Darkest hour

Chapter Eight

The first sign that all was not as it should be hit Church twenty minutes after they had entered through the well-head. No longer stale, the air in the tunnel smelled of cinnamon and mint. And it almost seemed to be singing, harmonious melodies bouncing back and forth off the walls. "Is this the start of it?" he asked.

"`This is the best part of the trip."' Tom's voice echoed curiously behind him.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just remembering the sixties."

"This is no time to be getting nostalgic." Church was tense with apprehension.

"If you'd enjoyed the sixties to the full you'd be a little mellower in dealing with everything life has to throw at you now."

"Sorry. I was born too late for the summer of love." There was a shush-boom effect deep in the stone walls, like a giant heart beating.

"You missed a great time. That smell, it reminds me of California nights, hanging out at Kesey's parties when he and the Merry Pranksters set up shop after they did the Magic Bus ride. Jerry Garcia doing the music. Two kinds of punch-normal and electric. That was before the Hell's Angels moved in and ruined it."

"What are you talking about?" Church said distractedly. "You have done too many drugs, haven't you." He reached out to touch the tunnel wall; strange vibrations rippled up his fingers.

"You know, Kesey, Leary, all those psychonauts, they set things in motion that could have changed the world before the Establishment stamped it down. They believed the psychedelics could help them see God, did you know that? And by doing that they were just like all those people who threw up the great monolithic structures around the world where the earth energy is at its strongest. Before our feeble modern culture, psychedelics fired civilisation."

"Are you saying all those hippies were right?" Church said distractedly.

"We all need to be neo-hippies if we're going to cope with this new world that's being presented to us, Jack."

The note of tenderness in Tom's voice surprised Church so much he looked around and was instantly disoriented. He appeared to be viewing Tom through a wall of oily water, the image stretched, skewed, distorted.

"Tom?" He reached out a hand, but his friend seemed to recede with the action until he appeared to be floating backwards along a dark corridor, growing smaller yet glowing brighter.

"It will be all right, jack." Tom's voice grew hollow, deep and loud, then faint, as if it were cycling between two speakers. Church blinked and Tom was gone.

Unable to understand what was happening, he was overcome by a sudden wave of panic. They had been walking along quite normally, and now he was alone; it made no sense.

Desperately, he clamped his eyes shut, focusing on Tom's advice to be mellow, and then he remembered how Tom had warned him that space and time could warp that close to such a potent source of the earth energy. He composed himself with a deep breath, accepted that he was on his own, and forged on down the tunnel.

After following its undulating path for about fifteen minutes, lulled by the background harmonics of the air, he suddenly rounded a corner into a large cavern. He could tell it was enormous from the change in the quality of the sound of his breathing and footsteps, although the roof disappeared into the deep shadows above him. The danger of getting lost in such a place was a distinct possibility. He could follow the walls with their faint phosphorescent glow around the perimeter, but he instinctively felt the correct path was directly across the floor of the cavern, through the darkness that could hide treacherous fissures, sinkholes and pits. His fears were confirmed when he glanced down and noticed a carved rock set in the floor by his feet. It was well-made, polished and indented. It showed a dragon, its tail curling to form an arrowhead which pointed the way into the centre of the cavern. He hesitated for just a moment, then strode off into the shadows.

It seemed like he had been walking for hours, although he guessed it was only about fifteen minutes. In the enveloping dark the going was laboriously slow, feeling with each foot before taking another step. At times the visual deprivation was so hallucinatory he felt his head spinning and he had to fight to stop himself from pitching to the ground; in that warped atmosphere he was having trouble discerning what was happening in his head and what was external.

Without eyes, sound took on added meaning and he was alert to any aural change in his surroundings. When he first heard the distant, reverberating chingching-ching of metal on metal he froze instantly.

