Always Forever

Chapter Six

The waters were unnaturally calm as Wave Sweeper sailed in, leaving barely a ripple in its passing. Insects skimmed the surface of the ocean in the heavy heat, buzzing noisily. An unpleasant smell of stagnancy hung over everything, but it was the stillness that unnerved everyone the most. There was a feeling of death in the air.

As Wave Sweeper closed on the land, Church was surprised to see it was not one single mass, but an archipelago, the strangest one he had ever seen. Numerous small islands protruded from the sea like fingers pointing at the sky, rising precipitously to dizzying summits, many looking like they could barely support their own weight. They were gnarled with rocky outcroppings and fledged with twisted trees and tenacious bushes. Stone buildings perched on the top of the island towers, occasionally obscured by drifting plumes of cloud. However, on the loftiest, most twisted, most precarious island stood a grand castle of bronze and glass, the walls afire in the dazzling sunlight. Its enormous bulk atop the slim column was in direct opposition to any natural laws on Earth. But this was Otherworld.

Manannan's order to drop anchor drew the crew out of their trance. Church noticed Ruth had appeared beside Taranis, who was observing the peaks of the island through his telescope, his face as hard as the stone of the cliffs.

"What's wrong?" Church slipped in quietly beside them.

Taranis looked at him as if an insect had chirped in his ear. "There has been no greeting," he said distractedly, returning his attention to his telescope.

Church eyed Ruth, her face uncommonly tired and drawn, but she shrugged noncommittally. "Who were you expecting to greet you?" Church pressed.

Taranis sighed. "In the Fixed Lands she was known as Hellawes. She foolishly grew too close to Fragile Creatures during her travels and became afflicted with the weariness of existence. She retired here, to her island home, though whether she truly recovered, none know. Still, she provided a welcome for travellers. It was the Master's wish to dine at her table."

Church followed the angle of the telescope to the castle that appeared to be floating on the clouds that drifted beneath it. "Maybe she doesn't know we're here."

Taranis snorted; it was obvious he was not going to give them any more of his time. Ruth caught Church's arm and led him away, eager to tell him what she knew of home.

"The Fomorii are already moving out across the country?"

"It won't be long before they're everywhere." Ruth shivered at the memory of what she had seen.

Church's shoulders were knotted with tension. He watched the crew preparing the landing boat. It had an oddly shaped prow that curled up and over the rowers. "Being here makes you feel detached from it all, even when it's buzzing away at the back of your head. I needed a slap like that to focus my mind."

"I wish we could just get to where we're going." She hugged herself, despite the heat.

He saw Baccharus and Niamh lining up to join the small band ready to go ashore. "Maybe we can gee them along."

He led her over to the boat as it was hoisted up above the level of the rail ready for the crew to climb aboard. Church pulled Baccharus to one side. "We'd like to join you. All of this is new to us. We want to experience-"

"Of course."

Church was taken aback by the speed of Baccharus's agreement, but he wasn't about to question it. He quickly climbed aboard, with Ruth behind him. Niamh was already seated at the aft. She gave him a warm, secret smile, hidden from the crew who silently filled the seats. Church was curious to see that they all wore the gold and ivory armour of the warrior caste.

Ruth echoed his thoughts. "They're expecting trouble," she whispered.

Even though her words were barely audible, Baccharus picked up on them. "The greeting is always issued," he said ominously, his darkly golden eyes flickering towards the lofty castle.

The oarsmen propelled them across the flat sea with powerful, seasoned strokes. Church had the oddest impression they were skimming the surface of a mirror, so disturbingly smooth was the water. Even around the base of the rocky islands there was only the slightest swell and no breakers. It was as if the ocean itself was holding its breath.

Ruth was driven to cover her mouth to block out the choking stagnant odours. Church passed the time swatting away the alien insects, some of which were like meat flies that had grown as big as his fist, others like minute, jewelled dragonflies, sparkling as they whizzed by.

At the base of the island was a tiny jetty. Once the boat had been made secure with a thick rope, they clambered out. There was barely room for them all to stand, so they progressed one at a time along an uneven path that wound upwards around the island. It was just wide enough for one person and dangerously precarious the higher they climbed. On the outer edge it was badly eroded by the elements; one wrong foot would have sent them plummeting into the waves or on to the protruding rocks. Church and Ruth held their breath as they fixed their gaze on the next step, but Baccharus and the other Tuatha lle Danann climbed nonchalantly, oblivious to the drop.

The higher they rose above the flat, green sea, the harder it became to avoid feelings of vertigo. For distraction, Church found himself focusing on the wiry grass and diminutive yellow and white flowers that thrived in pockets on the rock face. His fingers gripped the stone until the joints hurt; behind him he could hear Ruth's laboured breath.

They climbed for almost an hour, until their thigh and calf muscles were fiery. Near the top, the buffeting wind threatened to snatch them off their uneasy perch so that even the Tuatha lle Danann had to face the rock and edge around the path.

Finally they passed through cloud to reach the flat summit and an area the size of a tennis court leading to the castle's imposing gates. That close it was even harder to understand how the place had come to be built in that almost inaccessible position; how it continued to survive there. The bronze and opaque glass walls rose up high above their heads, too bright to look at in the seething sunlight. Windows looked out on every vista, but they were all too dark to see within. It was unpleasantly quiet.

"Maybe she's not in," Ruth muttered.

"The mistress of this place never leaves its walls." Baccharus looked up to the battlements, as impassive as ever, but troubled.

At the castle gate they considered their actions. "A knock," Church suggested.

