The Hounds of Avalon

Light filtered through stained glass, flooding the whole hall with a demonic red, framed at the edges by blue and green. As Sophie gradually came back to consciousness, she had the odd feeling that she was surfacing from a dream into a dream. Colours too florid, distant sounds given uncertain solidity by odd echoes.

She had never been in the room before, but it had the ambience of a church. The stained-glass windows ranged from floor to ceiling along the vast eastern walls, presenting pictures of gods in battle and victory, and it was clearly the first rays of dawn that were turning them to fire. The floor was grey stone flags on which wooden benches stood, oriented towards a lectern, while the ceiling was cathedral-high and vaulted.

Sophie was propped up on the rear bench, flanked by Thackeray and Harvey. Lugh was at the lectern and had clearly just given a speech of some kind, for the gods who filled the remaining benches were taking their leave. Sophie had the feeling that these were the senior members of the court, for Ceridwen was there, and Math; she didn’t recognise any of the others, but they wore their gravitas like a cloak.

‘We were starting to get worried about you,’ Harvey said with some affection. Sophie had been convinced for a while now that he was starting to develop a crush on her.

‘I blacked out,’ Sophie muttered, ‘after calling up the wind and the lightning. Much good that did.’

‘Oh, it helped,’ Thackeray said. ‘But not as much as that did.’ He nodded towards the figure striding towards them.

‘We drove them back,’ Caitlin said, her eyes gleaming. ‘But they’ll return, and soon.’

‘We’ll never be able to fight them off,’ Thackeray said. ‘We surprised them this time. They never expected us to have a secret weapon that was such a killing machine.’

‘Even you won’t be able to kill all of them,’ Harvey said to Caitlin, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

Lugh marched up and addressed Sophie. ‘His words are true.’

‘I didn’t hear your speech. What did you tell everyone?’ Sophie said.

A deep sadness lay just below the surface of Lugh’s composed expression. ‘The enemy is too numerous. We cannot defeat them.’

‘What are you saying?’ she asked. ‘That you’re going to surrender?’

Defiance flared in Lugh’s eyes. ‘In all our long history, the Golden Ones have never admitted defeat. We are trapped here, unable to strike back effectively. We must escape, regroup, find another haven where we can plot our next attack.’

‘How are you going to get out of here? The only exit is through the gate, straight into the enemy’s hands.’

‘I have charged my brothers and sisters with finding a solution.’

‘But what if they can’t come up with anything?’

‘Then we stand, and fight, and greet Existence with the sun in our faces and pride in our hearts.’

The small group fell silent as Lugh marched away. The air of impending doom in the room was palpable.

Sophie said quietly, ‘Whatever it takes, we’re getting out of here.’

The road west from Oxford was hard going. Mallory reasoned that the main thoroughfares would be easier to travel, but heavy snow had still built up, so deep in places that even the horse found it difficult to pick a path through. Some days he barely covered two miles. He took the A40, skirting Witney, and then when he reached Northleach turned south down the arrow-straight route of the old Fosse Way towards Cirencester. One advantage of such a route was plenty of abandoned buildings where he could seek shelter if the blizzards became too intense, and many occupied ones where he could try to beg a few moments’ warmth by a fire or a bed for the night.

But many people were suspicious of him. With the collapse of the rule of law across most of the country, there were too many rogues at large. Others refused him any food, fearing that the bizarre summer-winter would devastate the already fragile food supply; most crops would already have died, and what they had stored needed to be conserved. After the tenth shotgun pushed into his face, he decided to shun human contact altogether.

With each passing mile, Mallory had grown stronger, the pain of his wounds becoming a distant memory. But the bitter cold assailed him, and at times he wondered if he would be able to continue. Every morning he woke with a deep ache gnawing at his bones that not even the campfire outside the tent could dispel. And then there was the long day in the saddle, riding into the harsh wind, the frost building up on his chest and on the beard he had decided to grow to protect the skin from being flayed from his face. In his thermal sleeping bag at night, he dreamed of warmth, but thought he would never feel it again.

Increasingly, the harshness of the outside world drove him deep inside his own head, where memories, dreams and emotions stewed and mingled so that sometimes he found himself unable to tell what was real and what was fantasy.

