Always Forever

Chapter Ten

"Below is time." Church tried to sound more confident than he felt, but Ruth was not about to be fooled.

"I still think I should come with you."

He shook his head firmly. "I'm not trying to protect you like some big macho idiot. You'd be the first person I'd want alongside me in a fight. But I told you, one of us has to be here to see things through."

"You're not being very consistent. You made a big thing about how you felt all five Brothers and Sisters of Dragons had to be together to get a result. Now you're saying I can do it on my own-

"I hate having smart people around me. Okay, I'll be back. Did that sound like Arnie Schwarzenegger? Sorry, I wasted the eighties at the movies."

"You're so lowbrow." She put her arms around him and pulled him to her, planting a wet kiss on his lips. "Be back soon. We have a lot of lost time to make up for."

In the constantly changing corridors where the flickering torches never cast enough light, the kiss brought an ache to his heart. More than anything, he wanted to stay with Ruth, secure in their newfound world, but he knew that was an illusion. He had to journey down into the deep, dark bowels of the ship where there was no security, no softness. He drew his jacket around him, resting one hand on the cold short sword that hung at his belt.

"Life's good as long as you don't weaken," he muttered, repeating the credo he had once only half-jokingly spoken aloud. "Please don't weaken."

The ship grew icier and smelled danker the more he progressed, as if he were journeying beneath the earth itself. He had adjusted to the constant gentle rocking, but the creak of the timbers was like the background chatter of a hundred voices, obscuring other subtle sounds that might come as a warning. The hiss of the torches brought sweetly perfumed smoke to his nose, but the underlying odour of dampness could never be hidden.

After a while he started cautiously trying the doors on either side. Most were locked, some rooms were empty, but in one something that was a mass of tentacles and snapping jaws rushed towards him squealing insanely. He slammed the door and hurried on, vowing not to open any more.

The ship went on forever. More than anything, Church feared getting lost down there, spending the rest of his life wandering around in the dark, living on rats (although he had not seen any vermin-perhaps something else was already feeding on them), slowly turning pale and mad. But he had a gut instinct that the ship was sentient in some way he couldn't explain, and that while the corridors behind him might close and move, when he returned, they would lead him back to the upper decks by one route or another.

At that point he began to wonder if he was really on a ship at all; if the spy he had encountered in Edinburgh had been right and all this was a warped perception brought on by some outside force using drugs or deep hypnotism, for whatever reason. As this thought entered his head, he was convinced he heard the throb of machines and the hubbub of men's voices through one of the doors; it troubled him inexplicably and he chose to hurry on.

Further on, the corridors took on a different appearance, so that it was no longer obvious he was on board a ship. It might have happened so gradually he didn't notice it, or in the blink of an eye, but suddenly the walls were in part limestone, in others, rough-hewn timbers, peppered with holes of varying sizes. It smelled differently, too. The saltiness that had permeated everything had been replaced by a faintly sulphurous odour of dust. The heavy echoes of his tread had taken the place of the constant creaking, nor was he even aware of the ship's rocking. Other sounds were more prevalent now, through the walls or further along the corridor: movement, fast and light like the scurrying of vermin, or slow and laboured as if enormous creatures were shifting slowly.

He was startled at one point by the sound of small feet near to his ear. He turned sharply to see a blur passing quickly across a hole in the wall at head height. One of the Portunes, he guessed, spying on him. The little people were everywhere, the eyes and ears of the ship. But why were they always watching? What did it benefit them?

As the atmosphere became less like that onboard ship, the more the air of tension rose; it was enough to warn Church he had moved into an area of more immediate danger, rather than the general background threat of the upper decks. There was a quality to it that made him queasy. His palms grew slick around the handle of the sword, his knuckles aching from holding it.

His eyes, by now well accustomed to the gloom, felt sore from continually probing the shadows ahead; so much that at first he thought the flickering shapes he occasionally glimpsed were just the tremors of an over-worked eye muscle. But gradually he came to realise there were things moving just beyond the light of the now-intermittent torches, darting around corners at the last moment. He was sure they weren't the Malignos; as Ruth had described them, they would not be so restrained. It could, of course, be Callow, playing some sneaky little game, waiting for just the right moment to attack. But still-

Church almost jumped out of his skin when a hand protruded from an unnoticed branching corridor to his left, reaching for his arm. It was just a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, but he was whirling instantly, lashing out with the sword. His reactions were perfect, but the hand became a blur of golden lightning. Before Church had time to launch another attack, Baccharus stepped out sharply, motioning for Church to remain silent.

Church's angry face passed on all the fury of the curses he wanted to yell out at Baccharus's unthinking approach, but Baccharus, as usual, was oblivious. They hurried several yards along the branching corridor until Baccharus turned and said bluntly, "You must turn back."

"I'm starting to worry about you, Baccharus," Church snapped. "Do you spend all your time hanging around down here? You know, is it the Tuatha De Danann equivalent of the street corner where the furtively smoking teenagers hang out? Or do you just wait in the shadows until Ruth or I come along?"

Baccharus gave several long, slow blinks while staring into Church's eyes. Eventually he said, "You must-"

"Yes, yes, I know. Turn back. I know it's not a saunter through Covent Garden-"

"You do not realise the extent of the danger."

Church sighed, running his fingers through his long hair. "Baccharus, I really do appreciate you looking out for me. It's such a rare trait in your kind I'd be a fool not to recognise it. But this is something I have to do. There's so much at stake here for all… all the Fragile Creatures. And at the moment only Ruth and I can do something about it. I wish someone else was having to do the business, but that's not the way it is."

Baccharus's stare was still intense. "How does your journey here, in the depths, bear upon your mission?"

The question was curious, the fact that Baccharus was asking it more so. "How did you know I'd be here anyway? Have you been spying on me?"

Baccharus appeared a little taken aback by the question, but not hurt or irri- rated; the emotions of the Tuatha De Danann were so difficult to read he might simply have had no idea what Church was talking about.

