World's end

Chapter Twenty-one

The sun was only just rising as they passed through the rift back into the world and by the time they had trekked into Melrose, it was apparent it was going to be a fine spring day. The sky was blue and cloudless; in the sun it was beautifully warm, but with an exhilarating crispness from that faint underlying chill that was always present at that time of year that far north. But not even the fair weather could mitigate the desperate anticipation they all felt.

They picked up the van and drove to a 24-hour garage. "Everything looks normal," Church said. "But here's the moment of truth."

They all watched anxiously as Ruth darted inside to buy a paper. She picked one up, scanned the date, but her face gave nothing away. By the time she had clambered back into the van, the others couldn't contain themselves. "Well?" Veitch almost shouted.

Ruth held out the paper. "It's Mayday. Today's the day."

There was a long moment of silence until Church said, "Do we still have time to reach Dunvegan?"

"It is less than a day's drive," Shavi replied. "Unless we encounter any obstacles."

His words hung in the air for a second or two, and then they launched themselves into frantic activity. Veitch ran back into the garage to load up with sandwiches and crisps while Church selected a cheap portable radio to replace the one they had lost with their old van.

Once they were on the road, he swept through the bands, but the radio could only tune into a disappointing handful of stations. There was one playing classical music, another with easy listening tracks and one which concentrated on old pop and rock back-to-back, punctuated by the occasional jingle, but with no DJ in evidence. The jaunty sound of The Turtles' "Happy Together" rang out.

"Spare us the sickening optimism," Laura moaned. "I could do with some jungle or techno or anything with a beat to clear my head out."

"At least it's not Sinatra," Ruth said.

"Bit of a coincidence that we emerged with just enough time to spare," Church noted. He caught Tom's eye and mouthed, "There are no coincidences," just as Tom started to spout his mantra. The others laughed; Tom looked irritable.

"So what's this Beltane?" Veitch asked.

"The great festival of light in the Celtic world," Tom replied moodily. "It's the midpoint of the Celtic year. In the old days, the people used to offer tributes to Belenus, the god of sun, light and warmth, to mark the onset of summer, the return of the sun's heat and the fertility of the land."

"But why's today so important as a deadline? It's just a day like any other one."

Tom opened a bag of cheese and onion crisps and began to munch on them with irritating slowness. Out of the corner of his eye, Church could see Laura glancing around for something to throw at him. "Imbolg, Beltane, Lughnasad and Samhain-the four great Celtic festivals-weren't just chosen at random," he said with his mouth full. "They were of vital importance to the gods, when all of reality was so aligned that power flowed back and forth between Otherworld and here. On those days it was like the whole of the universe was filled with a charge. Days when anything could happen."

"So if we miss out today we've got to wait until the next festival?" Veitch asked.

Tom nodded. "And by then it will be too late."

Despite the momentous events that lay ahead, Church found himself feeling surprisingly bright. It wasn't hard to guess why: in just a few short hours he would finally get the answers he had prayed for during the bitter months when his life had seemed to be over, although the why had now been replaced by who. He could barely contain his anticipation, yet behind it he felt the cold, hard core which he knew was a desire for retribution just waiting to be unleashed. Closing his eyes, he drifted along with The Beach Boys singing "Wouldn't It Be Nice." If only he could get warm.

They took the A72 out of Galashiels, then swung north to Edinburgh, crossing the Firth of Forth to pick up the M90. They selected the major routes, both for speed and to keep away from the more desolate areas, but as they hit Perth, where the map showed fewer and fewer signs of population, they knew they were drawing into dangerous territory.

After passing Dalwhinnie, they steeled themselves and set off across country. Up in the hills the air was crystal clear and filled with the scent of pines. They passed barely a car and any traffic they did see appeared to be local; farmers in beat-up old bangers splattered with primer, or old ladies taking the air, driving excruciatingly slow. An eerie stillness lay over the whole landscape.

As they progressed further into the Highlands, Church felt the biting cold ness in his chest begin to grow more intense, as if someone were driving an icicle into his heart. A corresponding sweat sprang out on his forehead. Slipping his hand into his pocket and touching the Roisin Dubh, he felt as if he had plunged his hand into snow. When he drew it partly out, away from the eyes of the others, he saw its delicate petals were now obscured by hoar frost that sparkled when it caught the light; it was almost too cold to touch. And the iciness seemed to be spreading from the rose deep into his body; it felt like it was consuming him. He knew he should tell the others, but the cold seemed to have numbed his brain. He fumbled with Marianne's locket, vaguely hoping it would make him feel better. Then he slipped the flower back into his pocket and tried to ignore the alarm bell that was starting to toll sonorously, deep in his mind.

They crossed the country without incident, and after following the placid, picturesque waters of Loch Lochy for a short spell, they picked up the A87 which would take them directly to Kyle of Lochalsh, the crossing point for Skye.

But as they trundled along the edge of Loch Cluanie, Shavi noticed a column of black smoke rising from an area beyond a steep bank just off the road. Although wary of stopping, once the acrid stink permeated the van it brought with it such an overwhelming sense of unease that they felt an obligation to pull over to investigate. While Veitch scrambled up the bank, the others watched from the van. They knew their worst fears had been confirmed when they saw him grow rigid at the summit. For several moments he stared at what lay beyond and then, without turning, he waved a hand for them to follow. Outside, the smell of oily smoke was choking and the air was filled with the screeching of birds. Cautiously they climbed the bank.