But always he returned to the single image of a gunshot in the dark that was imprinted on his deep subconscious. The revelation that had come as he lay drugged and in pain had been too raw to contemplate immediately, but now it had taken on a terrible gravity that dragged him back to it constantly. Perhaps it had been a suicide attempt from which he had recovered? But if that was the case, why did he have no memory of any hospitalisation — or had that, too, been locked away from his conscious mind? No, he was sure it represented his death, but the questions that came with that recognition threatened to drive him mad.

If only Sophie had been there, she would have helped him to find a solution; she would have soothed him.

But then, as he concentrated on the blast… the fire… then darkness, a rush of other memories broke through, like ice shattering on a pond. Another life, setting up a club, music, criminal figures propelling him to a choice no one should have to make; and then some unspeakable act which he still couldn’t face that drove him to suicide. It shocked him out of his drifting state so sharply that he almost fell from the horse and had to pull back on the reins to bring it under control.

The rush of memory brought deep depression along with the shock. Since Sophie’s death, the world had already become senseless. But now that his own inner world was equally un-tethered, he felt as if he was going mad.

Gasping for breath, he didn’t see the figure that appeared suddenly in front of him until his mount shied away.

‘There’s a monster!’ It was a man of about eighty wrapped in several heavy jumpers and wearing a pair of ancient paint-spattered trousers. An old-fashioned hearing aid was visible in one ear and a pair of silver-rimmed glasses held together with a plaster was jammed on the bridge of his nose. Anxiety made him throw his arms up and down as if he was exercising.

Mallory brought the horse under control and barked, ‘What the hell are you doing, you idiot?’

‘There’s a monster!’

‘I heard you the first time. What are you talking about and what’s it got to do with me?’

The old man managed to calm himself enough to get his words out. ‘Over that way.’ He flapped his arm towards the east. ‘It’s got my granddaughter. And you… you’ve got a sword. You can fight it. Are you a knight? From Salisbury? We’ve had a few of ’em round here. They help out, when they’re not Bible-bashing…’ His words disappeared in another bout of panic.

Mallory couldn’t afford to break his journey, but the old man was so desperate that he was on the verge of tears. ‘How far?’ he asked with irritation.

‘Two miles-’

‘Two miles! That’s about a day’s travelling in this weather!’

‘No, no, the road isn’t bad. The trees overhang, so it’s kept the snow off,’ he protested. ‘Please… my granddaughter…’

He wrung his hands and, for the first time, Mallory could see that he was on the point of collapse; he must have walked the distance searching for help. Could Mallory ignore his plea, possibly sacrifice a woman to one of the nightmares that had stalked the land since the Fall? ‘Come on,’ he said wearily, holding out a hand to help the man on to the back of his horse. ‘Jesus, you’re lucky I’m such a soft touch.’

As they made their way along the lane, Mallory was relieved to find that the old man had not been lying. The snow lay thinly, marred only by the old man’s footprints.

‘What’s your name?’ Mallory asked.

‘Stanley Hahn.’

Mallory could feel the old man shaking from the cold as he clung on. ‘You’d better tell me what happened.’

‘My son and daughter-in-law died in the Fall,’ Stanley said in a fragile voice. ‘My granddaughter, Jenny, got us set up in Barnsley House just over the way. But last night there were strange lights in the gardens and then a fire… a big, big fire. We thought a plane had crashed. Jenny said she was going to investigate. I told her not to, but she never listens to me any more.’ He sobbed silently for a moment; when he managed to calm himself, he continued, ‘When she didn’t come back after half an hour, I went to see where she’d gone. There was a terrible snowstorm blowing. I could barely walk into it. And then… and then…’

‘You found her.’

‘The monster had her! It was all wrapped around her and they were both on fire. But Jenny wasn’t burning. I don’t understand it. I don’t-’

‘All right, calm down. She’s still with it?’

‘I ran back to the house to find a shotgun, but I was afraid of hitting Jenny. I went back this morning and she was still there… still standing with it… I didn’t know what to do. You’ll help me, won’t you? You’ll help?’