Church thought a moment. "The Portunes. Running through the walls. That one was with you when you saved Ruth. So why are you particularly interested in us?"

Baccharus, in his usual honest manner, did not attempt to bat it away. "A long story."

"And when we get back topside you're going to tell me. But right now-"

"You must not continue. The danger is out of control. The Malignos are preparing for something unpleasant. Your fellow Fragile Creature, the one tainted by the Night Walkers-"

"Callow."

"— he has whispered secrets to them, given them guidance. My associates are searching for them now, but they can wrap the night around them."

Something was jangling deep in Church's head. "Your associates? Why isn't Manannan doing something about this if it's such a threat?"

Baccharus didn't answer.

"What's going on here, Baccharus? The five of us, the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, we've been run like rats and had our lives ruined by your people. I'm not having any more of it. I feel like some massive thing has been going on all the time we've been on this ship, but Ruth and I have seen only a tiny part of it. Used when your people feel it suits their needs. Ignored or barely tolerated the rest of the time."

"No." Baccharus's voice was firm. "If you knew the truth, you would not say that."

Church searched his face; something sharply human hung there, something few of the other Golden Ones carried. A faint sound echoed nearby. Church glanced over his shoulder. "This isn't the time. I have to find the Walpurgis."

"I will take you to him."

Church's attention snapped back. "You know where he is?"

"If it will prevent you blundering into the areas of greatest peril, I will accede to your request." He strode out along the branching corridor, then turned right down another branch that Church hadn't noticed. Church was rooted for a second, but then he skipped into step behind the hurrying god.

Church lost track of how many junctions they came up on, and the constant branching made his head spin. When he had set off below deck, the corridor had stretched on and on with no other side route, but Baccharus found a myriad, lurking in shadows, or disguised as hanging drapes. At first Church fired numer ous questions, but when the god refused to answer any of them, Church fell into a steady silence, trying to make some sense of his topsy-turvy thoughts.

Eventually Baccharus came to a halt before a stretch of corridor that was lit more brightly than most of the others. The wall in this area was of wooden timbers, uneven and nondescript. He rested one hand on it, fingers splayed, bowed his head and muttered something under his breath. The wall became like the running water of a waterfall. Baccharus strode through it. Church jumped behind him, expecting to get soaked, but it felt like the overhead hot air heaters some shops treat their customers to on a wet winter's day.

On the other side was a large chamber, comfortably fitted out with thick rugs, heavy tapestries on the polished wood walls, chairs and tables bearing a few half-filled goblets and trays of dried fruit and nuts. Several figures were scattered around. They broke off from what appeared to be intense conversation to stare at him. There were a few members of the Tuatha De Danann Church recognised by sight, but whose names he didn't know, a smattering of Portunes scurrying around like mice, and one or two of the odd figures he had glimpsed at the banquet. At his gaze, these moved back into the shadows where the torches did not reach.

"What's going on here?" he asked suspiciously. His hand moved towards his sword as the half thought entered his head that Baccharus might have led him into a trap.

"We are all friends here." Marik Bocat squatted on the back of a chair, shouting, although his voice sounded barely more than a whisper.

"Then why are you hiding away?"

"The situation is complex," Baccharus said. "Perhaps it is time to unveil it to you." He turned to the others. "This is Jack, Brother of Dragons." All those who had not been introduced to Church before bowed their heads.

"Maybe later." Church walked to the centre of the room and looked around. "First, I want to talk to the Walpurgis."

A fluttering bundle of rags emerged from the gloom at the back of the chamber. Beneath the broad-brimmed hat, the hot coal eyes glowed as intensely as Church recalled. "I am here." His voice was a chill wind over a graveyard.

Church put the confusing scenario to the back of his mind. There were more important subjects. But first he had to know if he was right. "Did you kill Cormorel?"

"He did not," Baccharus interjected.

"I want to hear it from him."

"I do not kill."

Church nodded thoughtfully. "You said you were a Messenger. With a mes sage for me. A message that was very clear." The Walpurgis stared, said nothing. "What is the message?"

"Do you not want your dream examined?"

The Walpurgis was talking about the hidden memory of who had really killed Marianne; the identity of the traitor amongst them. "Yes. More than anything. But first, this."

The Walpurgis came forward, pushing cold air before him that raised the goosebumps on Church's arms. When he was only a few feet away, the tattered creature intoned gravely, "You will find no peace in this world. For some, that is the way it must be."

Church's heart fell. The Walpurgis's words were like a death knell, tolling out his deepest fears.

"But you must not lose hope." The Walpurgis reached out a papery hand. "You must never lose hope. You are part of something much larger than what lies around you. Many will benefit from your sacrifice."

"Do you think that's enough?" The bitterness in Church's voice shocked even himself. He looked around the gathered faces and was unnerved by how they were hanging on his every word. "All the pain I've already had. My girlfriend… my love… the love of my life… murdered. All the grief that followed, beating myself up because I thought she'd committed suicide, that I was responsible. Laura… the young Marianne… all the other ones I've seen die." Ruth's face flashed into his mind, followed by a sharp pang of regret that was almost painful. "And now I can see a way out, some kind of good life ahead for a change, and you're telling me it's not going to happen? No fucking way."

The Walpurgis took another pace with his outstretched hand, oddly comforting now, but Church waved it away.

"I don't want to hear it."

"These things are written, Jack." Baccharus's voice was sympathetic too.

"What do you know about it?"

"You are a Brother of Dragons-"

"Yes, I know my responsibility and I've accepted it. But once I've done all I can do, that's it. No more Fabulous Beasts, no more waking the sleeping king and all that Arthurian shit, no more Blue Fire. I'm getting my life back."

"Then you think you can actually do something? In the face of such overwhelming odds? That a life still awaits you?" Baccharus's words, as always, were calm and measured.

Church turned back to the Walpurgis. "Now. I want to know who killed Marianne."

"There is always something bigger, Jack." Baccharus's voice sounded closer and more intense, although he had not taken a step. "Bigger powers. Bigger plans."