Baccharus agreed. "Cover your ears," he said to Church and Ruth. They looked at each other curiously. "Sound has power. Mere words, or the sound they make, can alter existence. You know that?" He read their faces, then nodded in approval before continuing; Church and Ruth both felt like children being guided by a knowledgeable parent. "The reverberations from the striking of this door will send all Fragile Creatures into a deep sleep, for-" he struggled with the mortal concept "-a long time."

"How many Fragile Creatures do you get up here?" Ruth asked.

Baccharus returned his attention to the door. "It is the way it is."

Church and Ruth covered their ears, but even through their hands they could feel the strange vibrations of the struck door driving like needles into their heads, making them queasy at first, then drowsy. Baccharus shook them both roughly to keep them awake.

They waited for long minutes after they had announced their arrival, but all they could hear was the wind blowing around the castle walls, sounding at times like plaintive human voices.

Niamh, who had the position of superiority in the group, stepped forwards. "We enter."

Two of the guards put their shoulders to the gates, but they swung open easily, as if they could have been moved with the touch of only a finger. Beyond was a breathtaking hall soaring up to a glass roof that made the interior as bright and hot as a greenhouse. Within, they were assailed by numerous sensations. The breeze moved the most melodic chimes hanging in enormous trees that grew mysteriously out of the tiled floor, their tops almost brushing the roof. A white waterfall gushed down from an opening halfway up one wall, splashing in a cool pool that emptied out through a culvert in the floor. The smells were as complex and heady as any they had experienced in T'ir n'a n'Og. Church picked up lime, honeysuckle, rose and cinnamon before he gave up.

"It's beautiful." Ruth was overcome by the sheer wonder after the air of threat without.

"It is the mistress's palace. Her sanctuary," Niamh noted. "She loved the Fixed Lands and wished to bring her memories of that place to life here." She paused thoughtfully before adding, "She loved a Fragile Creature-"

"Well, there's no future in that, is there?" Ruth ignored Niamh's pointed stare.

"And she retired here to nurse her broken heart?" Church asked. Niamh replied with a sad smile.

They pressed on through the hall into a maze of rooms decorated in different earthly styles: mediaeval, Celtic, Mexican, Japanese, Native American. Yet each felt as if an unpleasant presence had been in it only moments before, although there was no visible sign of recent occupation. Even the usually stoic Tuatha De Danann appeared uneasy.

Occasionally Church and Ruth glimpsed flitting grey shapes on the edge of their field of vision, accompanied by barely audible but insistent whispering, and a growing anxiety. Sometimes they caught sight of faces, most of them unknown, but one or two that were almost recognisable.

"Can you see them?" Ruth hissed after they had passed through a room where the shapes swarmed at their backs, disappearing the moment they turned round.

"They are the spirits of the dead," Baccharus interjected. "You will encounter them throughout the Western Isles."

"Ghosts?" Church moved his head sharply to try to bring one of the figures to the centre of his vision, without much luck. "Real ghosts?"

"Some of the dead are drawn here, Fragile Creatures with a yearning nature, unsettled, troubled. It has always been that way. The Western Isles are a destination for those of a questing nature." The figures kept well away from Baccharus as he spoke.

"Are they dangerous?" Ruth asked.

Baccharus chose his words carefully. "They can be. The dead bring their dark emotions with them. Many are fuelled by bitterness, resentful of those still living. Beware of them and their whispered words. They will wish to lure you to your doom."

A chill turned Church's skin to gooseflesh. Another face he half thought he knew. Ruth gripped his hand in hers, fixing her attention on the path ahead.

The layout of the castle was incomprehensible; they trailed from room to room without encountering anyone, constantly sensing a passing presence, always one step ahead.

"Maybe we should head back to the ship," Ruth said. "She's obviously not here."

"But she should be here," Baccharus said. "She may be in need of assistance."

"I thought you Golden Ones rarely helped each other," Church said.

"We are not all the same." It was a passing comment, but Church caught the briefest glimpse of something in Baccharus's face that gave him pause.

Before he had time to consider it further, one of the guards said curtly, "In the next chamber," although it was impossible to tell how he could know when the door was closed.

As one, the guards drew long golden swords from hidden pockets in their armour. They approached the door cautiously. Church's blood was pulsing loudly in his head; now he could also sense something, and although he couldn't pinpoint it, it set his nerves on edge. In the room. He saw Ruth could feel it too. Her warning hand fell on his forearm, urging him back.

Niamh made a sign to the captain and the door was thrust open. The guards surged through, with Church so close behind, he ran into them when they came to a premature halt. They were so still Church first thought they were the victims of some enchantment until he realised they were staring at the corner of the room. He eased his way through until he had a better view.

The remains of a woman were slumped over a divan, her body breaking up just as Cormorel's had done on the point of death. Her body had been torn apart from neck to crotch. There was nothing anyone could do for her: the flight of golden moths had dwindled to a handful fluttering up intermittently to the ceiling, where they passed through it like wisps of light. Church guessed it was Hellawes.

Niamh thrust past him and dropped to her knees in front of the divan, an unnerving keening sound of grief emanating from her. She kneaded her hands together, dipped and raised her head, barely able to comprehend what she was seeing. Baccharus looked away, sickened.

"Cormorel's murderer-" Church began.

"No." Baccharus eyed him forcefully. "This crime was not committed by the same."

"Who would want to kill a woman who lived like a hermit?" Ruth said.

The guards slowly moved backwards until they had formed a circle, swords ready to repel an attack from any direction.

"Remember: the mistress of this place was a Golden One," Baccharus cautioned. "To do this to her takes tremendous power, or specific knowledge." The words caught in his throat and he raised the back of his hand to his mouth in disgust, unable to hide his feelings any longer.

"Who committed this crime?" Niamh wailed.

The nerves along Church's spine suddenly sparked. "Something's coming," he said hoarsely, feeling it acutely as he spoke.