Listening intently, he held his breath as the noise grew louder until it was accompanied by the trudge of heavy footsteps. A faint light began to draw closer, which he at first thought was just his eyes playing tricks on him. Gradually, though, an enormous figure presented itself to him, but it seemed unreal, like an obvious movie effect, with the light buried deep within it and seeping out through its surface. As it came into focus he felt a sudden pang of fear. From the sickening waves that rolled off it, it was undoubtedly a Fomor, but it was encased in black, shiny armour; the chainmail that glinted darkly beneath the plates was making the metallic sound that had alerted him to its presence. The oddly shaped armour with its gnarls and ridges was like a carapace, making the figure resemble a giant insect; on the head was a helmet which concealed most of the hideous face, two curved horns reaching out from the temple with a row of six smaller ones beneath. It was gripping in both hands an unusual but cruel weapon with on one side a nicked and sickly smeared axe-head and on the other a line of sharp tines of irregular length. Church heard its breath rumbling like a traction engine, the vibrations churning in the pit of his stomach.

The figure was terrifying to see. Church had the sense it was more powerful than any of the Fomorii he had encountered before. And as it advanced, the threat around it grew until he felt queasy from the potency of the danger.

His shock at what he was witnessing finally broke and he took a couple of staggering backwards steps before turning and running. He hadn't gone far when he stumbled over an outcropping rock and crashed down, winding himself. But as he glanced back to see how close the Fomor warrior was behind him, he saw the figure begin to break up into tiny particles, as if it were made out of flies. There was no sound, and a second later it had completely disappeared.

Church rolled on to his back, breathing heavily, trying to make sense of what had happened. He had felt the Fomor was definitely there, yet it didn't seem to have been aware of him. Was it simply a hallucination or a by-product of the strange atmosphere that existed in that place?

As he climbed to his feet a more important concern pushed all those questions from his mind. In his attempt to get away he had done just as he had feared-lost his sense of direction. It was impossible to tell where he had been going. There was nothing for it. Despondently, he selected a path at random and set off.

The mesmerising darkness became claustrophobic. He was flying, he was falling. He was hearing voices singing from the void, fading, rising again in anger or despair. There was Marianne, his Marianne, saying, "So the real Dale is still in the Black Lodge?" He scrubbed at his ears and it went away.

To his right he saw a dim golden glow pulsating with the beat of the blood in his brain. As he drew near, figures separated from the light, all shining, all beautiful. He recognised faces he had seen when the Tuatha De Danann had swept to his rescue at the Fairy Bridge on Skye. Lugh stood, tall and proud, reunited with his spear, which he held at his side. And behind him was the Dagda, a starburst from which features coalesced, alternately ferocious and paternal, always different; his own father appeared there briefly. And there were others who seemed both benign and cruel at the same time; some were so alien to his vision it made his stomach churn. They were talking, but their communication was so high-pitched and incomprehensible it might as well have been the language of angels.

He almost stumbled among them, but they were oblivious to his presence. He had the sudden urge to lash out, a childish desire born of his own powerlessness, but he knew it would be futile, and so restrained himself, if he admitted it to himself, there was some fear there too.

But were they hallucinations? Or was the potent energy drawing him towards real moments plucked from the flow of time? As if to answer his unspoken question, Lugh pointed to an image which coalesced among them. It was Veitch, obvious despite the mask that covered his face, clutching a shotgun, his nervousness masked by anger. Church knew instantly what he was seeing: the moment when his friend had his life torn from him. Veitch waved the gun back and forth. In the background the building society was still, tense.

One of the Tuatha De Danann Church didn't recognise leaned forward and said something in the angel-tongue. On cue, Veitch whirled and fired the gun. An elderly man was thrown back as if he'd been hit by a car, trailing droplets of blood through the air.

Ruth's uncle, Church thought. The act that brought on her father's heart attack. Two lives ruined by the arrogance of power.

He watched the faces of the Tuatha De Danann expecting, hoping almost, to see cruel glee or contempt there, but there was nothing. It was an act inflicted on beings so far beneath them that there was no call for any response; it was nothing more than a brushing away of a dust mote.

Sickened, he turned and hurried away.

