couldn’t bring himself to think of Sophie’s name or what had happened to her. Every thought he had was channelled towards his escape. He’d tested his manacles and they were as effective as they should be in a high-security wing. The guards always came around in twos with his food, one training an SA80 on him. But Mallory knew he had two things to his advantage: since Sophie’s death he really didn’t care if he lived or died; and he knew his abilities — and in particular the abilities of the Pendragon Spirit — better than his captors did.

The training he had undergone at Salisbury Cathedral to become a Knight Templar had also pushed him to the upper limits of physical and mental fitness. Focusing the mind, preparing for extreme hardship, were now embedded in his system. He had hated his time in the brutal regime, but it had taught him to be a survivor. All told, he was ready.

And so, when the guards came with his lunch, Mallory gathered himself. ‘Bring it over here,’ he said, nodding to the tray with the plate of what appeared to be vegetable stew on it.

‘Get lost.’ The guard with the gun waved the barrel at him.

Mallory knew the guards hated him. They didn’t know why they did, but the fact that he was imprisoned along with all the other dangerous freaks in the high-security wing damned him by association. ‘I’ve had enough of all this — the way you treat me. I deserve better.’

‘Boo hoo,’ the one with the tray mocked.

Mallory took a step forward.

‘Oi!’ The one with the gun grew tense, thrusting the weapon more menacingly. ‘Back.’

‘No,’ Mallory said. ‘I’ve reached my limit. I’m not going to rot in this hole. I’d rather die.’ Mallory continued to walk towards them.

The guards backed away, a sliver of panic driving the contempt out of their eyes. The one with the tray put it down and thumbed his radio. ‘Section fourteen to base. Incident at B-twenty-nine. Prisoner unruly. Send back-up.’

‘It won’t do any good,’ Mallory said. ‘I can kill with my bare hands. I’ve been trained.’

‘Back off!’ the one with the gun shouted. ‘I will fire.’

‘Better do it,’ Mallory said, ‘because you’re going to be dead in five seconds.’ Mallory rushed the guard without another warning.

Acting on instinct, the guard fired a short burst. The rounds tore through Mallory, flinging him back against the wall hard. Slipping down to the floor in shock, he watched his blood puddling around him. There was pain, and then numbness as the dark crept up on him.

The last thing he heard was one of the guards saying, ‘You fucking idiot! You’ve killed him!’

*

After Samantha had cheered up a little she returned to her office, leaving Hal steeling himself to venture out into the cold. He fought his way through drifts that built up as quickly as the street workers cleared the snow away, and eventually reached the Bodleian Library. Its vast resource of books amassed over four centuries was one of the main reasons that Oxford had been chosen for the new seat of Government. After the destruction of central London and the waste laid to much of the country’s infrastructure, the fragility of humanity, its knowledge and traditions was belatedly acknowledged. The Bodleian contained everything of value that the human race had ever achieved, condensed into racks and shelves, the Holy Grail of civilisation. It was going to be protected at all costs.

Hal went to the Old Library and entered the Lower Reading Room. He expected several hours of shivering at a table while the librarian brought the necessary tomes to him, but it was as warm as a hothouse inside.

‘Best place to be,’ the chief librarian said from his seat behind the main enquiry desk. ‘We’ve got protected status, so we can have as much fuel as we want for the heating system.’ He appeared oblivious to everything else that was going on beyond his cloistered world. He had a mound of snowy white hair and thick glasses that made his eyes appear unfeasibly large. Despite the heat, he wore a heavy jumper with brash, multicoloured hoops.

Hal took a seat in the general reference and enquiry area where he could occasionally steal glimpses at the snow drifting down outside. It also allowed easy access to the lower reserve to pick up the books dropped off by the librarian. He was in for the long haul. He had a vague idea of what he was looking for, but it would take him a while to pinpoint it exactly. Hal was now sure that the strange blue hologram-image that emerged from the Wish Stone reflected a painting. That much had emerged from the depths of Hal’s memory, but which painting and what it might mean eluded him completely.