"Show me," Church said harshly to the Walpurgis.

The Walpurgis began to move. Church felt butterflies in his stomach. This was it: the final, bitter revelation. He put his head back, closed his eyes and waited for the Walpurgis to push his fingers into Church's mind.

Something was nagging at him as he waited. Not the silence in the room, so heavy he could almost feel currents flowing through it. Not the way the hairs on the back of his neck were prickling, the way his gut was knotting in dread at what he would discover. He felt his nostrils flaring and that triggered recognition; smell, the least developed of all his senses, the reason why he had not been able to pinpoint Marianne's killer. Smell.

An odour was shifting gently through the room, caught on the subtle movements of air caused by the heat from the torches. The primal part of his brain kicked into gear, generating memories before he had even identified the source: the adrenalin, wild, wild action and then the rush of terror that was so all consuming it could only come from one source. The stinking, zoo-cage smell of them.

"Fomorii." The word was on his lips before the thought had found purchase in his head. It appeared to be a word of power, for in the instant that followed, very many things happened at once: there was a rushing through the chamber like a mighty wind; the smell grew suddenly choking; his eyes snapped open to reveal faces frozen in disbelief; and movement, all around, so rapid his eyes at first couldn't focus on it, like the shadows in the room were breathing.

The Walpurgis was framed in his field of vision, hanging in that single moment like everything else in the room. Church took in the seething red eyes, which glowed brighter, as if fanned by the breeze, the wide-brimmed hat, the tattered black rags of his body. And in the next instant they started to come apart. Scarlet lines were being drawn across the figure. A section across the arm here, across the torso there, underlining the head, pointing up the waist. Spaces appeared between the segments; a hallucinogenic moment filled with fascination. The Walpurgis was falling apart.

He snapped from the moment as if someone had punched him in the face. The room was in turmoil. The occupants dashed here and there searching for an exit as dark shapes moved lethally amongst them. For only the briefest time, Church focused on the remains of the Walpurgis scattered across the floor before him, consumed by the immensity of what had been snatched away from him; wondering how his future life had been changed by that one moment.

And then he was moving instinctively, just as some heavy object whistled past his ear. One of his fellow passengers with tentacles where his face should be lay in chunks under his feet. He skidded on the remains before finding his balance, propelling himself toward the place where he had entered the secret chamber.

The Fomorii were all around, moving so quickly it was impossible for him to estimate how many of them there were.

His thoughts were cut short by a heavy axe that splintered into the wooden wall next to his head. Thinking would be the end of him; he gave himself wholly over to instinct. The chaos of fighting bodies, flashing weapons and striking limbs became a series of frozen instants through which he could dart and dive. All his reactions had improved immeasurably in recent times, more than just learning from experience; it was the Blue Fire, or Destiny, or whatever he wanted to call it. He was changing.

He dodged another Fomorii attack that increasingly appeared to be directed towards him. The Tuatha De Danann were fighting back ferociously. Church slid towards the entrance through a stinking, poisonous grue washing across the floor. But it was a solid wall, and he had no idea what Baccharus had done to make it accessible.

The stink and shadow overwhelmed him before he glimpsed any hint of movement; then he realised an axe was swinging down with such force it would likely cleave him in two. Reacting instantly, his hand was on his sword, whipping it up sharply. The blade just caught the handle of the axe at such an angle that it managed to deflect the strike slightly, but the impact jarred his bones so much he thought his teeth were coming out of his head. He went down on one knee. The Fomor was already raising the axe for the killing blow.

A flashing motion crossed the beast's throat and its thick, stinging blood came gushing out. Church threw himself out of the way at the last moment, watching as it sizzled into the wooden floor.

Baccharus stepped forward as the creature slumped down, wiping a small, sharp blade. "Now, quickly." He made a hand motion and muttered, and the wall became like water.

Church was just about to dive through when a figure burst out of the shimmering wall, knocking him to the ground. Others followed, and in a second he and Baccharus were surrounded. They were not Fomorii, but they were misshapen, lithe and reptilian, with scales and slit eyes. The Malignos, Church guessed. As they huddled around, bending over him with forked tongues darting, he felt so destabilised the only thought in his head was that they smelled like wet grass.

He saw a glint of teeth, sharp talons, and then the circle of them parted and in stepped a maliciously gleeful figure.

"Now we shall find a balance for old wrongs," Callow said sardonically.

The voice sounded like the rustle of brown paper just beyond the window, where only the sea spray lived. Ruth had been dozing intermittently on the bunk, but she woke sharply when the familiar tones insidiously infected her drifting mind with memories of cells and chains and torture. Throwing open the windows to the crashing waves of a burgeoning storm, she frightened the owl, which fluttered upward towards the deck like the ghost of a bird in the gloomy night. Yet its words stayed in her head like a bad taste: "The war has begun."

A tremor ran through her; a premonition, perhaps. She riffled in the chest and came up with a long, thin dagger, ideal for poisonous court intrigue, but little use in any fair fight. But it was easy to secrete upon herself, and she had other weapons for confrontation, locked away in her brain. An insurance policy, nothing else.

Her familiar's warning could have meant nothing at that time, but she thought she ought to discuss it with Baccharus at least. Yet as she made her way to the door she heard an unidentifiable sound without that brought a shiver to her spine. She rocked briefly on the balls of her feet, then hurried back to the bunk, glancing round for somewhere to hide. Not so long ago she would have dismissed her instinct as stupid and childish; now she trusted it implicitly. She realised there was no worthwhile hiding place in the cramped chamber. She flung open the windows again. Beneath her the waves crashed crazily, topped with white surf. The boat dipped and rose sharply. Lightning crackled along the horizon as the storm rushed towards them.

A slim wooden spur ran around the boat, slightly below the level of the window. It was slick with spray, barely wide enough to get a toehold, but an oily rope stretched above from which members of the crew could hang if they needed to make repairs.