Mallory sighed, but it was answer enough for the old man, who proceeded to sob quietly with relief.

After a journey of fifteen minutes or so, the road brought them up to what looked like an enormous mansion, three hundred years old at least, built of Cotswold stone with large windows and tall chimneys, and set in formal gardens.

‘Is that it? Bloody hell, you’ve been living in a right old pile,’ Mallory said. ‘What’s this place again?’

‘Barnsley House. It’s famous. It used to have gardens that people came from all over the world to see. Bit overgrown now. Then it was turned into this plush hotel, but it was empty after the Fall so we moved in. Thought it would be safer here.’

‘The place is so big, if anybody came looking for you, it’d take them a month to find you inside.’

‘They’re in the pool garden. Will you go? I’m afraid.’

Twilight was already drawing in and Mallory considered leaving any confrontation to the morning, but he knew that the old man wouldn’t let him. ‘You get in the house. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you, thank you,’ the old man sobbed with pitiful gratitude.

Mallory lowered him to the ground, then turned his mount in the direction Stanley had indicated. An abiding stillness lay heavily on the thick snow. Yet as he surveyed the lengthening shadows of the black and white world, he felt an odd tingling deep inside him as though some invisible energy was radiating out from a source just ahead.

He rode on a little further and then dismounted. When he drew his sword, the blue light that always limned the blade was brighter than he had ever seen it. Cautiously, he made his way across the overgrown but still ordered gardens. He kept low, but it was impossible to progress quietly on the frosted snow.

Finally, he glimpsed a frozen pool through an entrance in a winding hedge. Blue light shimmered on the ice and surrounding snow and there was a tang of burned iron in the air. His heart beating insistently, he followed the light to its source.

The sight that greeted him was stunning; slowly, the sword drifted to his side. Blue Fire blazed without heat or sound, and at its heart, coiled around itself in a vast area of crushed trees, shrubs and hedges, was a Fabulous Beast more glorious than any Mallory had ever seen. In Salisbury, he had experienced them up close as they soared on the winds, leathery wings beating, metallic scales glinting red, gold and green as the furious flames belched from their mouths. But this one appeared to be made of the sapphire flames that raged around it; at times, Mallory could see through the scales to the vascular system beneath, and beyond, into its organs. It was completely blue, and its eyes, as they probed him, were the deepest blue, too.

Standing motionless amongst the flames yet untouched by them was a slim, attractive woman in her thirties, her face the colour of alabaster and just as unmoving, made even paler by the long black hair that framed it. But it was her eyes that held Mallory. Unblinking, they were the mirror of the Fabulous Beast’s, as blue as the sky on a summer day.

The Fabulous Beast’s tail coiled tighter around her legs, as if it knew Mallory was about to drag her free; the tip of the tail tapped at her shin, like a cat’s.

Mallory was not afraid. The Fabulous Beast’s flaming breath could turn whole cities into an inferno; they were unpredictable, chaotic, terrifying in appearance. Yet Mallory was convinced that they were inherently a force for good, tied in some way to the spirit-energy that coursed through the earth itself.

As the blue light on his blade gleamed brighter still, Mallory realised that his sword was calling out to the Fabulous Beast, which in turn was calling out to the sword, and through it, to Mallory himself.

‘I suppose this is what being a Brother of Dragons means,’ he said.

‘It is the First.’ The voice echoed so loudly all around that Mallory took a step back; it was deep, masculine, but with a hint of sibilance. More disturbingly, Jenny’s lips had formed the words, but the voice was certainly not hers.

‘Jenny?’ Mallory didn’t expect a response and shifted his attention to the Fabulous Beast. ‘This is the First? The original? The father — or mother — of them all?’ But as he said the words, Mallory realised it was more than that.

‘The First has been waiting for you, Brother of Dragons.’

‘Waiting? Even I didn’t know I was going to be here.’

‘The First knew.’ The odd dislocation of voice and Jenny’s moving mouth continued to unnerve Mallory.

‘Why is it after me?’