He spent the next two hours wading randomly through art books before admitting to himself that he wasn’t getting anywhere. His methodical mind was exasperated by his methods, but his basic information was too limited to begin any structured search. The computer system was up and running, one of the first non- Government systems to have been restored after the Fall, but even a scan of the OLIS online catalogue didn’t give him any guidance.

As he sat and stared out of the window for inspiration, his fingers found a strange object in his pocket. He pulled it out and was surprised to see the Bloodeye that Bearskin had given him in The Hunter’s Moon the previous evening. As Bearskin had told him, Hal hadn’t remembered he had it, or he would undoubtedly have shown it to Reid.

He thought for a moment and then held the jewel in the palm of his hand and whispered, ‘Far and away and here.’ Hal didn’t know what he’d been expecting — some flash of light or burst of coloured smoke, perhaps — but there was nothing. Irritated that he had allowed himself to be made a fool of, he slipped the stone back into his pocket.

Yet a few seconds later there was an overpowering smell of wet fur. Hal looked around to see if a dog had found its way into the library and was greeted by a low, rasping laugh that sounded very much like an old man’s, unsettling with a hint of malignancy. Goose pimples rose up on Hal’s arms.

Hal looked around again, and then almost fell backwards off his chair in shock when his gaze returned to his desk, which had been empty a split second earlier. A tiny, misshapen man now sat there, rolling his eyes at Hal. Naked, his wrinkled, leathery skin was grey-green, his ears pointed, his teeth an unnerving row of needles, and his fingers ended in broken but lethal-looking talons.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ the little man said nastily.

‘You’re here because… I called you?’ Hal said hesitantly.

‘We all answer the Bloodeye. A friend in need is always to be answered. Though I’ve never seen a friend like you.’ He bared his teeth at Hal.

‘What’s your name?’

‘I have many names. Some I’ll answer to, and some I won’t, and one is secret, never to be told. But you can call me Maucus.’

‘Will you answer to that one?’

‘We’ll see, won’t we?’

Hal was unnerved by the little man’s attitude and wondered if he might be better off, and safer, if he sent Maucus away.

The little man appeared to read Hal’s mind, for he said, ‘You have nothing to fear when the Bloodeye has called. But do not come across me at other times, for then I may not be so generous.’

Feeling a little more confident, Hal asked, ‘What are you?’

‘My kind live in the book stores and libraries. We drink the smell of paper and eat the joy of people who find a piece of information or a story they desire. Sometimes we’ll hide books, usually at the point when the one wanting them is reaching the end of a long, laborious search. Just for fun. We’re always there, but your kind never sees us, hiding on top of the stacks or behind the shelves. You think we’re rats or mice, or birds on the roof.’

‘I want-’

‘No!’ Maucus jumped forward so threateningly that Hal rocked back on his chair. ‘Don’t tell me! Words that aren’t written down could be lies. They disappear. People forget what they said.’

‘How can I tell you, then?’

‘Give me your hand.’

Hal hesitated, then extended his right hand, palm upwards. Maucus gripped it with a strength belied by his size; Hal tried to wrench it back, but couldn’t. Maucus bared one of his talons and slashed a thin red line across Hal’s hand.

As Hal cried out in pain, the little man smiled sadistically, then bent forward and lapped Hal’s blood. Hal was sickened by the sight, but it only lasted a second before Maucus bounded off into the shadowy depths of the library.

A few minutes later, he returned with a book, which he dropped on the desk. It fell open at a picture of the same scene projected by the Wish Stone.

It was a romantic painting of three men dressed in what looked like togas crouched around a stone tomb. A woman in luscious orange and blue robes looked on. The men were pointing at an inscription on the tomb: Et in Arcadia Ego. The scene was set in some idyllic rural setting, on a hillside, with trees against gold-tinted clouds passing across a brilliant blue sky. The light suggested twilight, or perhaps dawn.

Hal read the inscription underneath: Les Bergers d’Arcadie — The Shepherds of Arcadia by Nicolas Poussin, Musee du Louvre, Paris.