Ruth looked up at him curiously. "I don't sense anything."

His left arm began to tremble uncontrollably. He gripped it at the wrist to steady himself. "You haven't got a cocktail of alien shit in your blood," he said hoarsely. He half stumbled; Ruth caught him. "Fomorii," he wheezed. The taint of the Kiss of Frost was responding to the presence nearby.

The guards glanced at him, concerned, then at Niamh for guidance. "Listen to him," she ordered. "He is a Brother of Dragons. He understands the Night Walkers." She hurried behind their line of swords as the group began to back out the way they had come.

Before they were halfway across the next room, a guard's head split open. The blow had come so quickly no one had seen it. The Fomorii were all around them. To Church, they appeared to rise from the floor and drop from the ceiling, oil black and filled with malevolence, armed with the cruel serrated swords. His stomach knotted at the waves of evil washing off them. The air was filled with an animal stink, the walls ringing with the echoes of their shrieks and grunts. He still couldn't bear to look them in the face, so all he got were fleeting impressions: darkness and shadows, moving fast, shapes continually changing, horns and bony plates, sharp teeth, ridges and staring eyes. But most of all, power.

The Tuatha lle Danann responded with force. Their swords were a whirling golden blur, and while they had appeared delicate before, now they carved easily through any Formor who came close enough. The ferocity of the attack had obviously shocked the gods; more, the simple fact that the Fomorii had attacked at all. In their arrogance they had presumed the Fomorii would leave them alone out of fear. Now their very existence was at risk.

"What the hell are they doing here?" Church wished he had some kind of weapon to join in the fray, but the guards had formed an impenetrable wall between him and the Fomorii.

"It doesn't make sense." Ruth was preoccupied, trying to find a space to concentrate so she could use some aspect of her craft, but in the melee it was impossible.

Another guard fell, split almost in two. Church saw none of the golden moths, so he couldn't tell if the victim was dead or not; there were still so many unknowns about the Tuatha De Danann, but there was no time to dwell on the puzzle. The Fomorii surged all around, black water shifting and changing, striking with venom, desperate to prevent the gods leaving the building. Church couldn't tell how many there were-a handful; a raiding party-but there were enough.

As they inched backwards through the next room, it became clear the Tuatha lle Danann were prepared to respond with equal ferocity. Church had always seen the Fomorii as bestial and the Golden Ones as aloof and refined, but the guards hacked and slashed with a brutality that matched their historic enemies.

The Fomorii had one thing in their favour: a complete lack of selfpreservation. Insectlike, they swarmed forward, attempting to overcome the guards with the sheer weight of their bodies. The floor was slick with the foul, acidic grue that spilled from the dead Fomorii. The guards slipped, then righted themselves, tripped over severed limbs, fought as hard to keep their balance as they did to repel the enemy; and still the Fomorii drove on.

The Tuatha lle Danann paused at the threshold of the next door, blocking the Fomorii from circling behind them. The guards were an impenetrable wall, shoulder to shoulder as they lashed out, but the captain found a second or two to shout back, "We shall hold them off. Go with speed."

Niamh gave a faint, deferential bow. "Your sacrifice will not go unmarked."

Baccharus stepped through the door into the next chamber with Niamh close behind. She had gone only a few steps when she checked behind to ensure Church was following. "Come," she mouthed.

"Don't wait for us," Church yelled above the rising cacophony as the Fomorii saw what was happening.

Baccharus and Niamh were astonishingly fleet-another ability they shared with the Fomorii-and soon they had outpaced Church and Ruth.

"What are the Fomorii doing here?" Ruth gasped as they sprinted through chamber upon chamber, trying to piece together their route back to the entrance hall. The grey shapes that dogged their route had grown frantic, shrieking silently on the periphery of their vision.

"It doesn't make sense. They should be preoccupied with our world before getting mired in a potential war with the Tuatha De Danann."

They paused at a junction of corridors, peering up and down in desperation. From behind came an eruption of noise: the Fomorii had broken through the guards and were in pursuit. Church swore under his breath, selected a path and set off.

It wasn't long before they realised it had been the wrong choice. They were soon passing through chambers and corridors they didn't recognise, swathed in dark colours, deep carpets, black wood, purple drapes. The noises of pursuit were drawing closer; it was as if all the cages of a zoo had been opened at once.

"We're getting nowhere! They'll be on us in a second!" Ruth snapped, exhausted.

Church skidded to a halt next to a window crisscrossed with lead flashing. The glass was of a type that let light in while preventing any view out. When the catch wouldn't open, he searched around anxiously until he found a small stool, which he heaved through it. Smashing away the remaining shards with his elbow, he leaned out. They were about twenty feet above the main gate.

The animal noises were about two chambers away. With an effort he tore down one of the luxurious drapes and threw one end out of the window. "Climb down," he barked, bracing himself against the wall.

"What about you?"

"I'll be able to hang, then drop after you. If you get a bloody move on!"

She reflected for only a second and then clambered out of the window, lowering herself as quickly as she could down the heavy cloth. Church grunted as he took her weight. She dropped the final few feet to the ground, then beckoned anxiously for him to follow.

The cold hit him in a wave, frosting his skin with tracings of white. He sucked in a deep breath of air and his lungs were seared. Winter had stormed into the chamber. Shaking so much he could barely control his limbs, he turned to look towards the doorway. The Fomorii were surging through the next room, a black river sprouting limbs and fangs. One had separated from the mass and was gesturing towards him with strange movements that occasionally vibrated so fast he couldn't see them. More cold hit him with the force of a truck. His fingers contorted into talons; there was ice in his hair. He knew some of the Fomorii had control over temperature, but he had never experienced it himself. It was unbearable; his body was telling him to sink to the floor and seek respite in sleep. That was where warmth lay. Another shiver made his teeth rattle.