‘You are bound into the great events that are unfolding. These days of crisis are only the beginning of a great upheaval that will decide the path of humanity for all time to come. Here, now, is the axis around which everything turns. Foretold since the dawn of your race, everything that has happened has been in preparation for this. Every moment of suffering that has shaped and guided your kind. Every joy, every sorrow, every victory, every defeat. There has been meaning in even the smallest thing, even a leaf falling from a tree, but your people have never had the perspective that would allow them to understand.’

‘OK… destiny… fate — I can understand that,’ Mallory said cautiously. ‘Big things are happening and I’ve got a part in them. I knew that already. So, again, why me, why here, why now?’

‘The truth and the fire, Mallory. The truth and the fire.’

The tone of the words made his blood run cold. Something skittered in the back of his head; dark thoughts emerged at the tug of the Fabulous Beast’s blazing stare.

‘Five new Brothers and Sisters of Dragons have been chosen for these crucial times. The King and the Queen are true to the patterns of old. The remaining three were selected for chaos and confusion. The Devourer of All Things, known in these times as the Void, cannot easily read them or predict their actions, and the Devourer of All Things sees all, knows all.’

Mallory understood: ‘Their unpredictability means they can blindside the Void.’

‘That is why they were created. But one has already fallen, though she fights to return to the field.’

‘Who are they?’ Mallory didn’t want to ask the question, but like a moth drawn to a flame he couldn’t resist.

‘The Broken Woman. The Shadow Mage. And the Dead Man.’

The rushing cold washed through Mallory and he thought for a second that he might faint. His heart was pounding; panic fastened a strap across his chest. ‘No. I don’t want to hear any more.’ He stepped back another pace.

‘You will only reach your potential through full self-knowledge, Mallory. This is the reason you are here, now. The First is the key and you are the lock.’

‘Don’t,’ Mallory said. He was shaking. The squirming at the back of his head had grown unbearable. He clutched at his temples with his free hand; it felt as if his skull was about to crack open.

‘The sword you carry is more than a sword. It is a part of Existence, as are its two brothers. But it has been disguised to hide it from the Devourer of All Things. Now is the time to return it to power, Mallory, and by doing so unlock your mind.’

Against the palm of Mallory’s hand, the sword throbbed in response to the beast.

‘Come. Plunge your sword into the purifying flame and cleanse yourself in the process.’

‘No,’ Mallory said. ‘I can’t do it.’

‘You fear the death you have experienced, Mallory, and the events leading up to that death, for your true self knows them well. But understand this: you have been reborn. There is always hope. It is not visible in the small things, but when you soar high, you can see it clearly, Mallory. In you, in your very being, is this lesson.’

Emotion surged up in Mallory. He remembered his parents, his childhood, the feeling that he had let them down. He recalled his first meeting with Sophie, in the pub in Salisbury, and later at the travellers’ camp, where he had come to realise that he wanted her and needed her. The feeling that she was the key to his redemption. And then her death, and the grief burrowing its way into his soul, and the knowledge that by losing her he had lost his only chance of salvation. A hot tear blazed down his frozen face. He hesitated, then thought: what did it matter? What did anything matter? He strode forward and plunged the sword deep into the blue flames.

The fire rushed up the blade as if it was kindling, and then up his arms and into him, burning through his mind, his soul, until everything was blue. He didn’t know how long he remained in that state, but the next time he came to consciousness, he was staggering around in the snow, with the sword still blazing blue in his hand. He felt as if he’d had a massive shot of adrenalin.

In his head, it felt as if a stopper had been pulled from the bottom of an enormous vat. Thoughts and feelings surged through him, three hundred movies playing at the same time, all speeded up to a blur. He knew instantly who he was and who he had been, what terrible act he had committed and how he had atoned for it. He saw himself pull the trigger, the blaze of fire across his head, and his death.

But then, miraculously, he was alive again, driving a stolen car to Salisbury shortly after the Fall, and he knew he wasn’t of this world at all. The point of his death had been an instant of transition. Somewhere there was another world, a little like the one he was in, with people who loved and hated and who were forced to do unspeakable things. But he had the feeling that it was a greyer world, without wonder, where meaning was not so clear and where the joys of life had been diffused. A world where the Fall had never happened.