Don't be stupid! the rational side of her brain yelled at her. The ship rolled from side to side. You'll be off there in a second. And if she fell into the tossing sea, she would be lost in a moment. No one would even know she was overboard.

She looked back at the door. The strange noises, both rumbling and slithering at the same time, were closing on it. Steeling herself, she launched a leg out of the window, clutching at the rope and swung on to the ledge. With her other foot, she kicked the windows shut.

This is insanity. You really have lost it. But the warnings sounded like the faint, dying voice of the old Ruth, who had been supplanted by someone smarter, braver, more in control.

Outside the comfort of the cabin, the full fury of the night assailed her. The spray lashed against her like ice bullets, while the ship bucked on waves that appeared to grow fiercer the instant she stepped outside. Bracing her feet against the spur, she hung on as if she were about to rappel down the side. Self-preservation took over all thought processes; nothing concerned her beyond the strength of her arms and the intensity of her grip, on which her whole life depended.

Through the smeared panes, she could just make out the golden-suffused interior of the cabin. It looked warm and comforting, and safe.

She leaned over to get a better look and had to fight to prevent herself sliding off the rail. Steadying herself with one hand on the sopping boards, she tried again, just as the door eased open. Through it came a shadow with substance that still made her gorge rise however many times she saw it. The Fomorii were onboard.

After the shock, her initial thought was for Church. She prayed that however the Fomorii had got on, they had focused their attentions on the upper decks where the Tuatha De Danann were, and not surprised Church in the dark below.

The Fomorii swept into the cabin and turned everything over. The smashing and rending should have alerted someone, but when no one came after a full five minutes of destruction, Ruth feared the worst.

Suddenly she thought that they might see her through the window. She pushed herself back a little too animatedly, throwing her careful balance awry; both feet slipped off the rail. For an instant she was like a cartoon character, frantically scrambling for purchase on the side of the boat, her feet kicking over the drop into the waves that clamoured for her.

Her toes slid and slid, and then she dropped. The arm that clung on to the rope took the full force of her weight, jerking her like a puppet. Fiery pain shot through her tendons and muscles into her armpit. Her fingers felt like they were going to snap; they slipped around the rope, barely holding. Wildly, she lurched out with the hand that had been leaning against the boards, missed, tried again, missed.

All she could see was wet wood and spray and the hungry waves below. Her fingers slipped a little more, barely holding on now. An unbearable heat was burning in her knuckles.

Finally her free hand caught hold, but she was still hanging tight against the boards, slamming into them with every roll of the ship. Any second now, she would be knocked off.

Four months ago, it would have been too much of an effort to save herself: too much pain, not enough desire. She would have hung there until her knuckles finally gave way, feeling the skin strip from her fingers as they slid down the rope, and then the long drop into the hard, cold, suffocating depths.

But she was a different person; her suffering at the hands of the Fomorii had seen to that. Somehow, for all the agony, it had brought out the best of her, given her a reason to live beyond all else; a dichotomy too great for her to ponder.

With tremendous willpower, she clamped her fingers tight on the rope. Flexing her muscles, she rocked back and forth, bouncing off the boat, but with a bigger and bigger space between her and the wood until she could bring her feet up to plant them on the side. Then it was only a matter of inching up slowly until she found the rail again.

Finally she could peer through the window to see the cabin was empty. Shaking from the shock, she managed to hook the window open with her foot before swinging in on the rope to land hard on the bunk. It winded her, but she felt exhilarated at her victory over death.

It faded too quickly, to be replaced by that familiar unease. Cautiously, she approached the door. No sound came from beyond except the usual creak of the timbers. How many Fomorii were there on board? And where were they now?

After a moment's reflection, she gripped the dagger tightly, eased open the door and slipped out into the dark corridor.

The mists had a disturbingly cloying texture that felt like wet cotton wool slowly being drawn across the skin. For Veitch, that wasn't the worst thing, although it was unnerving enough. Nor was it the chill that reached deep into his bones, even though the air itself was not particularly cold. It wasn't even the way the mists occasionally cleared to reveal brief glimpses of a terrifying scene, different every time it happened, too quick to ever settle on any detail, but enough for the subconscious mind to know it was shocking. It was the feeling of someone constantly at his shoulder, about to draw icy fingers down his neck, but whenever he turned round, there was nothing but the subdued echoes of his footsteps.

His destabilisation began the moment he stepped into the Grim Lands and discovered the door through which he had passed was no longer there. How would he ever find his way back?

But there were many things to do before he even had to think about getting back, and it was possible he might not have to worry about it at all, so, true to his nature, he simply put it out of his mind.

Occasionally the mists cleared enough to provide a view of the lowering gunmetal sky. Oppressive enough, he also glimpsed black shapes sweeping across it; birds, he guessed, but of a size that made him think of pterodactyls. Perhaps it was their unnerving silence, but there was something immensely threatening about them, although he never saw them in enough detail to decide if they were raptors. But that gave him pause. If he was in the land of the dead, were they dead too? Or did the Grim Lands have its own life? Dead life.

Thinking about it made his head hurt. He wished Tom had given some directions. A Rough Guide of the Grim Lands, with a nice tourist map. Avoid this place, especially after dark. You'll get a good welcome here. And here you'll find Shavi.

But he was on his own, as always. He went for the simplest option: keep walking and something would turn up; then adjust your path accordingly. He just wished that terrible feeling of something at his heels would go away.

The uneven terrain alternated between hard rock and shale. What he could make out of the landscape was featureless, with no markers for his journey there or back. Nor was there anything to judge the passage of time, so it was impossible to tell how soon after he entered the Grim Lands that he heard the noises. At first it was like scratching, as if a dog were trying to claw something out from beneath the shale. This came and went for a while, continuously matching his progress, and then, gradually, it mutated into the sound of footsteps, echoing near at hand, then far away, then disappearing completely. He had to accept there was something out there and it was tracking him.

His hand went to his sword for comfort, though he knew it would be useless in that place. He tried not to get distracted; head down, keep going, a mantra he repeated over and over.