"Church!" Ruth's plaintive cry shocked him alert. A wave of darkness was sweeping towards him, rising up, ready to strike. No time to climb out; his limbs could scarcely respond anyway. Somehow he found the strength to shift his body weight, and then he was toppling out of the window, the air rushing past him, the cold dissipating as quickly as it had come.

He heard Ruth scream and then he hit the ground hard. There was a sickening crack and pain shot through his leg into the pit of his stomach. It was too much; he blacked out.

He came round only moments later to find Ruth shaking him, her eyes filled with tears. Pain filled his body. He looked down to where the worst of it writhed like a nest of snakes and saw a white bloody bone bursting from midway down his shin; another joint where one had not existed before. The sight almost made him black out again.

Ruth shook him harder. "Church! You can't stay here!"

Above him he saw insectile swarming at the window. There was some kind of disturbance; he guessed the last of the Tuatha De Danann were making a final stand. At least it would hold up the Fomorii for a little longer. "You'll have to help me." Every word was like a hot coal in his throat.

He didn't know how he got on to his good leg, but then he was hopping like crazy, one arm round Ruth's shoulders, trying to stay conscious when spikes were being rammed through his body. With his head spinning and the sea and sky becoming one, they reached the top of the vertiginous stairs. He felt Ruth's tension through her arm, knew exactly what she was thinking: they would never make it down the stairs together, there wasn't enough room, they had to go one at a time.

"You go first," he gasped.

"Don't talk so beered up." She tried to ease him ahead of her, but he grabbed her and shoved her down the first few steps. She cursed, then said, "I'll help you. Give me your hand."

"No. I can do it. Go on. Go on!" He could hear the Fomorii at the gate, only seconds away. He clung to the rock face and began to hop down a step at a time. It was easier going down, until he made the mistake of steadying himself with his broken leg and felt pain like he had never before experienced. Somehow he kept going. He found a rhythm that kept him moving quickly, focusing on Ruth's pale, concerned face so that he didn't overbalance. How he did it, he had no idea; it was all down to his subconscious.

Through the pain he could hear the Fomorii just a few steps behind him. At least the path was so narrow they were also forced to advance cautiously, but he couldn't afford to slow up for even a second.

"Not far now, Church," Ruth shouted encouragingly. "Halfway down. More than halfway."

His lungs and muscles burned from the exertion. He glimpsed the sky, brilliant blue through the clouds, the sea, a queasy green; spinning, merging.

"Church! Keep going! Concentrate!"

He looked back, saw something black snaking around the rock face towards him, attempted to push himself away from it, realised that with his damaged leg he had no sense of balance whatsoever. And then he was moving away from the rock, reaching out frantically for the dry grass, feeling it burn through his fingers. And then he was toppling backwards, over the edge, scrabbling for purchase, but he had only one good heel and that was not enough. Ruth was screaming and the air was thick with beast smell and jubilant shrieking. And he was falling.

The world rushed by. He hit the water hard, gulping in a massive mouthful of salty, sickeningly pungent liquid that felt more like oil. His precarious consciousness fled once again, but the cold shocked him awake when he was several feet beneath the surface, wrapped in bubbles, feeling the sea flood his nose and ears. Panic washed him in its wake and he tried to strike out for the surface, but he was hampered by his leg, and anyway, he couldn't tell which way was up. The Otherworld sensations were too potent, the smell of the water too strong, the feel too greasy. His mind fizzed in protest. He was drowning, sweeping down towards the dark water below. And that wasn't all. Whatever thinking part of him remained alert had caught sight of movement in the water, heading towards him. Something as big as a car, with fins and trailing tentacles, undulating with the speed of a torpedo, a large black maw opening and closing in hungry anticipation. Beyond it, other terrible shapes darted in the green depths, smelling blood, sensing food.

Strength returned to his arms enough to make a few feeble strokes in what he hoped was the right direction, but the predator bore down on him relentlessly.

Just as he anticipated those enormous jaws crunching down on his legs, rending and tearing and dragging him down into the dark depths, his collar was gripped and he was hauled out of the water. Face down on wet boards, he felt the boat rock violently as the creature passed just beneath. Then Ruth was at his side, caring for him as he coughed up seawater, and, as he looked up, he saw Niamh watching him worriedly.

Baccharus was beside him, his sleeve wet where he had rescued Church. "Quickly, now. You must help me row. The Night Walkers are close."

Barely conscious, Church let Ruth help him into a seat where he clutched an oar feebly. Ruth and Niamh both joined them and soon the boat was moving slowly away from the island.

"I don't understand why they aren't following us," Ruth said, glancing over her shoulder.

"They know we can be seen from Wave Sweeper. Any further pursuit would be futile." Baccharus turned to Church. We will find treatment for you on Wave Sweeper, Brother of Dragons," he said with surprising tenderness.

"Thanks for saving me."

"I could not let such an honourable being die, Jack Churchill." His words and tone were unlike any Church had heard from the Tuatha De Danann before. Closing his eyes, he leaned across the oar and reflected on what it meant as they drifted back towards safety.

Church woke in his cabin, the window thrown open to reveal the last sunlight of the day, mellow gold in a pastel blue sky, coolness on the wind. His leg ached with a rude heat beneath the rough blanket, but there was none of the agony that had consumed his body immediately after the break. Cautiously, he peeked under the sheet.

"It's still there."

Ruth was sitting just out of his line of vision, keeping watch over him. "Yes, but will I still be able to play in the Cup Final?"