It was the reason why he was so unpredictable, why the Devourer of All Things would not be able to see him clearly. He didn’t fit properly into the landscape of this world, like an old bottle washed up on a beach. Whatever was watching skittered over the anomaly to preserve the purity of the holistic view.

‘There are worlds upon worlds upon worlds, Mallory. All connected, all joined to the source.’ For the first time there was a faint smile on Jenny’s lips. Mallory shivered; he had the feeling that something beyond her, beyond even the Fabulous Beast, was speaking to him through them both. ‘Your world no longer exists, in the way that this world exists,’ she continued. ‘Existence has shifted. A new structure has been raised around you.’

Mallory felt whole for the first time; and more, he realised what it meant to feel whole. Along with it came a deep sense of purpose. ‘I’m not going to fail,’ he said. The sword felt like a bomb on the brink of exploding, and whatever energy it contained surged into him and back, combining, infusing.

‘You are the Knight, Mallory,’ Jenny said. ‘You carry in your heart the standard of Existence.’

‘You’ve done your duty now,’ Mallory said to her, ‘and I thank you for that. You can come back to your grandfather now.’

Her sapphire eyes blazed brightly, and Mallory already knew the response before the words appeared. ‘I cannot, for I am now with the First. I am its conduit in this world. There must be many sacrifices to achieve the shining future.’

‘You’re going to stay here?’

‘I will be there at the end, for better or worse. Even if the Hounds of Avalon cry to the moon. Go now, Mallory, Brother of Dragons. The world waits for you.’

Mallory turned and left them, but even when he had reached the shadow of the house in the gathering gloom, he could still feel their presence, warm at his back.

He found the old man cowering in the lounge next to a dead fire. Mallory did his best to explain what had happened, but the old man’s sobs were still hard to bear. Afterwards, when Stanley sat in a plush armchair staring blankly into the corner, Mallory remade the fire and cooked them both a small dinner. He knew it would be hard for Stanley to survive on his own, especially if the bleak winter continued. Mallory encouraged him to find others in the area, but the old man simply shook his head silently.

The next morning, which was bright and clear but at least a degree colder, Mallory set off for Cirencester with renewed vigour. The cold no longer bothered him as much. Whatever else had happened when he plunged his sword into the Blue Fire, it had given a boost to the Pendragon Spirit. He felt he could do anything, win any fight. He stopped at the nearest inhabited house and convinced the residents to seek out Stanley and offer what help they could, but he could see the growing fear in their faces. The winter that had corrupted the land was driving its ice deep into their hearts. Everyone was starting to believe that the end really was approaching.

The next three days passed without incident and on the fourth, when Glastonbury was within reach, Mallory noticed a change. The day appeared slightly warmer, the wind not so bitter; the snow that had been falling faded away to reveal a clear blue sky. At first he wondered if it might be his imagination, but the closer he got to the town, the more the temperature increased. The hard-packed snow grew thinner, turned to slush, melted away completely. The icicles on the houses and the fences disappeared in the warmth of the sun. The leaves on the trees, the shrubs and flowers and vegetation that had shrivelled in a cold they had never expected to endure gave way to verdant life, the perfume of honeysuckle, the colours of hedgerow flowers. Birds called and there were cattle and sheep in the fields. Residents greeted Mallory with a cheery wave as he rode by. And finally it became too hot to wear his cloak. He stripped it off and turned his face to the sun, surprised at how quickly he had forgotten the sensation of its warmth on his skin, realising how much he had missed it.

By the time he reached the town it was summer again, and all was right with the world.

‘You’ll never get in there.’ The farmer eyed Mallory wryly as he leaned on a gate, gently swinging the hammer he had been using to fix the adjoining fence.

‘What have they got — guards? Dogs?’

‘Flying pigs for all I know, lad.’ The farmer shielded his eyes from the sun. ‘We get one or two of you a week. Riding in from God knows where, or on foot, all thinking they can turn their lives around. I ’spect the word’s all over the country now about what we’ve got down here.’

‘And what have you got?’

The farmer tapped his nose.

‘You don’t mind having the college in town?’

‘Nooo. They look after all us locals. Keep us in food — crops have never been so good since they came down, and the beasts have never given so much milk. They know a thing or two, and no mistake. And they keep us safe.’