Hal knew his Latin — the inscription translated literally as ‘And in Arcadia I’ or ‘I am in Arcadia, too’ — but Hal had no idea what it meant. More puzzling was why a seventeenth-century painting should be revealed by a magic stone that must have been hundreds if not thousands of years older, if it truly had been buried under Cadbury Hill.

Clearly the picture must be very significant indeed for a unique and powerful object like the Wish Stone to have preserved its image, but its meaning escaped him. As Hal examined the painting more closely, he noticed that something wasn’t quite right. ‘The picture is back to front,’ he mused. ‘Or the image is. The stone shows the woman on the left. The painting has her on the right. And everything else is reversed, as well. The image doesn’t show the whole of the painting, either — it’s cropped very closely around the characters.’

‘Ah, but there’s the mystery,’ Maucus said. ‘Do I have to do everything for you?’

‘Yes, please,’ Hal said tartly, emboldened.

Maucus glowered coldly and Hal wondered if he had gone too far. But then the little man disappeared into the library once more, returning a few minutes later with a book about Shugborough Hall, a stately home in Staffordshire on the estate of the Royal photographer, Lord Lichfield. Once again, the book fell open at the correct page, only this time it revealed a photo of the reversed Wish Stone image of the shepherds. But this was no painting. The photograph showed a carved stone relief known as The Shepherd’s Monument that stood in the Hall’s nine-hundred-acre grounds.

Hal read that the monument and a mysterious inscription carved beneath it — O.U.O.S.V.A.V.V., and underneath a ‘D’ and an ‘M’ — had been a mystery for more than 250 years. Charles Darwin had been observed mulling over its meaning, and Josiah Wedgwood had spent many hours trying to crack the code. Some believed that it held the secret of the whereabouts of the Holy Grail, others that it was a memorial to a lost love of Thomas Anson, who had created the estate in the eighteenth century.

‘There is a mystery here,’ Maucus said, once again as if he could read Hal’s mind. ‘But is it buried deep or does it lie on the surface where only one with the right vision may see it?’

Hal felt a surge of excitement at the puzzle that had been presented to him. Here was a conundrum in which he could immerse himself; more, he was sure it was something where he could finally make a valuable contribution. The hint of long-buried secrets made him feverish. Hidden knowledge, dark wisdom — the mystery hinted at both. ‘I need more information,’ he said.

‘Enough!’ Maucus spat. ‘If it’s slaves you need, then look amongst your own kind. Do not insult me by demanding too much. Rather, give thanks for the aid I have offered.’

‘I do thank you,’ Hal said, wary that Maucus was on the brink of attacking. ‘Very much. But where do I go from here?’

‘Tread your own path, coz. You have had enough from me.’

Maucus disappeared so quickly it was as if the little man had decided he would simply no longer be seen. Yet his odour remained for a long while after, and Hal had the uneasy feeling that his former helper was still watching from some hidden vantage point, weighing up whether or not he should teach Hal a very unpleasant lesson.

It worried Hal sufficiently that he packed up his books and dropped them off at the enquiry desk, answering the librarian’s questions about his progress with a blank smile before hurrying out into the bitter day.

The mood after the Cabinet meeting was desolate. The General attempted to hold his head high as he marched out of the darkened room towards the Ministry of Defence offices, but once inside he was crushed by the absolute devastation of his plans. There was nothing good to report; there was no hope that he could see. He’d attempted to put an optimistic spin on the debriefing, but everyone had seen through it. The PM had asked about the deployment of battlefield nukes, and the fact that even the leader was considering such extreme action on British soil showed that they were approaching the last act.

‘General?’

He turned to see Manning, who, for once, had not said a single word during the meeting. ‘Catherine.’

‘I notice you left a few details out of your report. How long before the enemy reach Oxford?’

‘I omitted that strand because to consider it would be an admission of failure. We will stop the enemy long before they reach Oxford.’

Manning’s dismissive shrug made the General burn inside, but he maintained his surface calm.