And then, as if they had been commanded, the mists parted and a figure emerged from them. It was a woman, her face blank, her skin a pallid grey, clad in an ankle-length, colourless dress of some harsh material. Long blonde hair hung limply around her face. Her head was held uncomfortably towards one shoulder and she moved awkwardly, as if her limbs were not used to any activity. She paused a few feet away from Veitch, swaying slightly.

"Hello?" he said tentatively. A beat had started to pulse deep in his brain.

Instead of turning her head, she inched her whole body round until she was facing him. He expected to see some kind of terror, some severe intelligence in her eyes, but they were cold and dead and that was even worse. Slowly, she beckoned for him to follow her.

For a second or two, Veitch hesitated as Tom's words briefly tapped a warning: the dead hate the living. They were jealous and bitter. Yet he could see no threat in her, and following her was preferable to wandering aimlessly; any presence, however strange, was a respite from the awful sense of foreboding gathering all around.

"I'm looking for someone." His voice, so vibrant and full of life, sounded jarringly out of place. He modulated it so it sounded less expressive. "A friend."

She turned towards him with those eyes that showed no glimmer of thought, gave nothing away, then shuffled back round silently and continued slowly on her way.

"So, are you ignoring me? Or can you talk? Who knows what the bleedin' rules are in this place?" He eased a little as the minutes passed without event and slowly he warmed to the sound of his voice, like a flame in the deep, dark night. "I hope this isn't a wild goose chase. For all I know, you've got no sense left at all. You're just a shape or something. And I'm acting like a right twat talking to you. No change there, then." He smiled to himself. "This isn't as bad as I thought. The old bastard built it up into some big, bleedin' fright. Thought I'd be fighting for my life the moment I crossed over here. And look at us. Having a nice stroll. Shame about the scenery." He paused thoughtfully. "Still better than Greenwich, though." His chuckle rolled out through the mists, eventually coming back to him distorted into the growl of a wild beast.

They continued until the ground sloped downwards and became littered at first with stones, and then with large boulders. Veitch had to pick his way through them carefully, but the woman moved effortlessly, almost oblivious to the obstacles.

"You really better not be taking me for a ride." He clambered over a rock with lethal-looking fractured edges, as sharp as razors.

Beyond the rocks, passage became even steeper and it was necessary to take a winding route down to avoid careering out of control. Veitch was disturbed to realise his journey was like a distorted analogue of the landscape he had left behind in the real world: the flat summit, the thickly forested rim, the sweeping hillside; instead of lush vegetation there were only dead land and dead people. He wasn't taken with many thoughts of reasoning or perception, but at that moment one came to him that excited him with its novelty. Perhaps all the words-T'ir n'a n'Og, the Grim Lands, and whatever lay beyond-were just like his own world in layout, only altered to fit whatever rules of the place abided. It was a big notion, and there were too many questions building up behind it to consider it for too long, but he felt a remarkable sense of achievement that he had thought it in the first place.

As he made his way down the hillside, the mist cleared a little. What he saw wasn't as disturbing as on the summit, but it still brought troubling questions. At one juncture, he seemed to be looking out over London, only it was transformed by shadows shifting along the streets with a life of their own. Later he saw a Spitfire sweeping across the sky, and then a tribe of fierce men and women in furs and leather.

And in one particularly upsetting moment, he even saw himself, or thought he did, but it was so fleeting he couldn't be sure. Yet in that half moment, he was overcome with a consuming horror. The expression he saw on his face had the look of a man who had peered into the depths of Hell and saw it was even worse than he could possibly imagine; broken, filled with despair, and more, an almost inhuman self-loathing. It made him sick to his stomach at the thought of what that vision meant, but try as he might, he couldn't put it out of his head.

It troubled him enough to lose his common sense briefly. Suddenly overcome by doubt that his guide was taking him no closer to Shavi, he hurried forward and grabbed her arm. He regretted it instantly. The flesh felt as dry and lifeless as sandpaper. At his touch, a tremor ran through the woman and she turned once again to fix that blank gaze on him. Once more he tried to see some meaning in those implacable eyes, but there was only a defiant idiocy there. He retreated quickly and didn't speak to her again for the next half hour.

By then his thoughts had started to move on to more questions about his surroundings. Did all the dead stay in that place? If so, why was it so empty after the long spread of human existence? Or was it like a waiting room before the departed moved on to somewhere else?

"Maybe this is it, just you and me, and everyone else has already passed on," he mused. "The only living boy in the Grim Lands and his dead girlfriend."

"Oh, there are more." He jerked in shock at the sound of her voice, like a file on metal.

"You can talk." All his carefully constructed conceptions were shifting under his feet. His mind raced to get back on track; he was thinking, If she can talk, what else can she do? but by then it was too late.

The remaining mist swept away, although he could not feel any breeze. It was an eerie sight, billowing across the bleak landscape like a reversed film. As it did so, she was turning to face him once again, only this time she was fundamentally changed. Her posture had become more upright, but it was most evident in her eyes, no longer dead, no longer stupid.

He thought: She tricked nze.

The tinge of a cruel smile appeared. "Welcome to the Grey Lands. May you never leave."

She made an expansive gesture. Hesitantly, he turned to look, although every fibre of him was screaming that he didn't want to see.

They were behind him. Dead people, as far as the eye could see, line upon line, column upon column, stretched across the grey stone land beneath the grey sky. Figures leeched of colour, of expression, of body language, bereft of life in all its signifiers. But not bereft of emotion. Although their faces were impassive, he could see it in their hateful eyes. A thousand, thousand unblinking stares radiating darkness, silently roaring that they wanted to tear him limb from limb; to punish him for the crime of living. The planetary weight of their gaze made him feel sick.