Stretched out in a large field was a scene of utter carnage. Scattered as far as the eye could see were the dead bodies of hundreds of soldiers, some of them mutilated beyond recognition, the churned turf of the field dyed red with their blood. It was like some horrific mediaeval battlefield. The carrion birds were already feeding on the remains with greedy shrieks and frenzied pecking. The smoke was billowing up from the remains of a burnt-out truck or troop carrier.

"They didn't stand a chance." Veitch's voice trembled with emotion.

As they returned to the van in silence, Veitch pulled out his gun, examined it for a second, then tossed it away.

It was several miles before they could bring themselves to discuss what they had seen.

"At least we can be sure the Government knows. There's some kind of resistance," Ruth ventured.

"For what it's worth." Church hugged himself for warmth. "All those modern weapons, all those experts in the art of warfare, they didn't mean a thing. There wasn't one enemy body there."

"So what chance do we have if a bunch of professional killers can't cut the mustard?" Laura was wearing her sunglasses once again, hiding her true emotions from them all.

"You want to know what's worse?" Veitch said quietly. "That they're obviously somewhere between us and where we're supposed to be going, settled in to a nice defensive position."

"We have to keep going," Ruth said. "What else can we do?"

They fell silent once more.

They saw the smoke from fifteen miles away. They had probably noticed it earlier and mistaken it for a storm cloud, so large was the black column; it rose up thickly and rolled out to obscure the sun. At ten miles Shavi had to use the windscreen wipers and spray continuously to clear away the charred flakes caught in the wind.

"Black snow," Laura said absently. "Trippy."

The atmosphere became unbearable as they neared the coast; even in the confines of the van they were coughing and covering their mouths. Then, as they crested a ridge and looked out over the sea, they saw the source. Kyle of Lochalsh, the tiny historic town that guarded the crossing to Skye, was burning. From their vantage point, they could see almost every building was ablaze, painting the lapping waves burnt orange and smoky red. It was almost deafening: the roaring of the flames caught by the wind, the sound of dropped milk crates as superheated windows erupted out, the thunder of crashing walls, every now and then punctuated by an explosion as a car petrol tank went up. There was no sign of life.

They stumbled from the van like drunks, intoxicated by the sheer horror of their vision. At least they could breathe a little easier as the wind took the worst of the smoke inland, but every breath was still filled with the stink of charcoal, rubber and plastic.

"God," Ruth said in a voice so small it was almost lost beneath the noise of the inferno. "Is this how the world is going to look?"

Through their daze, harsh truths began to seep; eventually Laura gave voice to them. "Nobody's forcing us to do this. We could turn back, make the most of whatever time we've got left …" Her voice trailed off hopefully.

"How could we live with ourselves?" Church glanced at her briefly before staring back into the flickering light. "Nobody wants to be here, but some responsibilities are too big to ignore. This is what we were meant to do-"

"Perhaps it is the only reason we are alive," Shavi noted.

"We have to see it through to the end." Laura nodded reluctantly at the resolution in Church's voice; in her heart she had known there was no other option.

"Should we search for any survivors?" Shavi suggested.

Church shook his head. "I don't think there's any point. It looks like they went through the place systematically."

"Look." Veitch pointed beyond the flames to the short stretch of water that separated Skye from the mainland. The bridge that had been built at a cost of millions of pounds was shattered. The first section ended suddenly, as if it had been lopped off by an axe, and chunks of concrete and steel protruded from the swirling water. Nearby they could see the old ferries that had prospered before the bridge were burning or half-submerged in the tiny harbour.

"What are we going to do now?" Veitch continued. "Swim?"

"I do not think so." Shavi stood beside him and directed his gaze away from the harbour to the deep water in the middle of the channel. At first it just seemed to be a mass of chopping waves and odd little eddies and whirlpools, but then Veitch noticed a strange sinuous motion that was at odds with the movement of the water; it was like a black pipe rolling gently as it moved between the mainland and the island.

He was about to ask what Shavi was suggesting when there was a sudden churning of the water and something large rose up in a gush of white foam and sleek black skin cast ruddy in the light of the fire. Its head reached as high as a double-decker bus for just an instant before it ducked back beneath the waves.

"What the hell was that?" Veitch looked dumbfounded.

"The sea serpents have always been close to the Fomorii. They don't need to be coerced like the Fabulous Beasts." Tom shuffled up beside them to watch the swirling water. "Even when the doorways were supposed to be closed, the serpents swam back and forth, prefering neither here nor there, but somewhere in between."

"Are they dangerous?" Veitch's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he considered ways to reach the island.

"They have the teeth of sharks and their coils can crush bones and boats."

"A watchdog," Ruth said.

"Then how the hell are we going to get over there?" Veitch's frustration boiled over into impotent rage.

While the others threw ideas around, Laura watched from a distance, and she was the only one who saw the faint shadow cross Shavi's face. Quietly she tugged at his sleeve and drew him away from the rest.

"Spit it out," she whispered.

When he looked at her she realised the expression had been one of fear. "I cannot control these changes that are coming over me-"

"You should try being a twelve-year-old girl."