‘Battlefield nuclear weapons? How many are you planning to use?’ she asked. ‘How many have we stockpiled? You suggested that there appears to be a near-endless supply of the enemy… all flooding over from the Otherworld, I presume. Logically-’

‘I don’t concern myself with theoretical arguments. There are several tactical options we haven’t begun to try.’

‘How long, General?’

The General cursed under his breath, realising why he disliked the woman so much. ‘We can’t estimate anything at the moment. The enemy’s advance has come to a halt just south of Berwick. We don’t know how long they’re going to stay there, or why.’

‘But you have an idea.’

The General chose his words carefully. ‘Intelligence suggests that the enemy is eliminating any potential opposition.’

‘So they’re eradicating the population as they advance, pausing, cleansing an area, moving on. Berwick has fallen?’

The General nodded.

‘We can’t rely on conventional means, General. We have to put our faith in other measures.’

‘No option has been ruled out, Catherine.’

The General was distracted by a young assistant from his offices who was trailing snow behind him as he ran towards them. ‘General, sir,’ the young man said breathlessly as he skidded to a halt. ‘There’s been a survivor, sir. From the rout, in Scotland. He’s on his way in by chopper now.’

The General turned back to Manning. ‘I have to go.’

‘Consider what I said, General.’

But the General was already doing his best to forget her, and all politicians, as he followed the assistant back to the Ministry of Defence offices. All he needed was one break, a single flaw in the enemy’s defence, and he would strike back with maximum force. If the survivor had any new intelligence, he would seize it forcefully and then he would show Manning and all the others exactly what he stood for.

Hunter was in much better shape by the time the chopper touched down in the Deer Park. His amazement at the healing ability of the Pendragon Spirit had been superseded by a long period of intense reflection on what it meant for him to have been chosen to receive such a power. In one instant he had been forced to look at himself and his place in the world in a different light. No longer could he pretend that he was just a foot soldier drifting from mission to mission. He now had a purpose, and an obligation, if only he could decide what they were.

The General met him as he climbed down from the chopper. ‘I should have known you’d be back.’

‘Yes, sir, and thank you for your good wishes.’ The General allowed Hunter some latitude as he always did, but Hunter knew he couldn’t push his superior too far this time.

‘I hope you’ve come back with some useful information,’ the General said.

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘We’ll head straight to debriefing. Your men?’

‘All dead.’ Hunter’s stomach twisted at the loss of those under his command. The hardest to accept was Clevis; his uncomprehending face at the moment of his death was burned into Hunter’s mind.

‘You look remarkably hale and hearty. Not even a scratch?’

‘I have very thick skin.’

By the time they reached the debriefing room where most of the top brass had already congregated, Hunter had decided what information he was going to reveal and what he was going to hold back. He described in unflinching detail how the enemy took over the fallen and added them to its ranks, and he watched as faces grew steely when he described the King of Insects and the four Lords leading the attack. His account of what was really causing the arctic weather only added to the dark mood in the room. But there was some talk of a potential ally when he told how the White Walker had helped him to the nearest outpost, where he had rested while he made radio contact and waited to be picked up.

But of the Pendragon Spirit and his role as Brother of Dragons, he said not a word.

After the General had given Hunter a day’s leave to recuperate, Hunter slipped quickly away and sought out Hal, who seemed to have transformed his office into an art gallery. Hunter cast his eye over the large and small copies of the same painting and said, ‘It’s a bit late in the day to pretend you have some culture.’

Hal smiled warmly. ‘I was starting to get worried.’

‘I thought I’d trained you better than that.’

Hal suddenly came alive in a manner Hunter hadn’t seen before. ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ he said, motioning to the pictures pinned all over the walls. ‘I’m investigating an artefact that Brother of Dragons brought back from Cadbury Hill.’

Hunter perked up at this. ‘Go on.’

‘It links to this painting, and then to a monument at some stately home called Shugborough Hall. I don’t know what it all means yet, but I’m sure it’s important.’ He paused, unable to restrain a grin. ‘More than important.’

‘Right.’ Hunter thought intensely for a moment. ‘You’ve got to keep me up to speed about that. But don’t tell anyone else before you tell me.’