He hadn't gone far when an idea struck him. If what he was viewing was random, such a turning point in all their lives would have been too much of a coincidence. In some way the events were arriving before him like lightning leaping to the rod on a church steeple, summoned by his subconscious, or some other vital part of his being.

Maybe we're operating on the quantum level, he thought, where everything is linked. But if that was true, what did the first terrifying image mean? Maybe I can make this work for me.

He concentrated until he dredged up images from his subconscious, some so painful they brought tears to his eyes. He remembered how Tom had used the blue fire to warp space before, drawing them along lines of power from the stormy sea off Tintagel to the top of Glastonbury Tor in the wink of an eye.

Do it for me now, he wished, feeling like a boy, not caring.

For long moments nothing happened. And then, suddenly, he was falling. When the descent stopped he was standing in his old flat. But it didn't have the familiar look of bachelorhood, the secret layers of dust, the scatter of magazines, piles of videos and CDs, and odours that wouldn't shift. It was before. When Marianne lived there.

His heart leapt, but that was just the start of a complex flood of emotions that overwhelmed him. He breathed in deeply. He could smell her! That brought a fugitive tear, which he hastily rubbed away.

Stay focused. This is where you find the truth, he thought. If you can bear it. If you can feel your heart ripped out, see things that will scar your mind for the rest of your life.

He wished he could let it go, move on, but Marianne's death had destroyed him and not even a saint could turn the other cheek to that. Here was something he could believe in: revenge. Cold and hard.

The flat appeared empty. One of her acid jazz CDs played innocuously in the background. And then he could hear her moving around, humming to the music, at peace with herself and the life they had.

Don't cry, he told himself futilely.

He remembered where he had been at that moment: in the pub two streets away, drunk on booze, drunk on life, singing old Pogues songs with Dale and thinking what it would be like to be married.

Don't cry, he told himself futilely.

He wiped his face, forced himself to stay calm in the centre of a room a lifetime away, when he had been whole; listened intently. Soon. Soon.

Marianne singing now, in perfect harmony with the track. Leaving the kitchen where she had been washing up. Crossing to the bathroom. He strained to see, then averted his eyes at the last moment. Then regretted it a second later.

The bathroom cabinet opening. She was taking out something. Bath oil? No taps yet. There had been no water in the bath.

There it was: the bare, brief click of the door. Nausea clutched his stomach.

"Church? Is that you?" Her voice; he couldn't bear it.

Take me away. His eyes were flooded, blurring everything.

He took a step forward. A dark shape flitted across the hall towards the bathroom. The damp ebb of his emotion was replaced by a cold hatred that surprised him; but it was better, definitely. It allowed him to act.

He moved quickly. He was going to find out who the bastard was who had destroyed everything. It didn't matter that he was a puppet. He was a killer of dreams and he was going to pay the price.

Don't scream, he prayed.

Marianne screamed. And then he was running, and running, but the bathroom was a million miles away, and he knew if he reached it, what he wanted most in the world would destroy him. Every sight, every experience stays with you forever; that one would ruin him for all time.

I have to see, I have to see, he pleaded with himself. And still he ran, but he knew he couldn't bring himself to do it. And then the bathroom, the flat, everything that had ever mattered to him was receding, and he was falling, upwards this time, yelling and crying, like some drunken fool, brutalised by the pain of his emotions.

And then he was back in the dark once again.

He wandered for what seemed like hours. If that were the case, the cavern would have been enormous, but he had the unnerving feeling he was no longer walking through that place; his meanderings had taken him much, much further afield. He didn't dare think too hard about that; the chance that he might be lost and walking for all time hovered constantly at the back of his head.

Sometimes he thought he was about to break through into another solid place; shadowy figures moved in the distance, lighter than the surrounding dark, but he never seemed to draw near enough to reach them. Sounds continued to burst through the void, fading, then growing louder, as if they were being controlled by a mixing desk: psychedelic aural hallucinations. Briefly, he heard Ruth calling for his help, but it was lost the moment he thought he recognised her voice.