"I'm glad you've retained your sense of humour. I lost mine when I saw that bone jutting out. Almost lost my lunch too." She sat on the edge of the bed.

There was a splint fastened hard around his lower leg; it bit sharply into his too-taut flesh as he shuffled up into a sitting position. "When I saw it I was convinced it was an amputation job. Luckily I didn't have much opportunity to think about it after that."

"You were luckier than you think. Most ships of this kind have some old sawbones. But this being the gods and all, you get operated on by some selfproclaimed deity. Geltin, I think his name was. And did he work miracles! His hands disappeared into your leg like it was water, popping the bone together and fusing it. He slapped some poultice on and Bob's your uncle. With that and the Pendragon Spirit you'll be back to normal in a day or two. Even beats BUPA." She took his hand. "I was worried."

He gave her fingers a squeeze.

She leaned over and kissed him gently on the forehead, lingering a moment, her lips cool and moist. When she withdrew she hastily changed the subject, as if embarrassed by her actions. "They've been in conference ever since you went under. This murder, coming so hard on Cormorel's, has really shaken them up. I think they thought they were inviolate before. Now it's like any old enemy can knock one of them off whenever he feels like it."

"And now they know how the rest of us feel." Church instantly felt guilty for the harshness in his voice. "I know it must be hard for them-"

"No, you're right. It's hard to feel sympathy when they have such little regard for other living creatures. It has really shaken them up, though. And just as much because this murder was committed by the Fomorii."

Church tried to choose his words carefully, but after a moment gave up. "I know this might sound coldhearted, but this could really work in our favour. It's not just a murder. With the history between the Fomorii and the Tuatha De Danann, it's an act of war."

"You'd think, but I could tell from some of the comments flying around the deck that they weren't exactly breaking a neck to retaliate."

Through the window, Church watched a gull skimming the surface of the sea; the other islands must be nearby. "I don't understand."

"Neither do I. Who knows how their minds work?"

Church tried to shift into a more comfortable position, then gave up. "Why would the Fomorii risk committing such a senseless act? The Tuatha De Danann, their arch enemies, were giving them free rein to wipe out our world."

Ruth examined her palm for a while, then said, "I think it might be me."

"What do you mean?"

"When I did the spirit flight to London, that awful thing I told you about… Balor, I suppose… followed me back, at least across our world. Maybe it saw us as a threat, sent out a killing party to wipe us out."

"They'd have had to move quickly."

"You know time means nothing to these freaks."

Church grabbed her wrist and pulled her down on to the bed next to him so he could slip his arm around her shoulders. "It's too confusing to try to work it out sitting here. Who knows what's going on? The important thing is I need to be up and about to lobby our case if I have to."

She leaned down beside the bed and emerged with a cane, carved in the shape of a dragon. "Voila."

"That's very fitting."

"Yes, and they seemed to have it waiting for you." Another mystery, but he had long since given up trying to comprehend.

There was movement in the corridor without, and a second later the door rattled open without warning. Church was about to castigate the visitors for not knocking until he saw their faces. Three members of the Tuatha lle Danann cadre who always accompanied Manannan entered, but they were subtly changed. Their faces, which before had been impassive and waxy, now had a cunning and malicious cast at the edges of the mouth and in the eyes, barely perceptible in direct glance, but on another level, quite striking.

"The Master requires your presence," the leader of the group said. His hand rested on the pommel of a sword Church had not seen in his possession before.

"The worms have turned," Church muttered so only Ruth could hear.

They silently followed the guards, Church hobbling as best he could. On deck there was no sign of any of the other travellers, only small groups of the Tuatha lle Danann, watching their passage with dark, brooding expressions.

In his expansive cabin, as large as a mediaeval banqueting hall, Manannan sat behind a desk of gold, carved with figures that appeared to move of their own accord a split second after his attention left them. Other high-ranking members of the Golden Ones were scattered around the room. Church spied Niamh behind a couple of thin, cruel-faced aristocrats, but she would not meet his eyes. The strained, icy atmosphere told him things were about to get much worse.

Manannan rose once they stood before him and clasped his oversized hands loosely together in front of him. His face, too, was changed, though not as unpleasant as those of his guards; but it was harsher, certainly. "Another of our number has been driven on." His voice was as cold and hard as a swordblade. "The circling stars have been shaken, not once but twice." The message was repeated almost for his own sake, as if he could barely believe it. "Two times, in the fleeting memory of Fragile Creatures. Two abominations in the face of existence." Fury flared in his eyes, but his voice dropped to a whisper. "Monstrous."

Church didn't dare say anything for fear of retribution.

Manannan raised a hand to point an accusing finger at them. "You Fragile Creatures brought this upon us."

Ruth stirred angrily; Church fumbled for her wrist to restrain her, but she took a step to one side. "The Fomorii-"

— were brought to the Western Isles in search of you. Were driven to acts of vengeance by you. The Night Walkers are rough beasts, once prompted, rarely stopped. You must be accountable for this."

"You're surely not blaming us for Cormorel?" Ruth held up her face defiantly.

Manannan did not answer.

"Scapegoats, then."

The disrespect in her voice was a step too far. Manannan's face shifted furi ously before settling into its original form. "We have no interest in your feeble concerns."

"The Night Walkers will attack you as soon as they've finished with us," Ruth said, unbowed.

"And when they do we shall eradicate them as we did before. Until then, they are beneath our notice, as all creatures are."

Manannan's tone and the mood of the other Tuatha De Danann filled Church with apprehension. The situation was worse than he had imagined.

"The time has come. It has been proposed that you Brother and Sister of Dragons are a threat to the good running of Wave Sweeper and should be wiped from existence before any further troubles arise."

Ruth blanched. Church couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're going to execute us?"