‘Why?’

‘We’ve discussed this. I know best,’ Hunter replied. Hal shook his head wearily. ‘That Brother of Dragons… Mallory. He’s still around? They’ve not carted him off to some arse-end of the country for interrogation?’

‘He was shot.’

Hunter grew grave. ‘Dead?’

‘They thought so, at first. Last I heard he was in surgery in the high-security section. They’re fighting to save his life.’

‘Bloody hell. They couldn’t even take him out of security when he’s at death’s door. They must be scared of him.’

‘What’s all this about?’ Hal said with exasperation. ‘Did you bang your head while you were out playing soldiers?’

‘I’ve got something to tell you. But you have to swear you won’t tell anyone.’

‘Of course. Nothing would induce me to pass on the contents of your sleazy mind.’

‘I’m serious. OK, you might not believe this… in fact, I can guarantee you won’t. I’m a Brother of Dragons.’

The blood drained from Hal’s face so rapidly that Hunter was concerned for his friend’s health. ‘It’s not the end of the world, mate. You’d better sit down. The way I see it, it’s a good thing.’

Hal listened while Hunter related all he had learned from the White Walker. ‘So I’ve got this… power in me called the Pendragon Spirit,’ he said finally. ‘If you could have seen how I healed. Bloody hell, I looked like I’d been tossed around an abattoir after the battle. Now I’m back to my fantastically attractive former self.’

‘What else does it do?’

Hunter was concerned at the intensity he saw in Hal; his friend looked as if he was close to desperation. ‘I haven’t worked that out yet, but I reckon there’s some kind of bond between the Five. I know I felt something when I met Mallory, like we had a lot in common, as if I’d known him for years. I need to talk to him again. Decide what to do.’

‘You’re not going to report this?’

‘What, and have them lock me up like him? No chance. The bottom line is, everybody reckons the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons are the last hope we’ve got for surviving this nightmare. And having seen what happened in Scotland, I haven’t got any faith in the conventional force’s ability to hold the line. I have to do something.’

‘What can you possibly do? Whatever this Pendragon Spirit is, it doesn’t make you some kind of superhero. You go up against the enemy and you’ll be dead in a minute.’ Hal’s voice was filled with tension.

‘I don’t know what I can do, but I do know I’ve got a responsibility to do something.’ Hunter watched Hal’s face fall and added, ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to go on some suicide mission. I need to find the rest of the Five-’

‘But one of them’s already dead. You know that.’

‘Yeah, but I’ve got a plan.’ Hunter gave a theatrical smile, but when Hal didn’t respond Hunter said, ‘What’s wrong?’

Hal thought for a moment, then said, ‘I’m scared.’

‘Don’t be. I’m going to do my damnedest to find a way out of this. And now I feel as if I’ve got some kind of chance. There’s a reason I am what I am. If it was all hopeless, there wouldn’t be Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, would there?’

Before Hal could answer, Samantha burst in. ‘I heard you were back.’ Her smile said more than her words.

There was an awkward moment between the two of them. Hal pretended to shuffle through some papers on his desk until Hunter said, ‘So… do you fancy a quick one?’

Hunter saw Hal flinch at the inappropriateness of the comment, while the warmth drained quickly from Samantha’s face. ‘You really are a disgusting pig. I just came to welcome you back and now that I’ve done it, I’m going.’

Even after Samantha had departed, her frostiness still hung in the air. Hal said with exasperation, ‘Why do you do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘You know, Hunter. Act like a moron.’

‘It’s my nature.’ Hunter was not oblivious to the offence he had caused; in fact, he had chosen his words carefully, playing a part that would not raise any suspicion. It also had the effect of keeping Samantha at arm’s length; Hunter knew very clearly what was to come, and suspected the eventual outcome, and it seemed uncommonly cruel to let Samantha think he might be coming back to her. No fairy-tale romance for him.

‘Things are going to change very quickly and I need you to watch my back,’ Hunter said.

‘Change, how? I don’t like change.’

‘I know. Every file in its place. But if we don’t shake things up quickly there’s not going to be any files left to file.’