‘So, what? They’ve got guards? Some kind of militia?’

‘They don’t need guns.’ He nodded at Mallory’s sword protruding from its scabbard. ‘Or pig-stickers like that. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.’

Mallory could see that he wasn’t going to get anything useful out of the farmer, so he nodded politely and urged his horse on. It wasn’t a surprise — he’d got the same response from everyone he’d encountered as he neared the town boundary.

As Mallory drew closer to his destination, he was surprised to see that a massive flood had cut off the centre of the town and the Tor from the surrounding countryside. At first he presumed it had been caused by run-off from the melting snows on the periphery of the warm zone. But as he skirted the deep water and marshland seeking a path through, he realised it had turned Glastonbury into a naturally protected island.

He was forced to approach from the south where there was a thin defensive bank that formed a land bridge to the edge of Wearyall Hill. As he drew closer, he saw that the entrance to the bridge was marked by an arch of thick, entwining blackthorn. And hanging from it was a severed human head. It was a lurid green-black from the early stages of decomposition, but strangely untouched by birds and insects.

As Mallory guided his horse to pass under the arch, the head’s eyelids snapped open and Mallory jolted back in his saddle, his sword drawn in an instant

‘Who goes?’ The rotten lips parted to reveal black teeth. The eyes rolled as if unused to seeing and eventually focused on Mallory. The deep horror embedded in them only enhanced the chilling image.

‘I want to visit the college.’

The head made a low, rattling exhalation. ‘Only those who have been invited may enter. Turn back or face the consequences.’

‘I’ll try my luck.’ Mallory guided his horse forward until the head emitted a high-pitched scream that brought him to a sharp stop.

‘Know then my story! In life I was sent to capture the leaders of this college, and in this act I killed one who had come here to learn. Now my punishment is to hang here for evermore as a warning to all others who trespass. Of those who have ignored me, none have returned this way.’

‘Sorry, pal. I don’t have a choice.’

‘Then cross the Perilous Bridge, traveller. And pray to whatever god you recognise.’

The stink of the rotting head floated into Mallory’s nostrils as he passed beneath it. The second his horse put one hoof on the slim land bridge, the head began to scream again. Mallory kept moving, but the head continued to wail like a siren, warning of the intruder’s impending approach.

The water on either side was like glass, giving the impression of another world existing just a stone’s throw away. At times, Mallory was almost overcome by the illusion that he could dive in and swim to the green island he saw there. The image was broken only by the occasional chimney protruding from the sunken houses beneath.

On the other side of the bridge he picked up the road again and rounded Wearyall Hill. A cathedral-like mood of tranquillity lay over the town as he rode into the centre. In a world of constant upheaval, that in itself was unnerving. Something special hung in the air, a subtle power filling his lungs, calming him; he felt at home.

The centre of town looked as if it had been unaffected by the Fall, though there was a definite absence of people and all the premises appeared deserted. But as he rode forward, he was confronted by a wall of trees across the street — oak, hawthorn, rowan — so dense that he would not be able to ride through. Their trunks broke through the tarmac, soaring up tall and proud and looking decades old. Mallory dismounted and tethered his horse before inspecting the barrier more closely.

There was a tiny path leading through the trees along which he could just about squeeze, but he would have difficulty defending himself if he was attacked — which, he guessed, was the whole point. No other entrance was visible, so, reluctantly, he pushed between two trunks and began to edge sideways along the route.

He estimated that the stand of trees was only twenty yards across at best, but it was impossible to see the other side and the path didn’t take a direct route. Perfumed flowers of a kind he didn’t recognise hung down from the branches and every now and then there were other strange blooms on either side, like rare orchids, gleaming black with the texture of skin, or others, like lilies, with a cloying aroma.

After ten minutes, Mallory began to wonder why he wasn’t coming out of the other side. Fifteen minutes on, he had begun to accept that he was in some kind of maze, though he couldn’t begin to guess how it could continue for such a distance. He decided to turn back to see if he had missed a branching path. He walked for half an hour and when he found no other path and had not reached his starting point, he realised that he was caught in some obscure trap.