"No." Niamh's voice was filled with passion. She pushed her way past the other gods to stand before Manannan, her skin flushed to a golden sheen.

Manannan fixed his emotionless gaze on her. "You speak in defence of these Fragile Creatures?"

"I do."

"What worth have they?" one of the cruelly aristocratic gods said.

"You know their worth," Niamh said directly to Manannan. Her words were strangely weighted.

Manannan nodded. "Still, there is a need for discipline."

"Do not be swayed by the voices of the dissenters." Niamh bowed her head slightly so her hair fell around her beautiful face. "In your heart you know-"

"Do you question the word of the Master?" The aristocratic god stepped forward, a dim fury flaring behind his eyes.

Curiously, Church watched. For so long they had pretended to be detached from most human emotions-truly gods. But they weren't gods at all, however much they pretended. His concern grew when he saw the flickers of fear cross Niamh's face; it was obviously a great transgression to question Manannan's thoughts.

"I do not question-" Niamh began, but Manannan held up his hand to silence her.

"I will listen to our sister, who speaks for the Fragile Creatures," Manannan said to the assembled Tuatha De Danann before turning to Church and Ruth. "You are fortunate to have such a powerful advocate."

Church's relief was mingled with surprise that Niamh's voice carried such weight; he suspected Manannan was hoping to be convinced to change his opinion.

"Be warned," Manannan continued, "the eyes of the Golden Ones will be upon you from now on. Accept your role in existence, Fragile Creatures, and bring no more pain to this place."

His attention was gone from them in the snap of a finger. The sneering guards-now strangely less malicious and cunning-herded Church and Ruth to the door. Niamh flashed Church an affectionate smile before she joined the others who were milling around in obvious annoyance at the outcome.

Outside, Ruth's eyes blazed. "Those bastards!"

Church was taken aback by the vehemence in her voice. "They're losing control. Looking for scapegoats. They can't believe they're not as all-round wonderful as they think they are."

"And what was that witch doing?"

"Defending us-"

"Trying to get into your pants, more like. She never gives up, does she?"

She took a deep breath of the refreshing sea air, but her temper didn't diminish. "What's wrong with you?" Church said. "We were about to get summarily executed, but she got us off."

Ruth turned to him, defiant. "You know, when it comes to women, you've got a real problem."

"What are you talking about?"

"The witch still thinks she's got a chance with you. Maybe she has got a chance, I don't know. But you just keep diving into all these relationships, stirring up a whole load of emotional mess, without once thinking about the repercussions."

"I know I've made mistakes-"

"Well, sort yourself out."

"I can't believe the world is falling apart and we're talking about this!"

"Oh, come on. You know this is the important thing. The rest of it is just stuff that happens."

Church was lost for words.

"Do you want her?" she pressed.

"Niamh?" Ruth's gaze held him tight. He could finally read in her eyes all the truth that he had secretly known all along. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I just get the feeling there's something else going on there, but I can't put my finger on it. Her feelings are so intense, they don't have any connection with how long I've known her. Everything feels completely out of balance." He watched the gulls swooping around the masts. "I don't like to hurt people's feelings, especially good people. And she does seem good."

"Sometimes you have to be firm." Her voice softened a little. "You need to talk to her-"

"I've tried."

"— be honest with her. She might be upset at first, but if she knows there's no point she can adjust. And then if you close all that down you can focus on your own future." Her voice remained calm and detached, but there was a tremendous weight to her words.

"I just wish I understood her better-"

"Oh, for God's sake!"

She made to go, but he caught her arm. "Let's not screw this up."

Her eyes moved slowly across his face, reading every thought in his head. Eventually she nodded; the tension between them evaporated, leaving another tension beneath.

A universe away, the emotions that had been crushing Laura for so long had finally started to dissipate. The dislocation when she awakened in the charnel pit had brought shock, despair, horror, futility and a debilitating fear that had left her unable to move.

Eventually all that was left was an emptiness gradually filling with a nearreligious relief at her survival. With an effort she pulled herself into a squatting position, squirming as the soft corpses gave beneath her or when she brushed against cold skin. The only way she could cope was by not thinking about it. Instead, she fixed on the faint light filtering in on the other side of wherever she had been dumped.

The journey across the bodies was sickening. At the far side of the room was a flight of brick stairs leading up to a partly broken door. Beyond it she could see grey sky.

Refusing to look back, she scampered up the steps and tried the door, which swung open at her touch. She was in a street running amongst dilapidated Victorian warehouses that rose up high overhead. It was eerily still and quiet. The damp vegetation smell of open water hung in the air, but there was nothing to give her any clue where she was.

But as she stepped out of the shadows of the building a detail caught her eye that shocked her. The skin of her right hand and forearm had a greenish tinge. It was only faint, but unnatural enough to worry her. Anxiously she checked the other arm and then her legs; it was the same all over.

Finding a window with an unbroken pane, she examined her face closely: another shock, this one uplifting. The scars that Callow had carved into her face were gone, the skin as smooth and clear as a baby's. There wasn't even the vaguest trace of the wounds. It made no sense to her, but her overwhelming joy wiped out any worries. Hastily fluffing her short blonde hair into spikes, she wiped some of the smeared dirt and blood from her face and then set off to investigate her surroundings.

The warehouses had been in use recently. In one there was the strong smell of cinnamon; others had been fitted with modern security systems. Ominously, several had open doorways leading down to cellars, from which familiar unpleasant odours rose.

One side street led down to a broad, grey river. It took her only a second or two of scanning the riverside properties to realise it was the Thames; she was back in London. Heading along a road overlooking the water to the edge of the area of warehouses, she began to make out dim sounds of activity.