And still he walked, until he heard something enormous moving away in the dark, circling him. A chill insinuated itself into his veins. There was a sound like the rough breathing of a wild animal and when he turned suddenly, he glimpsed a giant wolf. He knew instinctively this was the thing that had taken Ruth and attacked him in the library. But he also knew, although he did not know how, that it was not really a wolf, nor any kind of supernatural creature; it was mortal, and more, it was someone he knew.

For the briefest instant a yellow eye glinted in the dark and he was filled with an immeasurable dread. He turned and ran in the opposite direction until he was sure he had left it far behind him.

"Jack!"

The voice came as a shock because he had seen no sign of any other figure after fleeing the wolf that was not a wolf. It was crystal clear, unlike the other hallucinations, and when he spun round there was Niamh, arms outstretched towards him, her normally placid face filled with concern; it made him fearful to see it.

"It is a maze," she was saying. "If you do not pick your way through, you will be lost."

Unlike the other visions of the Tuatha De Danann, she was able to see him. In fact, he felt she had come looking for him, to lead him out of there, back to safety.

"Your own thoughts are trapping you," she continued.

"How do I get out of here?" he called.

But before she could answer, her face grew scared and she was pulled apart, as if she were nothing more than smoke caught in the wind. Even she did not have power over that place.

After a long while he came to the conclusion that he was not making his way through a maze. It was a whirlpool. The blocked earth energy was causing eddies in the very fabric of reality, sucking him back and forth. How was he ever going to get out of it?

He finally realised the futility of walking and getting nowhere, so he simply sat on the cold, stone floor and tried to think his way out. No further scenarios presented themselves to him, nor did doors open, but during a meditation on the nature of the blue fire, a possible solution presented itself.

Gently he closed his eyes, which seemed a bit unecessary in the uncompromising dark, but it was the only way he could do it. Then, with as much willpower as he could muster, he tried to focus on the earth energy as he had done at the well-head. It was a long shot, but Tom had told him the energy was in everything. Perhaps there was some kind of pattern he could see that would show him the way out.

He thought it would be hard, but it took much longer in coming than it had before; the anxiety gnawing away at him seemed to be a barrier. Eventually he saw the first familiar blue streaks, just flashes against the blackness, like tracer bullets in a night-time air-raid. Slowly, though, his perception came into focus and he recognised that the earth energy was as prevalent there as it had been out on the land.

It seemed that his analogy of a whirlpool had been correct. The tracks of light were sucked into different eddies that formed complex patterns, reminding him of Mandelbrot set illustrations he had seen: chaos everywhere, yet, paradoxically, an overriding pattern to it; a blueprint for existence. The marvel of it was mesmerising; he could certainly see how the ancients had been in awe of its power and majesty. The lifeblood of everything.

Even so, in places the traces of light fragmented or seemed to dry up completely. There was none of the pulsating vitality he had seen when Tom had first introduced him to the blue fire at Stonehenge. Was this what had been happening all over the land, all over the globe: the gradual break-down of the fundamental essence of the world, driven to extinction by people with an increasing morbidity of spirit?

His dreamy musings came to an abrupt end. There was one area where the light was brighter and more forceful; it seemed to be driving in to the confluence of tiny whirlpools that made up the bigger maelstrom. He hurried towards it and was pleased to see that beyond that area there was a definite flow, although it was more of a trickle than a torrent.

He moved as quickly as he could, not knowing how long he could maintain his altered perception. Occasionally it flickered and threatened to fade and he had to fight to bring it back, but he was buoyed by his progress.

The visual and aural hallucinations appeared to have been left behind in the whirlpool area, so he was surprised when an insistent voice came echoing through the darkness to him. Its familiarity was more of a shock: it was his own. As he turned suddenly, the view of the earth energy fizzed out. And there he was, coming towards himself through the void. His ghost-image was subtly changed: longer hair, a goatee, the drawn, pale face of a man who had seen too many terrible things; it was the same Church he had seen watching a burning city in his vision in the Watchtower.