As he scanned them slowly, he began to understand. Here were the ones who had not yet moved on, but also the ones who could not move on; those trapped by hatred or fear or shock. He came across the face of Ruth's uncle, whom he had shot down in cold blood, and felt a terrible, crushing guilt. To understand the awful repercussions of the murder had been traumatic enough, but to be faced with the cold, accusing eyes of his victim was infinitely worse. He quickly looked away, knowing he would never forget what he had seen in that face. But there were others he had seen slain during the long, hard days of his youth, when he first started to move with the wrong kind. The ones nearest were unknown to him, but he could still read the harshness of their existence in the lines on their faces, the sour turn of their mouths.

It was a strange, hanging moment of complete silence; he was looking up at a tidal wave the instant before it crashed down. And then they moved.

Veitch launched himself across the rocky ground as the wave broke. In the instant of his turning he had glimpsed them all shifting as one, a single grey beast of hatred and retribution bearing down on him with outstretched arms, wide, staring eyes and silently screaming mouths. A million dead, hunting. If he survived, he knew it was a sight that would haunt him for as long as he lived.

As he passed the treacherous spirit that had guided him to that spot, she spat like a wildcat and lashed out with sharp nails that raked open the side of his face. Without breaking his stride, he cursed and returned the blow with his sword. Her bloodless arm fell to the ground.

The fear and adrenalin took conscious thought from his head. Instinctively he recognised his only hope was to run faster and longer. But could the dead tire? And he had already been pushed to his limits by the Night Rider.

The ground passed in a blur beneath his feet, the featureless, rocky landscape streamed on either side; he was locked into the beat of his heart, the surge of his blood, the pump of his muscles. Through it all he could feel the weight of them pressing at his back, just a hand's-width from him, constantly reaching. One wrong step and they would have him.

And he ran.

The silence was the worst thing. His ears told him there was nothing there, seductively teasing him to stop, but the primal part of him sensed them, responded to them as his ancestors would have done. He had reached the foot of the hill, crossed the first two miles of a flat plain that reached to the horizon. But he was starting to tire. The constant pounding on the hard rock sent spikes of pain from his knees into his groin and a knot had formed in his gut. Fire was creeping out in a web across his lungs.

He slowed, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough. Some fluttering thing brushed the back of his jacket. He propelled himself forward to escape it, but he didn't have the energy to maintain the spurt. When he slowed this time, the touch on his jacket was as sharp as a knife. He pressed forward again. Stars burst across his vision. Winding down, nearly over. A pinching sensation seared his shoulder like red hot pokers. The hairs on the back of his neck were prickling from nearly contact.

He would never give up. Death or glory.

The rock fell away beneath his feet. For one frightening moment he was pedalling thin air, and then he reconnected with the ground hard, skidding on his heels down a pebbled scree slope, windmilling his arms to maintain his balance. Dark walls rushed up around him and shadows clustered far below. A fissure of some kind, invisible until he was upon it.

Gravity dragged him faster, barely able to keep his balance. A boulder leapt out of nowhere, but he had no control of his momentum to avoid it. He clipped it and did a forward roll in the air, crashing down on to the stones and shale, twenty knives in his back, ripping his flesh. Faster and faster, the shadows looming up, impossible to tell what dangers they hid. His head slammed against the rocks and he lost consciousness for the briefest instant. He awakened to realise the sucking shadows were close at hand. The force propelled him over a rock ledge into the heart of them.

He awoke in so much pain he was convinced something bad was broken. Blood slicked his clothes from a deep gash on his head and numerous other cuts across his body. He wiped a puddle from his eye and loosed the splatter with a flick of his wrist. Cautiously, he tested his limbs. Apart from a searing pain in his ribs, he appeared in one piece; he guessed that was probably bad bruising rather than a break.

After the initial stupefaction, he came to awareness sharply, jumping to his feet to flee his pursuers. He was alone on a flat stone floor. High overhead he could see a sliver of grey sky and, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, the shapes of the dead moving down the walls of the fissure towards him.

Exhausted and brittle from the pain, he headed along the floor of the fissure into the dark.

It continued much further than he imagined. At the far end he found stone that had definitely been worked into blocks. It formed a doorway around a black hole leading into the ground. With the relentless grey shapes drawing in on him, he had no choice: he dived in.

Inside he was surprised to find more worked stone lining the walls, floor and ceiling. He had no idea who was responsible-surely not the dead-but it gave him hope it might lead to a way out. Fumbling for the matches he always carried in his pocket, he struck one and saw the walls were covered with primitive paintings, inexplicable in design but which resonated uneasily with him. The match also illuminated a dead torch. It was dry as a bone and lit quickly.

Glancing back, he could just make out hints of movement at the other end of the fissure. There was no time to proceed with caution. His footsteps bounced off the walls of the tunnel as he ran.

After five minutes the tunnel led into an enormous room that must have been carved from the bedrock and then lined with stone blocks. The ceiling was lost in the shadows far beyond the reach of his torch. The effort that must have gone into its construction stunned him: the wall paintings were now the size of three men, and there were carved effigies all around, squat, misshapen figures with no human characteristics, and tall, spindly forms that loomed over him like grotesque children's doodles. He couldn't help slowing to a walk to mask the echoes of his feet; suddenly he didn't want to make any sound that would bring attention to him. The scale of the place suggested no human sensibilities, nor did the jarring lines of the alien and unsettling architecture. It reminded him of a temple. Did the dead have their own gods? Did they pray for relief from the bitterness of their grey reality?

The grey shapes were again visible where he had entered the cavernous chamber. He hurried on, hoping he hadn't taken himself into a cul-de-sac.

But the more he progressed into that place, the more he felt an oppressive dread, even worse than the feeling when he had first entered the Grim Lands. Something was out there, lurking in the shadows, perhaps, or even further afield: just beyond the spiderweb veil that separated the worlds. Close enough to reach out and swallow him whole.

Do the dead have their own gods?

He couldn't shake the question from his head.