11 — the things I can do …" He struggled to find the correct words.

"I know it's scary. But everything's spinning out of control."

He sighed and lowered his dark brown eyes. "At first it seemed so wonderful, all these amazing new possibilities opening up to me. The trances, the dreams. But when I had that vision at Manorbier, it took nothing at all to get it started and it was so powerful it was almost as if I was really there. I could smell the blood on the wind …" He raised the back of his hand to his mouth in distaste. "Now I am afraid. I wonder where it will all end."

Surreptitiously, Laura took his hand; his fingers were cool and supple against her hot palm.

That subtlest of connections brought a smile to his lips. "One should never shy away from new experiences, I suppose."

"So what can you do?"

"When the change first came over me it was like I could almost understand what the birds were saying in their song. Then, as time progressed, I discovered it was more than that … it was as if I were in their heads, listening to their thoughts. And not just birds, but all animals." He paused for a long time as he weighed his words. "It is possible I could get into that creature's head, enough to subtly direct it. Perhaps enough to keep it away from a boat."

"But?"

"But I am afraid if I truly try to enter its mind, I may never be able to get out again." He watched her face closely for her reaction. When none was noticeable, he said, "I am waiting for you to tell me not to be so ridiculous and to do my duty."

"You're talking like I'm the responsible one. It's your call-I won't think any differently of you one way or the other."

He smiled broadly. "You are very mature. Why do you act like you are not?"

"We all know what happens to cheese when it gets mature."

Veitch suddenly spotted them huddled together. "Oi! What are you two plotting?"

Shavi lost himself in thought for a moment, then confidently strode over.

They headed back a couple of miles until they found a road which skirted the town; the fires were burning too hard to drive through it. On the north side there were plenty of little coves and they eventually chanced on one where a boat was moored at a private jetty. If the owner had survived the Fomorii attack, he was nowhere to be seen. Reluctantly they abandoned the van and transferred the talismans and what provisions they thought absolutely essential to the boat.

"This may seem a stupid question," Church said once they were all aboard, "but has anyone here sailed before?"

Veitch made a face. "Been on the Thames Ferry. Didn't like it very much. And that boat in Wales."

"I owned a small boat for fishing on the loch in my heyday," Tom said. "And I have even fished at sea, so I have enough knowledge to get us out there. But the currents between the mainland and island are rumoured to be strong and if the serpent gets angry, his backwash will capsize us. I presume we can all swim?"

They all nodded, apart from Veitch, who began to look a little wary.

"That's not an option," Church said. "How are we going to do anything if the talismans are at the bottom of the deep blue? You've got to get us out there and keep us steady so Shavi can do his bit."

"Try to," Shavi stressed.

They cast off and Tom steered the boat away from the shore. Although the water had appeared calm from dry land, they were soon bouncing across the waves in a queasy chopping motion. The wind had changed direction and now the thick, acrid smoke was being blown out across the bay; it was as if a thick fog had rolled between them and Skye.

"If we get past the serpent, we can take the boat around the north of the island to Dunvegan. It is built on a sea loch, so we can go right up to its walls."

Church stood in the prow, tasting the salt as the spray stung his face, trying to ignore the icy cold that now permeated his entire body. Shavi rested on the wooden rail next to him to stare into the blue-green depths.

"How are you holding up?" Church asked.

"I think we are all holding up remarkably well, seeing that we are a mass of neuroses and contradictions wrapped up in skin and bone-in short, very human-being expected to do the job of heroes."

Church shrugged. "What's a hero? Some big muscular guy with a sword? Or some normal person who takes a swing for the greater good, despite everything?"

Shavi looked at him curiously.

"I'm just saying we're trying to do the best we can under the circumstances. Maybe the historians will come in with their whitewash brushes in a few years' time to turn us into heroes."

"You are only a hero if you win." Shavi looked up, his smile taking the edge off the bitter words. "There is no place in Valhalla for those who simply tried hard."

The smoke rolled in around them, choking, stinging their eyes. They all sat down in the bottom of the boat where the air was freshest, listening to the eerie echoes as the smoke muffled the lapping of the water and the sound of the town burning. They could have been hundreds of miles away, lost in the centre of the Atlantic.

Then Shavi's clear, sharp voice made them all start. "It is coming."

At first they could hear nothing. A few seconds later, from out of the smoke, came the almost mechanical sound of something breaking the water at regular intervals, growing louder as it drew closer. Church watched anxiously as Shavi closed his eyes, his face growing taut with concentration. The splashing, stitching sound came on relentlessly. Shavi's brow furrowed, his lips pulled back from his teeth.

At the last moment Church realised it wasn't going to work and he called out to the others to hold on. The serpent surged just past the prow and the boat lifted up at forty-five degrees. Church ground his eyes shut and gritted his teeth: someone cried out; he was convinced they were going under, dragged to the bottom in the backwash; a horrible way to die. But the boat poised on the cusp of tragedy like some terrible fairground ride and then went prow down just as steeply into the trough left by the serpent's passing. Waves crashed over them. Church sucked in a mouthful of seawater, but somehow held on. The boat righted itself jarringly, as if it were skidding across sand dunes. Church looked round; amazingly, everyone was still clinging on.

"If it hits us astern it'll shatter the boat," he yelled to Shavi.