For the next hour he pressed on in one direction. He was convinced that he never passed the same point twice and by that stage he realised there had to be some magic at play. Perhaps the other intruders who had attempted to break into the college were still wandering along the path somewhere ahead of him, or had died of starvation and fallen into the vegetation by the wayside.

It was futile to keep walking. Mallory leaned against the trunk of a tree to think logically. But after a few moments of racking his brains, he realised he was having trouble ordering his thoughts. Cotton wool packed his skull and honey trickled down his spine; if he closed his eyes, he could probably sleep for a long, long time.

If he had continued along the path for a little while longer he would probably have been lost, but there was still a small part of his mind sending warning signals. One of them drove him to draw his sword. The blue flames erupted around the blade and the air was suddenly singed with the aroma of burned iron. The smell cut through the claustrophobic scent of the flowers and the rush of energy gave him a jolt. In that instant, Mallory realised what was happening.

Quickly, he tied his handkerchief across his face, unsure whether it would do the job. With what little energy he had left, he leaped up to slash at the hanging flowers and any others he could reach on either side of the path.

He moved quickly, pressing the handkerchief to his nose and mouth with one hand, and after a while of hacking and chopping, the confusion in his head began to lift. Either the invisible pollen, or the scents themselves, were some kind of narcotic that had subtly tied his thoughts in knots.

Not long after, the path fell back into sharp relief and the dreaminess receded. Within minutes, he caught a glimpse of buildings on the other side. When the exit became visible, he broke into a run.

He was only feet away from breaking out into the open when a vine-like plant with long thorns swung across the path with a life of its own. Mallory ducked, but one of the thorns ripped open the flesh on his cheek. It felt as if acid was burning its way into his system. His legs grew sluggish, refused to obey his mind, until he was staggering around like a drunk. Within seconds, he collapsed. Paralysis flooded through him. He was aware of other vegetation moving around him, grass and tendrils wrapping around his legs and arms, enswathing him in green like a mummy. Darkness began to close around his vision and he knew that if the paralysis reached his heart, he would die. Slowly, he was being tugged into the undergrowth where he would never be found.

Filled with excitement, Hal waited for nearly three hours before he could finally see Reid. The chief spy had been in conference from long before breakfast with a succession of ministers, military advisors and nondescript people Hal had never seen before.

When he was finally ushered into Reid’s darkened office, Hal could see the toll the current crisis was taking on the man. His face was drawn and tired, and it looked as if he hadn’t received any good news in a long time.

But he seemed to brighten a little when he saw Hal and offered him a cup of real tea. Hal took it gratefully before pouring out all he had learned about the Poussin painting and the mysterious monument at Shugborough Hall.

‘All I need is your blessing to go to Shugborough,’ Hal concluded, ‘and the resources to do so. I know it’s dangerous-’

‘It is dangerous,’ Reid stressed. ‘The enemy is advancing very rapidly. They’re already crossing Yorkshire and Lancashire. It won’t be long before they reach Staffordshire.’

The news was a harsh blow to Hal. He’d always believed that the Government would come up with something to stop the enemy in its tracks and had never given the possibility of failure a second thought. ‘We haven’t got a response?’

‘No effective one. We’ve tried…’ Reid dismissed the thought with an irritable wave of his hand.

‘I’m sorry,’ Hal said contritely. ‘I know you can’t talk about it.’

‘It’s not that. I think the time has come for radical action. Others don’t agree. But that was always anticipated.’ He took a long sip of his tea, lost to his thoughts for a moment, and then added, ‘I trust your judgment, Mister Campbell. If you feel this is important for the war effort, then do it. Just make sure you’re in and out as quickly as possible. I can provide you with a helicopter — there’s no point taking any road vehicles out in this weather.’

‘I’d like to take an assistant. To help with any local research.’

Reid shrugged, uninterested. The phone rang and Reid snatched it up, his mood brightening as he listened. When he replaced the receiver, he said, ‘Good news. The PM has agreed to see you for ten minutes.’

‘What? When?’

‘Now.’