Before he could consider skirting the perimeter in search of an exit, he found himself at a slightly raised area. At the centre of it was a short column on which stood a foot-high egg, its surface swirling with shades of sapphire and emerald. The moment he laid eyes on it, a part of him told him to avoid it, keep moving by. But there was something hypnotic about the thing that sapped his natural caution. He took a step on to the dais and realised obliquely it was even more than that: the egg was actively blanketing his fears to draw him in; he could feel it tinkering on the edge of his consciousness. The time when he could have ignored it had already past, and so he found himself approaching the column with trepidation.

Three feet from the egg he passed through some invisible boundary. The air wavered briefly and then he was inside a bubble where everything was greentinged, the chamber beyond unreal, all sounds muffled. The egg was pulsing slightly, although it was certainly not alive in any true meaning of that word.

Tentatively, he reached out. The air itself gathered a charge, humming like an electricity pylon. A second later he felt a dull jolt and the bubble transformed. He was in the centre of a three-dimensional view, so real he might as well have been amongst the ruins of Urquhart Castle on the banks of Loch Ness, looking down at himself being charged by the Questing Beast. The detail left no doubt that it was a true view, across time and space. Had it been plucked from his mind, he wondered? And if so, why that moment? He had a vague answer to that: it was the moment when he felt he had really, truly failed, not only everyone else, but also himself.

The repercussions of what he was seeing began to worm its way through his mind. On a hunch, he thought of Ruth and what she was doing at that moment. The 3-D view shifted and he was on the rolling deck of a boat in the middle of a nighttime storm. The rain was flying horizontally, the sails flapping so wildly it was almost deafening. A figure crept in the shadow of the raised cover to the hold, its long hair flattened to its head and back. As he watched, Ruth looked around, her face grimly determined. The first thing Veitch noticed was how much her features had changed in the short time they had been apart. A hardness made her appear, if not a little older, then certainly more mature; some of the innocence that softened her features had gone.

Seeing her brought a damp wave of emotion inside him, but in an odd way it invigorated him too; here was all the motivation he needed. Focusing his mind, he pushed Ruth out of it and thought of Shavi.

There was only the briefest period of transition before the image around him showed a strange, hopeless landscape of yellowing grass and twisted, leafless trees. Shavi sat on a stone box of some kind, staring deeply towards the horizon. Witch couldn't tell if there was anything wrong with him or if he was simply lost in thought.

"That's a start," he muttered. "Now show me how I get to him."

He was now looking down on himself standing at the egg, only the shadows all around had cleared to reveal several tunnels leading off. The angle of his view highlighted one directly ahead.

Cautiously he walked backwards until he stepped out of the bubble with a faint pop. Away from the magical cocoon, he felt suddenly exposed and hurried towards the tunnel, pausing at the threshold to look back. Curiously, the dead did not appear to have pursued him; he would have expected some of them to have arrived by that time. Something else was in the chamber, though far away. He could hear the dim echoes of the movement of an enormous shape. With an involuntary shudder, he hurried along the tunnel.

Laura lit a small fire in the corner of the warehouse while the Bone Inspector foraged for food. The last time he came back with cans for just the one meal. She berated him enough that he wouldn't make the mistake again, stressing that a choice between meatballs resembling glutinous chunks of mud and fatty steak pie filling was really no choice at all.

In the cavernous warehouse, the fire provided little warmth, particularly at night when the chill radiated up out of the concrete floor. For some reason she felt the cold more than she ever had.

She pulled the packing crate closer so she was almost on top of the flames and rubbed her hands together. She found it amazing she still hadn't given in to despair. The Fomorii now appeared to be everywhere in the city. They'd climbed up into the roof of the building to peer through broken slates across the capital. There were swarming black shapes as far as the eye could see. The sheer volume was sickening, drawing on the basic human revulsion for anything insectile. At times they would disappear to some lair, possibly beneath the ground, in an eerie, silent exodus. The Bone Inspector had suggested fleeing through the deserted streets at that time, but the beasts were never gone for long and the thought of being trapped as they swarmed out of the sewers filled Laura with dread.

In the firelight, her skin looked even greener. Earlier she had cut her wrist on a rusty nail. The blood-green blood-had flowed freely for a second before performing a startling u-turn on the back of her hand, returning to the wound, where it proceeded to seal it as if it had never been there.

The Bone Inspector had stared in amazement, but nothing shocked her any more. She'd died and come back; after that anything paled into insignificance.

She was a freak in a world that no longer made any sense. What was the point in considering it for even an instant? Instead, her thoughts were for the others: Church, of course, Shavi, Ruth, Tom, even Veitch. She missed them in a way she never thought she'd miss anyone. More than anything, she wanted to be sitting round a roaring campfire in the cold night, laughing, teasing, mocking; the company of good friends made life right.

The army of Fomorii on every side told her it would probably never happen. Samhain was coming up hard, the world was going to hell, and they were scattered God knows where.

She wondered what was to become of her; what was to become of all of them.

The rope bit roughly into Church's wrists and his joints ached from having his arms dragged so tightly behind him. He'd been in this position before, looking up at a sneering Callow pacing maniacally and triumphantly back and forth, and it had made him sick to his stomach then; of course, on that occasion Callow hadn't looked like someone had injected printer's ink into his veins. Now his nightmarish appearance made the situation even worse, as if Church had found his way into a Goya painting.

The Malignos kept to the shadows-they'd extinguished several torches to feel more comfortable-and the Fomorii were now nowhere to be seen. Baccharus was next to him, bound just as tightly, but the rest of the room's occupants had been dragged somewhere else, out of sight, possibly out of the chamber.

It was obvious what his own eventual fate would be, but Callow was determined to get some kind of payback for the suffering that had been heaped upon him; agonies which he blamed on Church and the others, but which had come only from his own will.

"These are the ways we live our life," Callow was saying, not making much sense any more. "In fear of this and in fear of that, never quite knowing the wherewithal and the whywithal. It makes us broken, like dogs in the yard. But you wouldn't know about that, would you?" He turned and spat in Church's direction, the lamps of his lidless eyes bright and terrible.

"Take a stress pill, Callow." It was childish, but Church couldn't resist it, even knowing the reaction he would get.