Shavi screwed up his face in anger at his failure before flinging himself upright and gripping on to the rail. "Here!" he shouted. "To me!"

"Get down!" Church cried. "If it comes by again you'll be over the side!"

Shavi ignored him. A second or two later a shiver ran down Church's spine as he heard the serpent stitching water towards them. It was like a goods train; his breath grew as hard as stone in his chest. He braced himself for the impact. And waited, and waited.

There was a sound like a boulder being pitched into the water and then the drizzle of falling droplets as a shadow fell across him. The serpent had risen up out of the waves, as high as a lamppost, its flattened head swaying from side to side like a cobra. It had skin that was as shiny black and slick as a seal and eyes that seemed to glow a dull yellow; odd whiskers tufted out around its mouth like a catfish. And it seemed to be staring at Shavi.

Church was about to call out to his friend when he noticed the rigid posture and ghosted expression on Shavi's face, as if he were in a coma with his eyes open. They stayed that way for a long moment, two drunks staring each other out in a bar, and then, slowly, the serpent melted into the waves and swam languorously away.

Church heard Laura whisper, "Good doggy."

A spontaneous cheer arose from the others, just as Shavi pitched backwards alongside Church. His face was still locked tight. Church felt a sudden surge of panic when he looked into those glassy eyes; there was not even the slightest sign of Shavi within them. He scrambled forward and began to shake his shoulders.

The others' jubilation died away when they saw the edge of panic in his actions. "Shavi," he said. "Come back!"

"Leave him!" Tom barked. "If you disturb him now he could be lost forever!"

"But what if he can't get back?" Church said. He stared again into those glassy eyes and couldn't control his desperation; the price they were paying was increasing constantly and he despaired at where it would end.

"Leave him!" Tom shouted again.

Reluctantly, Church stood back in the prow-then suddenly all thought of Shavi was gone. A gust of wind cleared the billowing smoke like a theatre curtain being rolled back, presenting a view of Skye that chilled him to the bone. At first details along the coast were blurred and he blinked twice to clear his vision. Then he realised the loss of distinction to the sharp edges of the green and grey coastline was caused by constant movement. Along the seafront, Skye was swarming; there was a sickening infestation of darkness as far as the eye could see, like ants on a dead rat.

"My God! How many are there?" Ruth was beside him, one hand on his shoulder.

They were mesmerised by the sheer enormity of what they were seeing, the malevolence that seemed to wash out across the water towards them. In that one moment, they knew: the world was ending and there was nothing they could do about it.

Church turned to Veitch, Laura and Tom, who were bickering at the rear of the boat, oblivious to the brief vision of hell that had been presented. "Come on," he ordered. "We need to get a move on if we want to be there before sundown."

It was a long, arduous journey up the Sound of Raasay, where the currents were as powerful as they had feared. Tom fought to keep the boat under control and eventually they rounded the north of the island as the afternoon began to draw on. They were all desperately aware of the hours running away from them, but no one gave voice to fears that there was not enough time left. At least they had left the massed ranks of the Fomorii behind, which gave Church a little more hope. Shavi's sacrifice had at least bought them that.

As the wild hills rose up grey and purple, brooding and mist-shrouded, away to their left, Tom steered the boat around to the west and eventually into the loch that led to Dunvegan Castle. The more they progressed inland, the more the choppy seas subsided, until they were sailing on water as smooth as polished black glass. Everywhere was still; no birds sang, the wind had dropped and the only sound was the gentle lapping of the water against the boat. Eventually the castle loomed up, a squat, forbidding presence perched on a rocky outcropping overlooking the loch. There were no signs of life around it.

Church and Veitch scanned the steep banks where gnarled, rugged trees clustered together in the face of the biting Atlantic winds. "Do you think they're lying in wait?" Veitch asked.

"Could be." But Church's instinct told him otherwise. "We might be lucky. I don't think they expected us to get this far."

"After all the hassle we've been through, wouldn't it be a laugh if we just waltzed into the castle, got the flag and did our business?" He snapped his fingers. "Over. Just like that."

"You love tempting fate, don't you, Ryan?"

They pulled the boat up on to the rocks at the foot of the castle where there was an easy path among the boulders round to the front. Veitch and Church shouldered the talismans between them, every muscle taut, eyes never still. They hated having to leave Shavi behind, but he was too much of a burden and time was short; the sun was already slipping down the sky and Church was afraid the castle would be sealed and they would have to find some way to break in.

But they had gone barely twenty paces from the boat when they heard Shavi cry out. They ran back to find him near-delirious, foam flecking his mouth, his eyes roving, unseeing. "The Fairy Bridge!" he called out to someone they couldn't see. "They come across the Fairy Bridge!"

"What's he talking about?" Veitch said dismissively. He had half-turned away when Tom caught his arm.

"The Fairy Bridge lies not far from here. It's over a stream, near to one of the liminal zones. Some of the Fomorii may pass through Otherworld to appear there quicker than if they'd travelled over the land."

Veitch looked puzzled. "Yeah, but doesn't everything move slower over there?"

"Time is fluid. Slower, faster, there are no rules. If there is a chance, the Fomorii will take it."

Church chewed on a nail for a moment. "Ryan and I can go down there and do what we can to delay them while the rest of you get into the castle." He hoped it didn't sound as futile as it did in his head. Veitch nodded his agreement; in one glance they both recognised that it was probably a suicide mission.