Just as she was about to emerge from the cover of the final warehouse she was suddenly grabbed from behind and dragged backwards, a hand clamped over her mouth. She fought furiously, but her attacker was too strong.

Only when her assailant had pulled her into the warehouse and flung her unceremoniously on to an oily concrete floor did she see who it was. "What are you doing?" she raged.

The Bone Inspector levelled his staff at her, as if to frighten her into silence. His piercing blue eyes gave him a menacing quality, emphasised by the unkempt grey-black hair hanging lankly around his shoulders. He wore the same dirty cheesecloth shirt, baggy trousers and sandals Laura had seen him in the first time she met him at Avebury.

"Keep silent if you want to keep living," he growled.

Laura dusted herself down as she flashed him a contemptuous look. "I bet you get all your women this way. Let's face it, they're never going to compliment you on your dress sense."

He grabbed her wrist roughly and dragged her over to a window, wiping away the dirt so she could peer out. Fomorii ranged as far as the eye could see, some carrying human bodies, others moving intently about some activity she couldn't discern.

"God." Her throat had almost closed up.

"The whole city is their stinking pit now.,

Her fear was so strong Laura couldn't mask it; she stared at the Bone Inspector with wide eyes. "So this is their base?" Then: "They've killed everyone?"

The Bone Inspector took pity on her. He let go of her wrist and led her gently to a pallet where they sat side by side. "It's a shock, I know."

"You know what? Let's forget trying to describe things, because there just aren't the words." She buried her head in her hands, shaking as all the repressed tension came out in a rush. When it had eased, she looked up at him suspiciously. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

This made her even more suspicious. "How would you-"

"So I don't have to sit here answering stupid questions all day, I'll tell you. I came looking for your body. You made a sacrifice. It wasn't right that you were just dumped, forgotten." He looked away to minimise the impact of what lay behind his words. "Thought I'd take your bones back to somewhere fitting-"

"You're just a sentimental-"

He waved a threatening finger in her face. "It's my job. I'm a guardian of the old places because I'm a priest of the land, if you will. I tend to the people who fight for it." His eyes narrowed. "But I don't have to like them, understand?"

"Well, God forbid you should show some sensitivity."

"The earth energy's strong in you and your travelling troupe of hopeless cases. I can feel it even more now the changes you've wrought have started to wake the land."

"So you followed your nose." She looked back towards the window uncomfortably. "But how did you get past all that?"

"It wasn't so bad when I came in. They were spreading out across a different part of the city, doing whatever foul business they do, and the eastern approach was pretty open. Even so, I had to move under cover. Took time." He shrugged. "Can't see how we're going to get back out, though." He eyed her askance. "So how come you're not a pile of blood and guts and bone? And why do you look like you've been sleeping in a compost heap?"

"You really know how to chat up a girl."

"Well?"

"How should I know? I've given up trying to work anything out any more."

They sat alone with their thoughts for a while until Laura said, "Did it work?"

He knew exactly what she meant. "You saved her life. Who knows, you might even have saved much more than that. I pointed her and that miserable leader in the direction of the Western Isles to try to get the Golden Ones on our side. They might even do it, if they can put a lifetime of failure behind them."

"The others?"

"Don't know."

There was another long silence before she asked the question they'd both been avoiding. "So I've escaped a particularly horrible death to spend the rest of my life in a stinking warehouse with someone who doesn't know what soap is. Or do you have anything approaching a plan?"

He stared blankly at the dirty floor. "No. No plans."

Church and Ruth stayed in the cabin until night had fallen. The air was tinged with the fading warmth of the day and the scent of burning oil as the flickering lantern in the corner sent shadows shivering across the wooden walls.

All their attempts at making head or tail of the eddies of mystery and intrigue swirling around them had come to nothing, but so much was at stake they couldn't afford to just sit back any longer.

"We have to find the Walpurgis-he's the key," Church said eventually. "There's something very strange going on here, on this ship. These days I trust my instinct more than anything, and sometimes it's almost like I can feel deep, powerful currents moving just beneath my feet. I don't know if the death of Hellawes has anything to do with it, but Cormorel's murder is right at the heart. I don't understand why the gods in the furnace are stockpiling weapons, what the meaning is of all the strange looks and half-heard comments the other gods are making. Whatever it is, I know it's going to affect us, even if it's only that we're definitely not going to get any help from the Tuatha De Danann until the suspicion has been taken off us."

"How do you expect to find the Walpurgis if Manannan's massed ranks can't?"

"I don't know, but I know I've got to try. He's down there somewhere."

"I don't know." She shook her head worriedly. "The Malignos are still roaming around. You cross them, you won't be coming back up again." She sucked on her lip thoughtfully. "I'd better come with you."

"No," he replied forcefully. "I'm not being chivalrous, it's just good tactics. If I don't come back, at least there'll be one of us left to try to hold it all together." The shadows had pooled in her eyes so he couldn't read her expression. "You still think it's going to end in tears?"

"Oh yeah."

They were interrupted by a cry from the deck, strangely lonely in the still of the night. Church got up and peered out of the window. "Another island." A couple of lights glimmered in the sea of darkness. A rumbling ran through the walls as the crew prepared to drop anchor.

"More delays," Ruth said with irritation.

Church watched the lights for a moment longer, then said, "I think we should try to get on the landing party again. Any information we can pick up is going to help us."

"Do you really think they're going to let us after the last one?"

"We can get Baccharus to help-he seems to like our company."

"Or Niamh."

Church agreed uncomfortably, "Or Niamh."

Ruth looked away.

"We have to-"

"I know." Curling up on the bed, she rested her head in the crook of her arm and tucked her knees up to her chest. "We have to do what we can to make things right, however unpleasant. It's war."