Hal grew anxious. ‘I haven’t prepared-’

‘Doesn’t matter. Just speak from your heart. With everything that’s going down at the moment, you probably won’t get another opportunity. And I believe this to be very important. The PM needs to hear it.’

‘OK,’ Hal said hesitantly. ‘Now? Really?’

‘Now.’ Reid stood up and waited for Hal to rise before hurrying him to Balliol where the PM’s private offices were situated; normally, no one with Hal’s low-level clearance ever got anywhere near them.

Once they were outside the prime minister’s door, Reid clapped Hal on the back and whispered, ‘You’ll be fine.’ He swung the door open, but Hal knew he wouldn’t be able to speak for a few seconds, for his heart was wedged firmly in his throat.

Mallory woke on a rough wooden pallet, his head thick and his limbs heavy. The aroma of wood smoke filled the air. When he finally accepted that he had survived his ordeal, he managed to lever himself up on his elbows to look around. He was in a roundhouse like ones he had seen as a child in history books about the Celtic era. A small fire crackled in the centre of the room, the smoke winding its way up through the hole in the centre of the turf roof. His bed was positioned so that he could see straight out through the open door across the lush Somerset countryside. The sun was rising, framed perfectly between the door jambs, golden and large and misty.

‘You’re bloody lucky.’

Mallory strained around to see who had spoken. A man leaned on a gnarled wooden staff, watching Mallory with a suspicious expression. Mallory guessed he was well into his sixties, but he was so fit and lithe that it was difficult to tell his true age. He could just as easily have been a hundred. His skin was browned from days in the sun, but his long grey hair was matted with dirt and grease and hung lank around his shoulders. He wore a dirty cheesecloth shirt, open at the front, shapeless, filthy trousers and a pair of well-worn sandals. He looked like someone who had spent his life at the music festival they used to hold annually just outside the town.

‘If someone hadn’t seen you getting wrapped in the defences you’d have been gone for good,’ the old man continued.

‘Who are you?’ Mallory said. He was already surreptitiously searching for his weapon. His scabbard was empty.

The old man realised what he was doing and gave a brief, hard smile. ‘Where did you get the sword?’

‘None of your business.’ Mallory swung his legs on to the floor, his head spinning.

The old man brandished his staff. ‘See this? I’ve split more heads open with it than you’ve had hot dinners. You couldn’t beat me even if you were fit, and look at you now. Better answer my questions before you’re out cold again.’

‘I’m not answering any questions,’ Mallory said defiantly.

The old man moved his bony, angular body like a ballet dancer, swinging the staff in a blur. The tip thudded against Mallory’s windpipe before he had even seen it coming.

‘All right,’ Mallory choked.

‘The sword. That’s one of the three great swords. Too powerful a thing for a weedy little weak-arsed runt like you. Who did you steal if off?’

‘I didn’t steal it. It was given to me.’

The old man eased the pressure of the staff a little and eyed Mallory curiously. ‘Who gave it to you?’

‘A woman called Rhiannon.’ Mallory saw the flicker of recognition in the old man’s face and added, ‘In the Court of Peaceful Days.’

‘You’ve been to T’ir n’a n’Og?’

Mallory nodded and the old man lowered the staff and paced away. ‘They’ll let any bugger in these days,’ he muttered, opening a box in one corner. The familiar blue light of the sword illuminated his face. ‘You’d better take it, then. But don’t think it’ll give you an advantage.’

Mallory’s legs still felt weak, but when he plucked the sword from the box the familiar energy surged into his limbs.

‘You’re a Brother of Dragons?’ the old man asked.

‘Yes. The name’s Mallory.’

The old man snorted. ‘Sounds like a girl’s name to me.’ He leaned on his staff once more and surveyed Mallory’s face. ‘I’m the Bone Inspector. I run this here college.’

‘I’ve travelled a long way to get here,’ Mallory said. ‘I’m looking for someone who used to be a Brother of Dragons… someone who fought in the Fall.’

‘Then you’ve found him.’

Mallory turned to see a tall, slim young man with Asian features standing in the doorway. Long black hair framed a handsome face with perfect bone structure, and his natural beauty was accentuated by the black clothes he wore. ‘My name is Shavi,’ he said.