Leaving Shavi raving in the boat, they all hurried up the path to the front of the castle. It was open, but there was no one in the ticket booth, nor could they hear any sound coming from anywhere within.

While Veitch searched for some weapons, Church opened the crate to examine the sword one final time; it seemed comfortingly familiar, radiating strength and security, and he wished he could take it with him, but it was needed for the summoning ritual. As he reached in to caress the worn handle, a blue spark jumped out from it with such force it threw him across the floor. His fingers ached painfully and there was a dim burning sensation; it felt so powerful because his entire body was numb with cold.

"What was that?" Ruth said. "It was like it didn't want you to touch it."

Church shook his head, puzzled, but he had a nagging feeling he knew why. The Roisin Dubh continued to pulse coldly against his heart.

Veitch returned soon after with two swords which he had stolen from a display at the end of the entrance hall. Church examined them apprehensively. They would be as much use against the Fomorii as a pair of dinner knives, but there was no point stating the obvious.

They took directions for the bridge from Tom and had just set off when Ruth called Church back. She ran forward and gave him a hug of surprising warmth. "Don't be stupid," she said. "I don't want to lose my best friend."

"Don't I get a hug and a kiss?" Veitch called to Laura, who seemed to be avoiding Church's gaze.

She blew him one theatrically. "Throw yourself at them. It might buy us a minute."

He mumbled something, then they turned and hurried across the moat to the winding road that led away from the castle.

"Where's this flag, then?" Laura asked as they began to trawl through the castle's many rooms. Their footsteps echoed dismally in the empty chambers.

"It has always been kept in the drawing room," Tom replied. "Wherever that might be."

"What I don't understand is why beings as terrifying as the Danann provided the basis for faery tales," Ruth said. "You know, cuddly, mischievous little men and women with wings sitting on toadstools."

"In the old days faeries were frightening. Their reputation has been watered down over the years." Tom paused at a junction in a corridor, irritated by the maze of rooms. "People would not venture near sidh-the fairy mounds-at night and would not take their name in vain for fear of their reputation. Their memories of when the Danann walked the earth were too strong." He chose the lefthand path at random and strode away without checking that they were behind him. "When the Age of Reason came around, the fear generated by the gods was too much to bear in the brave new world, and so the people set about diminishing them-not only in stature-to make them less of a threat to their way of life."

Ruth wondered if the others recognised that they were making small talk to avoid thinking about what might be happening to Church. "And the Fairy Bridge has that name because the locals dimly recollected there was some doorway to Otherworld nearby?" she continued.

"Not so dimly recollected. The Danann had connections with the Celts long after they left other parts of the country alone. In Scotland, Wales, Cornwall and Ireland they are always felt strongly nearby. They may be unknowable in their actions, but they seem to feel loyalty for the people who first accepted them." He cursed as they came to another dead end, then swung on his heel and carried on marching forcibly. "The Fairy Bridge is so called because of an old tale about a MacLeod clan chieftain who married a woman of the Danann-"

"What? Inter-species romance?" Ruth exclaimed.

Tom sighed. "You know very well some of the Danann are not so far removed from us. And those nearest seem to feel a kinship which isn't evident in the higher gods. May I continue?" She nodded. "After twenty years of marriage, the Danann wife felt driven to return to Otherworld-she couldn't bear to be separated from her people for any longer. The husband was heartbroken, but as a gift to show her love for their long-in human terms-romance, she gave him the Bratach Sith, the Fairy Flag, so he could call on her people for help if the MacLeods ever faced defeat in battle. And the Fairy Bridge was the place of the giving and the place of the parting."

"What a sad story."

"Over here." Laura was standing near an open doorway, motioning to them.

Once they entered, Ruth could tell it was the drawing room, but there was no sign of a flag. "Where is it?"

Tom pointed to a picture on the wall. "That's all that's left of it." Behind the glass was the remnant of what once had been a proud flag of brown silk, intricately darned in red.

"It looks like it will fall apart if we touch it," Ruth said, not knowing what she had expected.

"It isn't how it appears." Tom dropped the crate on the floor and Laura carefully removed the talismans while he took the flag down. With trembling hands, he cracked the back from the frame, then laid the glass on one side. Once the flag was freed, he took a step back and bowed before it. Then, with an obsessive attention to angles and distances, he laid out the artefacts around the flag so they made the four points of a star.

From his breathing and his body language, Ruth could tell he was gripped with a curious anxiety, but it didn't seem the time to ask what was on his mind.

"Now," he said tremulously, "it is time for the ritual of summoning."

Tom stood before the artefacts, head bowed, and muttered something under his breath. There was an instant change in the quality of the atmosphere in the room; Ruth and Laura backed anxiously to the wall.

Above the talismans, light appeared to be folding out of nowhere, like white cloth being forced through a hole. There was a sucking sound, a smell like cardamom, and then the air tore apart and they saw something terrible rushing towards them.

Ruth felt her head start to spin. "Oh Lord," she whispered.

The road from the castle was bleak, the trees disappearing the further they got from the loch to leave a heartless landscape of rock and sheep-clipped grass. They were thankful for the faint, late-afternoon sun which at least provided a vague patina of colour to the desolation.