Callow hovered for a long moment, then threw himself forward wildly to swing a vicious kick into Church's gut, as if he were planting a football the length of the pitch. Church snapped shut, retching, before two of the Malignos ran forward to haul him back up. The pain was so acute he cursed his stupidity, fearing something had ruptured and his stomach was now filling up with blood.

"Violence is unnecessary," Baccharus interjected gently. "You fail to see we have a common enemy."

"Oh, you're so superior," Callow mocked in a pathetic singsong voice. "I have no friends, I have no enemies. That makes it easy to understand how things work. No surprises." He bent down until his face was inches from Church's, the rotten meat reek of his breath blooming, his features hideously distorted by the tear blur in Church's eyes. "You and your filthy little followers destroyed everything. I had plans for my life. I had a way out of the misery of my existence. Unlike you and your favoured brood, there have been no opportunities in my life. No pleasant acts of chance that lead me on to the sunlit uplands. It has been hard toil and suffering. And when I found a way out of that, you spoiled it for me."

"Quisling," Church said through gritted teeth. "You tried to sell out all of humanity just to get some grubby little advantage for yourself."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Callow jumped back, his eyes rolling like a madman. "Life is brutal and short and we need to take what we can to make ourselves comfortable before the jaws of night close around us forever."

"Fine. As long as no one else gets hurt in the process."

"Oh, why qualify it? Will it matter you made a few people cry when the worms are crawling in and the worms are crawling out?"

"Look at yourself, Callow. Where's your self-analysis?" The sharp pain had turned to a dull throbbing. "Has that philosophy worked for you? At all?"

"There is only hope," Baccharus interjected, "if you look beyond your petty concerns, to the needs of your fellow Fragile Creatures, to the needs of all things of existence. Everything is-"

"You should not preach goodwill to your fellow man." Callow danced around him, but couldn't bring himself to strike out.

"So you've teemed up with those things now?" Church nodded towards the Malignos. "Are they the only ones left who'll have you?"

"The Malignos recognise the opportunities for personal gain in any situation. They always loved their hoards of gold. And their human flesh, of course."

"But you're helping the Fomorii again, after all they've done to you!"

"I may not be able to forgive, dear boy, but I am incisive enough not to antagonise the eventual winners."

Church snorted bitter laughter. "You think they're going to take over like any other invader? They're going to wipe out everything, you mad bastard! They're not interested in gold, or any other creature comforts." He laughed again at the stupid pun. "They're driven by the need to eradicate all of existence. They're a force of nature. A hurricane-"

"Oh, well, you've won me over. Of course I'll help you," Callow mocked.

He wandered over to converse with the Malignos. Church seized the opportunity to talk to Baccharus. "How did the Fomorii manage to get on board the ship without anyone knowing? I thought it was completely under Manannan's control?"

"The power of the Heart of Shadows is growing. The Night Walkers can achieve things they never would have been able to do before."

"Do you think this might actually motivate your people to do something about it?" Church asked acidly.

"It may already be too late for that."

"What do you mean?"

"If the Night Walkers can strike at the heart of Wave Sweeper, they can strike anywhere. They might have already launched their assault on the Court of High Regard."

"If only you'd done something before." Church caught the negativity before it spread. "The first thing we have to do is get out of here." He looked over at Callow, who was performing a mad little dance around the Malignos. "Before that bastard slits my throat. Or worse."

"Then you are fortunate to have friends in low places."

The voice was barely audible, but Church recognised it instantly. It felt as if a mouse was scurrying around his hands. Marik Bocat was hard at work severing his bonds with a tiny implement that occasionally pricked his flesh. A surge of hope rose in his chest, but he kept it from reaching his face.

After a few moments, Callow returned, loping like a wolf. "The arrangements have been made." His eyes slithered from side to side while he rubbed his hands oleaginously. "Once this filthy little skiff has fallen, then it's the turn of your happy little palace of dreams."

Church felt Baccharus stiffen beside him at the news that the Fomorii had not yet moved on the High Court of the Tuatha De Danann. Still hope. Always hope. "What now, Callow?" he said. "Is this where you get your kicks?"

Callow slipped his hand into his threadbare jacket and pulled out a knife whose blade was smeared with dried, brown blood. Church tried not to look at it, but he knew it was the blood of his friends. Callow weighed it in his hand, smiled.

His bonds gave suddenly. He kept his face emotionless, his arm muscles taut. Pace yourself, he thought. Wait until he bends forward. His eyes flickered towards the Malignos; they were too far away to stop him if he was quick enough.

Callow struck like a snake. Church didn't even see the blow, but he felt his forehead rip open and hot blood bubble down into his eyes. He cursed, threw his head back, but Callow, in his crazed state, was sweeping in with eager blows. Church dodged one, but another took his cheek open. The next one might hit his jugular.

He threw himself forward at the same time as did Baccharus, whose own bonds had been sliced. They piled into Callow, who folded up like a sheet on a line, and then their impetus carried him with them as they drove towards the door. The Malignos exploded into a frenzied activity of snapping jaws and flashing limbs. One of their talons caught Church's other cheek and it burst open as cleanly as if it had been sliced with Callow's knife. Their speed was frightening. With reptilian sinuousness they had swept round to attack Church's and Baccharus's exposed backs, but by that time the two of them had reached the door. Baccharus shouted a word, twisted his left hand and the wall shimmered into the waterfall.

They rolled into the corridor with Callow screaming before them, his face contorted with rage. Church silenced him with a sharp headbutt; not wholly necessary, but it made him feel good. Then he grabbed Callow by the collar and hurled him into the path of the approaching Malignos. They fell backwards in time for Baccharus to seal the door.

"That will not keep them for long," he said.

"Doesn't matter." Church fingered the sword that Callow, in his arrogance had failed to remove. "We need to raise the alarm-"

The words died in his throat as the ship came to a sudden, lurching stop. Baccharus's expression told him all he needed to know. The Fomorii had seized control.