‘All right,’ Hal said hesitantly. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I might have to go AWOL for a while-’

‘You’re mad! They’ll have you shot!’

‘Only if they catch me. I want you to keep your ear to the ground. If they start getting a lead on me while I’m away, do whatever you can to muddy the tracks. I know it’s dangerous-’

‘Of course I’ll do it. You shouldn’t have to ask. But where are you going?’

‘I don’t know yet. I don’t know if I stand a chance of finding what I’m looking for — better men than me have failed. I might be going on a fool’s errand. But I have to try. It feels like… duty.’

Hal dipped into a drawer and pulled out the file of notes Samantha had passed on to him.

‘What’s that?’ Hunter asked.

‘Everything we know about the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons. Might be some use. You’d better thank Samantha for it the next time you see her. She did the dangerous work.’

Hunter felt a critical mass building. Soon events would be running away from him and he would have to use everything in his power to keep up. He worried about compromising Hal’s position — the Government would not flinch from taking harsh action if it saw disloyalty or treason. But he was convinced that Hal had the strength of character to see it through, even though he knew his friend didn’t recognise that strength in himself.

Hunter and Hal shuffled around each other awkwardly before Hunter clapped his friend on the shoulder. The gesture didn’t begin to match their strength of feeling, but they knew each other well enough to comprehend all that was unspoken.

‘Look after yourself,’ Hunter said. And then he slipped out of the door, and with a wink he was gone.

Mallory came to consciousness in the room set aside as an intensive care unit. He was numb from the drugs and strung out from the pain of his wounds and the operation, but still the haunting death image played with his mind. Fire in the dark. It might have been the drugs, or his nearness to death, but now he knew what it was: a gunshot to the head. Suicide. But if he’d killed himself, how could he still be there?

With an effort, he thought through this cloying barrier to the surprising realisation that his plan had worked. Deep inside him, the Pendragon Spirit was doing its work, knitting flesh, repairing organs.

When he had forced the guards to shoot him, Mallory hadn’t known if his injuries would be beyond his healing ability. He had long been aware that minor cuts and bruises faded fast, that he fought off colds and viruses easily, that exhaustion came much later than it would to anyone else. But could major organ damage be repaired, and could it happen quickly enough for him to see his plan through?

As he sat up, pulling off wires to the monitors and removing a drip, he was forced to acknowledge how bad he felt. But he still had more strength than he should have in the circumstances. Though the next few hours would probably be agony — with the prospect of causing himself even more serious harm — he felt he probably had enough strength to see it through.

His vision washed back and forth drunkenly. Shakily, he lowered his legs to the floor, convinced they’d buckle under him. After a few seconds’ rest he managed to stand up, but then some stitches pulled on his abdomen and warm blood seeped into the bandages bound tightly around his middle.

Yet the more he moved, the more strength flowed into his limbs, as if the act of fighting made the Pendragon Spirit come alive. With an effort of will, Mallory forced his pain into the background and proceeded slowly to the door.

The corridor was empty, but Mallory knew it wouldn’t be long before he encountered some resistance. His footsteps echoed softly along the starkly lit passage, but as he rounded a bend he noticed something curious: the lights had grown dimmer. With a shiver, he realised that the temperature had also dropped several degrees and that he could now see his breath.

He advanced uneasily, for there was no obvious explanation for the changes. Peering around the next corner, Mallory saw a lone guard standing outside a door white with hoarfrost. It was from here that the cold was emanating and in the vicinity of the door there was a deep, suffocating gloom. The guard wore arctic fatigues, thick gloves and boots, a parka with the hood up and a scarf wrapped across his mouth. From the measured rise and fall of his chest, Mallory could tell he was either asleep or close to it.

Mallory weighed his options. It was a long way back to attempt to find another route out, but the chances of any path being free of resistance was slim. Yet he knew he still wasn’t up to any hand-to-hand fighting, even if he could get close enough to commence it.