Church and Veitch rarely spoke; the oppressive weight of what lay ahead made any conversation seem too trivial. And for Church, the cold had become almost more than he could bear. There was a part of him demanding that he throw away the flower, tell Veitch that he was far from his peak, but a stronger and more worrying part suppressed it easily. Worse, the cold now seemed to be affecting his vision; he could see what appeared to be little dustings of frost appearing round the edges of his sight, sparkling in the sunlight.

But the rose was a gift from Marianne, the suppressing part of him said. How could it he anything but good?

They heard the babbling of water before they saw the bridge, but once they crested a slight incline it was before them: just a single arch in a mediaeval construction of stone. Yet the moment Church took in its style and setting in the rocks and grassy banks, he felt like his heart was being crushed. It was exactly the image he had seen in the Watchtower when he had received the premonition of his death.

His sudden terror must have played out on his face, for Veitch turned to him with concern. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." But he was transfixed by the sight and he couldn't have moved if he had wanted to.

The spell was broken when Veitch clapped a supportive hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, I'm scared too. But we've just got to do our best. No point worrying about what's going to happen."

Church sucked in a juddering breath to calm himself. "You're right." Before he drove all fatalistic thoughts from his head, he had one fleeting wish that he had properly said goodbye to Laura, and then it was replaced with the unsettling certainty that soon he would be with Marianne again.

They took up position on their side of the bridge, ready for their last stand. The sword felt awkward in Church's hand; more than useless after wielding the Otherworld weapon. He wondered how long they would last. A minute? Two?

For a long time there was nothing but the tinkling of the brook and the smell of damp grass, constants that made the subtle changes which came next seem like the blaring of an alarm. First there was a stink like a hot generator and burnt diesel, then a sound that reminded Church of a long-closed door being wrenched open. Then, some time between his eye blinking shut and opening again, the entire world slipped into horror.

They seemed to rise from the grass and heather like twisted blackthorn in time-lapse photography, filling the banks and road ahead of them, bristling with hatred, eyes burning in faces too terrible to consider, dark skin that seemed to suck up the sunlight and corrupt it. Eerily silent, motionless, a tidal wave poised at the moment before it suddenly crashed forward.

Veitch stifled some faint noise in his throat. Church was so frozen he had barely been able to feel anything, but even the iciness could not contain the hot blast of fear that roared through him.

"Is it like staring into the face of death?" The voice floated out from the serried ranks. Church recognised it instantly. A second later Calatin limped from the mass, a fey, malignant smile on his lips. He held a rusty sword with darkly stained teeth along one edge like a saw.

Church gripped his own sword tightly, though he could barely feel it in his grasp. Veitch was saying something to him, but the words seemed to be breaking up like a badly tuned radio. He turned, saw Witch's concerned face through a haze of hoar frost. He realised the iciness was starting to reach his brain.

Calatin was facing him across the bridge now, smiling maliciously as though he knew exactly what was going through Church's mind. Behind him there seemed to be just a black wall. Strangely, when he spoke, his voice rang as clear as a bell.

"Do you feel the thorns in your heart?" He laughed like glass breaking. "We have her, you know, at least that pitiful part of her that remains after the body withers. I love to hear her screams."

Marianne, Church thought. His heart began to pound, the heat dispelling some of the cold.

"If you had not allowed death and the past to taint you so, there might have been the slimmest of chances that you might have snatched victory here."

"The sword-" Church croaked.

"The power is not in the sword, Dragon Brother, it is in you. You are the host of the Pendragon Spirit. And you have proven yourself a betrayer of that tradition. Too weak, too trapped by guilt and doubt. We could not have given you the Kiss of Frost if you had not allowed us into your life."

Slowly, the truth stirred in the depths of his frozen mind. The Fomorii had left nothing to chance, attacking with the Fabulous Beast and the Hunt, using Callow as backup; but most subtly of all, invading him from within, driving into his heart and soul. The Roisin Dubh-the Kiss of Frost-had been seeded into his presence right at the very start, lying dormant until releasing its cold bloom when most needed, when everything else had failed. And the worst thing was that Calatin was right: he had done it to himself, he had known in his heart he should have thrown the rose away, but he had been trapped in his obsession with Marianne and her death and that had driven him to his fate. He had been weak, pathetic; and he had doomed them all.

"Oh, the pain," Calatin mocked. "It hurts so to see oneself truly in the mirror of life. Sick little boy. Weak little boy."

Church raised his sword, but the heat he was generating from his emotions was not yet enough; the weapon shook violently in his hand. Veitch seemed to sense Church's inability to act and, with a growl of obscenities, he launched himself forward. It was an attack born more out of desperation than expertise, and as he swung his sword, Calatin parried easily and lashed out with a backhanded stroke. It caught Veitch a glancing blow across the forehead and he fell to the bridge, unconscious.

Calatin gave a sickly, supercilious grin at Church. "We come with the night," he hissed, "and all fall before us. Our ways are the truth of existence. Everything you see is decaying, winding its way down into the dark. Why fight the natural order? Welcome it into your lives. Drink up the shadows, still the ticking of the clock, open your heart to the void."

Church shook his head weakly.

"Now," Calatin said sarcastically, "let us see how well you fight."