The rocking of the ship changed its tempo as Wave Sweeper came to a gradual halt. Chains rumbled and clanked dimly, followed by a splash as the anchor hit the water. Then there was only a gentle swaying as the boat bobbed at its tether.

Church left the window and returned to the bed, sitting in the small space at the end that Ruth's long limbs weren't occupying. Her feet touched his thigh; she didn't move them away. "Do you remember, just after Beltane, sitting by the campfire?" She shifted slightly, put her feet on top of his legs. "That was a funny time. We'd already been through so much, had this massive blow, yet we felt-"

"So close."

"Exactly. This year hasn't been like anything else in my life. I know that's stating the obvious, but I mean on an emotional level. It's been so… potent. I've never felt more alive." He cupped the top of her pale foot in his hand. It felt so cool, the skin as smooth as vellum. "And it makes me feel guilty."

"What, we'd be better off moping around?" She stretched lazily. "There was a lot missing from the life everyone led before. Nobody was living at all."

"Now people are living, but they're dying too. That's not right." He moved his hand up her leg to stroke the gentle curve of her calf through her jeans.

"We'd forgotten how to feel anything. We were wasting our lives, and it must be one of the great ironies of the moment that when there was a chance we all might lose everything, we finally started to appreciate things."

"You don't know what you've got until you're in danger of losing it." His hand moved over her knee to her thigh; she didn't flinch, or make any attempt to push it away.

"Let's face it: this is the place where memories are made. How many people can say that?"

"Is that enough?"

"'Course it is." She smiled, put her hand on the back of his. But instead of pushing it off her leg, she pulled it towards her, over her hip, on to her side, and up, until he was overbalanced and falling on top of her. She manoeuvred herself until she was on her back, looking into his face. Her smile was open and honest and for an instant he was back in those early days, just after Albert Bridge, when they had spent their time piecing together the first clues about the unfolding nightmare. And with that remembrance came a blinding revelation: he had felt strongly about her from almost the moment he had seen her, as if they were of one kind, one heart. But in his despairing mood after Marianne's death any emotion had been muffled. Even when that had finally cleared, his feelings had been in such chaos that nothing made sense. But now he saw it clearly.

He loved her.

And he could see in the opal shimmer of her eyes that she loved him too; secretly he'd always known it. But the difference now was that she could see his feelings as well.

She pulled his head down and kissed him gently on the lips; she tasted faintly of lemon, her skin smelled clean, her dark hair felt silky in his fingers. And her smile was strong, with so much in it; it was all so heady. She was right; the end of the world didn't matter, the conflicts and power games of other people, all the petty concerns of the outside world. Inside was all that mattered; inside their heads, inside their relationships. The places where memories were made.

Ruth felt like crying, she felt like laughing. She'd managed to convince herself it was a package of sensations she'd never ever appreciate, except by proxy, in books and films and the wilting, easily discounted conversations of friends: that ocean swell of the senses, filling her throat, her head. She'd told herself that failure to feel wouldn't be so bad; there were always things to do and see. And now she could see how ridiculous that had been. A life touched by this could never be filled by anything ever again; except more of it, and more, and more, and more. She could keep the fear at bay now; not a fear of being alone, in a holding hands in the park way; she was too strong and confident to need someone to fill her time. But of being alone in the human race; we weren't made that way, she thought.

And here it was. If the world fell apart, and the stars rained into the void, it was all right. It was all all right.

They stripped the clothes from each other with a sensuality that was slow and measured; unfocused passion would let it all slip through their fingers too quickly. It was something to be savoured, not just by the body but by the mind, and that was how they knew it was exactly right. Church wondered how he had never known that before.

They knew each other's shape from embraces, but the fiery skin beneath the clothes made it all new and different. They were each surprised at how hard their bodies were, freed of the fat of lazy living by their punishing existence on the road. As he penetrated her, they kissed deeply, filling each other with soft darkness illuminated by purple flashes that reminded Church of the view across space from the Watchtower. He moved slowly at first, then harder as she enveloped him with her legs, and her arms, and her kisses, and her thoughts. His mind had one brief instant of complete awareness and then it switched off so there was only everything he felt, wrapped tightly in the moment; as timeless as Otherworld.

They lay together in silence while the sweat and semen dried on their bodies, listening to their breathing subside, their hearts slow down. Their thoughts were like the movement of luminescent fish in the deepest, darkest fathoms, slow yet graceful under the gargantuan pressure, struggling with the immensity of what they had felt. After a while, Ruth fumbled for Church's hand and he took it. Two, as one, passing through time.

A movement somewhere in the shadows of the cabin roused them from their introspection; a mouse, they both thought. But then something that at first sight was a large spider scurried into the flickering circle of lantern light. It was a human figure barely half an inch tall. Ruth recognised Marik Bocat, the Portune she had encountered after escaping the Malignos.

She rolled over to cover herself. "How long have you been there?"

"I have more to do than watch you make the beast with two backs," he said sharply. He sprinted to the edge of the bed where he looked up at Church's bemused face. "Ho, Simple Jack! Heave me up and mind how you do it!"

Church leaned down so Marik Bocat could clamber on to his palm. Once the tiny man was level with their eyes it was obvious concern lay heavy on his brown, wizened face.

"What is it?" Ruth asked.

"I come out of respect for fellow denizens of the Fixed Lands, and, of course, in respect for your exalted roles as champions of our home." He raised one minuscule finger. "A warning, then. Danger is abroad and your lives may be at risk. The door lies open, the cage is empty." He paused while he looked from one face to the other. "Callow is gone. The Malignos have freed him."

Away across the water, the Islands of the Dead breathed steadily and silently and the night was filled with the terrible chill of their exhalation.