Before he could make his decision, he was grabbed from behind and pulled back up the corridor, a hand clamped across his mouth to prevent him from making any noise. Then Hunter stood before him, one finger pressed to his lips.

Mallory couldn’t understand why Hunter hadn’t raised the alarm, but he didn’t have the strength to resist. Hunter pulled him through an open door and into a darkened, empty cell.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Hunter said in an attempt at mockery, though he was clearly impressed. ‘You’re dead on your feet and you’re about to take on the British Army.’

‘Come closer. I’ll show you what dead means.’

‘Big talk. But now that we’ve got the macho posturing out of the way, we need to discuss something of importance.’

‘I don’t want to talk to you.’

‘You’ll talk to me because you and I are cut from the same cloth.’

Mallory instantly saw in Hunter’s eyes the unimpeachable truth of that statement. That single moment of contact between the two men ran so deep that it changed both of them for ever. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m a Brother of Dragons.’

‘No.’ Mallory knew his denial was a lie the instant the word left his lips; a veil had been lifted and he could suddenly see Hunter as he truly was. It was all there — Mallory could almost feel the Pendragon Spirit radiating out of Hunter, like a dull heat.

‘Sorry,’ Hunter said. ‘Looks like they let anybody in the club.’

After his exertions, Mallory suddenly felt profoundly weak and had to lower himself into a chair.

‘I know it sounds like a coincidence-’

‘There aren’t any coincidences.’ Mallory took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘The Pendragon Spirit, the Blue Fire — call it what you will — it runs through everything. It’s the structure behind the surface of the universe. It arranges things.’

‘So it made sure I was in the right place at the right time. Or wrong time, depending on which way you look at it.’

‘And it brought us together. It puts the pieces on the board, but it doesn’t play the game. That’s down to us.’ Mallory cursed under his breath. ‘I can’t believe it’s you.’

‘I know there’s a certain irony-’

‘It’s more than that! You killed one of us! Not directly, but you brought it about. And now I can’t even get my revenge by killing you.’ Mallory caught himself. ‘There’s no point talking about that now.’ His shivering helped him change the subject. ‘What’s up with that room with all the frost on the door?’

‘It’s one of the prisoners they’ve brought in recently. Some say it’s one of the gods — one of the Tuatha De Danann. I can’t see that myself. They couldn’t even hold you. How can they keep a god prisoner?’ Hunter noticed the bloody bandages around Mallory’s midriff. ‘You’re bleeding.’

‘I’ll heal. I just need some time to rest.’

‘Are you up to getting out of here?’

‘That was the general plan.’

‘I’ve got another one.’

Mallory looked at Hunter, intrigued despite himself.

‘Since you’ve been in here, we’ve been invaded. The Brothers and Sisters of Dragons are the last chance we have of stopping the complete destruction of life on this planet. But from what I hear, it’s going to take five of us, or the magic… the power doesn’t work.’

‘That’s the rumour.’

‘We’re one down already,’ Hunter continued, ‘and we don’t know who the other two are.’

‘Carry on. You’re not making me depressed at all.’

Hunter paced the room while he talked. Despite himself, Mallory was developing a grudging admiration for his new associate. Hunter continued, ‘But we’re not the first Five.’

‘The way I understand it,’ Mallory said, ‘throughout history, for God knows how many centuries, there’s always been Five. When one lot completes whatever mission they’ve been chosen for, the power moves on to the next Five.’

Hunter turned sharply; he’d reached the crux of his plan. ‘But does the power leave them completely when it moves on? Or do the old Five just go into retirement?’

‘I’ve no idea. What are you getting at?’

‘There were five Brothers and Sisters of Dragons who fought at the Fall. Everyone knows the story — they’ve become part of modern mythology. They’re the reason the Government expended so much energy looking for you.’

Mallory made a dismissive gesture. ‘So? Two of them died. Jack Churchill, the leader, and Ryan Veitch, the one who’s supposed to have betrayed them. At least, that’s how the stories go. These days you can’t tell what’s truth and what’s been made up.’

Hunter smiled like a cat. ‘Two of them are dead. Three are still alive. And we’re going to find them.’