Ironically, by focusing on Marianne and her torment, Church found he could move a little easier, although it was still not enough. Calatin came at him lazily, swinging his sword like a father fencing with a child. Church blocked and almost dropped his sword. Calatin nipped in and brought the serrated edge of his weapon across Church's arm; the blood burned on his frozen skin.

And then the strangest thing happened. Church felt as if a bright, white light had suddenly burst through his body; just a flash, and then gone in an instant. And somehow he knew it had emanated from Marianne's locket, which he kept hidden in the same pocket as the Black Rose.

Whatever had caused it, it was enough to give him a burst of energy. With a skill that seemed to come from somewhere else, he brought his sword up sharply. The tip caught Calatin's cheek, raising a line of insipid blood. The Fomor whipped his head back in shock, and when he next levelled his gaze at Church, another eyelid appeared to have opened vertically in the eyeball itself, revealing a piercing yellow slit-iris. There was no mistaking the fury in his face. In a frenzy of chopping and hacking, he moved forward. One blow raked open Church's chest. The next bit deeply into his neck. Blood flowed freely.

Church staggered sideways from the bridge and fell on to the bank. The hoar frost in his vision was turning black. Calatin jumped beside him, still wielding the sword venomously. Another blow, more blood.

Church fell on to his back and slithered down to the water's edge. He knew he was dying. As Calatin bore down on him, his sword wet with Church's blood, Church thought of Marianne as a painful swell of bitter emotions washed the ice from him, then Laura, then Ruth and all the others.

Calatin brought the sword down hard and Church had the fleeting impression of floating above himself, looking down on the vision he had had in the Watchtower. And then all became black.

Everything was golden and shimmering, like a river of sunlight, and Ruth felt herself drifting along at the heart of it. It was a far cry from the rush of terror she had felt when the doorway first opened and she had been presented with a vista on the terrible place where the Danann had been banished. But then they had burst out of it, like dawn breaking on a desolate world, and she had been swept up with them, along with Tom and Laura; quite how, she did not know, although she had images of stallions and mares and chariots. Everything was a blur of wonder and awe. Some of them seemed almost human, with beautiful faces, golden skin and flowing hair, but others seemed to be changing their shape constantly as they moved; a few appeared just as light and one or two made her eyes hurt so much she couldn't bear to look at them or attempt to give them any real shape.

We did it! she thought with a sweeping feeling of such relief and ecstatic joy it brought tears to her eyes. We brought the angels down to earth.

Within seconds they were out of the castle and on the road to the Fairy Bridge. Ruth caught glimpses of sky bluer than she had ever imagined, and grass so green and succulent she wanted to roll in it laughing. And there was music, although she had no idea where it was coming from, like strings and brass and voices mingling in one instrument. She closed her eyes and basked in the glory.

It didn't last long. Another sound, discordant and somehow stomachturning, broke through the golden cocoon and she snapped her eyes open. She saw a wall of black, of monstrous eyes, and deformed features, and she recognised the sound of the Fomorii shrieking in anger. As the Danann swept down the hillside towards them, they seemed to roll up, fold in on themselves and melt into the grass.

And then in the stillness that followed there was another sound, smaller and reedier, and she discovered Veitch kneeling on the bridge, yelling something at them. His face was filled with despair so acute it broke through her trance. With a terrible wrench she pulled herself from the golden mass and ran towards him.

There was blood on his temple, but that wasn't the cause of his dismay. He motioned over the side of the bridge, then looked away. She already knew what she would see. She told herself to turn away before she saw so the image would not be with her forever, but she knew she couldn't be a coward. Her eyes brimming with tears, she looked down on Church's body half-submerged in the brook, his blood seeping away with the water. She didn't cry or shout or scream; it was as if all emotion had been torn out of her by a sucking vacuum.

By the time she skidded down the bank her tears were flowing freely and her throat burned from sobbing. She knelt next to the body and took his hand. Why should she feel so bad when it was someone she had met only a few weeks before?

A shadow fell across her and she looked up to see Laura silhouetted against the setting sun. She shifted her position to see Laura's face and it was as she had guessed: cold, dispassionate. "Don't you feel anything?" she said in a fractured voice.

But Laura didn't even seem to recognise she was there. She stared blankly at Church's staring eyes, cocking her head slightly to one side like she was examining a work of art. "I knew you'd do this to me, you bastard," she said softly.

Veitch slumped down on the edge of the bridge. "At least we won," he said wearily. "We drove them off. Despite, you know … Despite us being a bunch of losers. We did it."

They remained there for a painful moment, not knowing what bound them together any more, barely able even to recognise themselves. And then they heard a crunch of gravel and turned to see Tom and one of the Danann walking towards them. The god exuded power from every pore of his golden skin, and when they looked into his almond eyes they saw nothing they knew.

He stopped before them and rested his gaze on each one of them in turn, a faintly disturbing smile playing on his lips.

"Who are you?" Ruth asked faintly.

The smile grew even more enigmatic. "Once my names were known to everyone in the land. So soon forgotten? It will change, it will change. Who am I? I am Nuada, known as Nuada Airgetlamh, known as Nudd, known as Lludd, known as Lud, founder of Londinium, wielder of Caledfwlch." There was an unpleasant arrogance in the turn of his head. "The Tuatha De Danann give you thanks for freeing us from our place of banishment. In return, the Allfather has given permission for the use of his cauldron."

Tom held out the bowl they had found under Glastonbury Tor. Ruth looked at him blankly. "The Cauldron of Dagda is the cornucopia, the Horn of Plenty," he said softly. "It is the Grail, the source of spiritual renewal. The taker of life and the giver of life. The crucible of rebirth." He smiled. "Take it."

Ruth's hands trembled as she took it, barely able to believe what he was saying. The moment her fingers closed around it, she felt a subtle heat deep in her stomach, rising up through her arms to her hands. The moment it hit the bowl, it seemed to weep droplets of gold, which collected in the bottom. When it had partially filled, Tom motioned to Church.

Though uncomprehending, Veitch jumped from the bridge and dragged Church from the water, resting the body in his lap and the head in the crook of his arm. He looked up at Ruth with the simple belief of a child.

Ruth glanced at the golden liquid, which moved almost with a life of its own. A part of her could not bring herself to accept what was being suggested: the dead were dead, a machine switched off never to be restarted; there was no subtle spirit, no beyond or Happy Home fairytale for the religiously naive; everything she had seen could not shake that part of her. But still there was another part of her that accepted wonder and hope, that believed in the World Where Anything Can Happen. There was a time for cynicism and the restraining lessons of adulthood, but this was a time to be a child. She knelt down and placed the bowl to Church's lips, while Veitch manipulated his mouth so the liquid would flow in. And then the world seemed to hang in space.

There was darkness and warmth and a vertiginous, queasy plummet into something unpleasant. And then Church opened his eyes. Briefly, Veitch and Tom had to restrain him as he was overcome with convulsions; images of Calatin's attack, the agony of the serrated sword biting into his flesh, the smell of his own fear, passed through his uncomprehending mind in an instant. But the sensations of the changes coming over his body drove the disturbing thoughts from him; the golden liquid seemed to be seeping into every part of him, transforming him as it passed, although he had no idea what he was becoming; yet beneath it there was the numb antagonism of the Fomorii Kiss of Frost still within him; heat and cold, light and dark, battling for supremacy.

"You have been reborn."

Church looked up into the face of Nuada. It took a second or two to recognise who he was and what he was doing there. Slowly he looked round at the vision of gold and silver, faces almost too beautiful, presences too divine, and the transcendental wonder he felt brought a shiver of deep emotion. Tears sprang to his eyes in relief at the miracle. "The Danann!" His voice sounded like it was being ground out. "The others freed you … you drove away the Fomorii …"

"The Night Walkers departed rather than face our anger at their betrayal of the Covenant."

Church closed his eyes in relief, resting back against Veitch's arm. "But you came. We won. Now you can face up to them … drag them back …"

In the long silence that followed, Church knew there was something wrong. He opened his eyes to see Nuada smiling dangerously. "Now we are back," he said, "we will not be leaving."

"What do you mean?" Church levered himself upright, suddenly afraid.

"We always coveted a return to this place. We staked our claim upon it in the time before your race. But the pact prevented it and the doors remained closed. Now the Night Walkers have broken the pact. And the doors are open."

"But the Fomorii are your enemy!" Church protested.

"The fruits of this land are too succulent to ignore for unnecessary confrontation. We have co-existed before. Uneasily, certainly, but the pursuit of our will overrides all other concerns."

"But they are going to bring back Balor!" There were tears of frustration in Ruth's eyes.

"Perhaps they will succeed," he mused superciliously.

Tom knelt before Nuada and bowed his head in supplication. "The Brothers and Sisters of Dragons sacrificed a great deal to free you from your place of banishment, my Lord."

"And they have our thanks, True Thomas. But their work was not all as it seemed." Tom looked up at him quizzically. "We are not without foresight. The Fomorii betrayal was anticipated-after all, it was in their nature. We had our preparations. The Brothers and Sisters of Dragons were guided to this moment from the beginning."

"How?" Church thought he was going to be sick; suddenly he could see all the answers, but he was afraid to examine them.

"The alchemy of death was necessary to change you, to spark the Pendragon Spirit, to start you down the road that would lead to this moment."

They all looked blank. Tom turned to them, troubled, disorientated. "In all your lives, someone had to die-"

"You killed Marianne!" Church raged suddenly.

Nuada fixed such a dark expression on him Church was shocked into silence. "Our own hands were never raised. We set events in motion. We removed checks, moved balances." He pointed at Veitch. "He turned and used his weapon at the perfect moment, against his will. Other fragile creatures followed our guidance-"

"Then who killed her?" Church asked dismally.

Nuada turned from him; his smile was both patronising and frightening. "There are many games we can play with this world." Tom blanched at his words. "The prize has been well worth the rigours."

He began to walk back to the shimmering golden horde massed beyond the bridge. Church tried to scramble to his feet, but had to be helped up by Veitch. He choked back his emotion and said, as forcefully as he could muster, "At least help us remove the Fomorii. We need you."

Nuada turned coldly. "Your voice might have carried more weight if it were not polluted by the taint of the Night Walkers. In times before, the Pendragon Spirit would not have occupied such a weak host."

And then he had joined the rest of the Tuatha De Danann, and Church, Veitch, Tom and Ruth could only watch as the shining host swept out across the countryside like a tidal wave of terrifying, alien force.