"Is this it? Is this the right time?" his future-self was saying to him passionately; Church couldn't decide if it was fear or anger or a mixture of both he was hearing in the voice. "You have to listen to me! This is a warning!" He looked around, confused, as if trying to work out where he was. "Is this the right place? Am I too late?"

His words fell into relief and Church said quickly, "Tell me what you have to say."

The future-Church shook himself, regained his focus. "When you're in Otherworld and they call, heed it right away! They're going to bring him back! They're-"

"Calm down! You're babbling!" Church yelled. "Who is going to bring who back?"

The other Church suddenly looked terrified, glanced over his shoulder. "Too late!" he yelled.

And then he was gone.

The encounter disturbed Church immensely. The message was garbled, disorienting, but he felt he had missed a vital opportunity to discover something important, perhaps something that would be a life-or-death matter. He vowed to keep the message in his head so that if any fitting situation arose, he would be able to act instantly.

When they call, heed it right away.

At least he had managed to maintain his sense of direction. He continued walking along the path he had been following and soon he saw the gently glowing cavern walls approaching from either side. They met at a rough opening where the tunnel continued. And on a boulder near the entrance sat Tom, quietly sucking on a joint.

"How the hell did you get here?" Church asked in disbelief.

"I walked."

"You know what I mean!"

Tom shrugged, giving nothing away. Then he couldn't seem to resist, and said with a faint smile, "You were the one who had to go through it. It was a test."

"It was a natural obstacle caused by the backed-up earth energy. Wasn't it?"

"It was. But you were drawn into it for a reason. I told you, it was a test."

"Why was I being tested?"

"You know," Tom snapped.

Church tried to make sense of it. "The things I saw out there! It was-"

"I know. I've experienced that kind of thing before. We can carry on now. We've been allowed access."

"You're talking like the blue fire's got some kind of intelligence," Church laughed mockingly.

"It has. Of a kind. Everything thinks, everything feels, everything hurts."

"More hippie bullshit!" Church snorted with derision, but the concept stayed with him. They set off along the new tunnel and after a moment or two, he said, "So tell me, is it God?"

"Call it that if you want," Tom said dismissively. "If you want to reduce something so enormous and complex to such pathetically, childishly simplistic terms."

Church chopped the air with his hand and cursed under his breath, picking up his step so he didn't have to walk in irritation at the older man's side.

And then, suddenly, they were at a blockage in the tunnel. Boulders of varying size were piled up to the tunnel roof.

"Is this what we have to clear to get things flowing again?" Church said.

"Don't be an idiot," Tom replied. "Did you think it would be that easy?"

Through the rock, Church perceived a sound like an engine running. In a moment of frisson he realised it was the sound of breathing.

"Change is the important thing," Tom continued. "You have to bring things out into the open, for good or bad."

Church tried to read his face, but he knew how futile an exercise that was. "I don't like the way you said that," he noted.

The walk back from the strange, ritualistic room had been a blur to Ruth. The pain and shock of her experience had, for a brief while, almost wiped her mind clear. Only one thing had struck her through the haze: a sound from behind a heavily padlocked door, like a flock of birds crazily flying around the confined space.

She barely noticed they had taken her to a new cell, as depressing as her old one, but almost palatial in size; although it was pitch dark she could tell how large it was from the bouncing echoes of her footsteps. After the cramped confines of her last prison, it should have been cause enough for joy, but her every thought was taken up with the struggle to accept she was still alive. When the black pearl was being forced into her mouth, she had so convinced herself she was going to die her survival had left her disoriented, shocked and, in an odd way, depressed.

She could still feel the awful weight of the pearl deep in her stomach; it was radiating cold into every fibre of her being. She turned to one side and vomited on the flags, sickened by the pressure and the changes taking place in her body. The nausea never left her. What did it all mean? They'd be coming for her again soon and she really didn't know how much more she could bear.

She crawled away to the other side of the cell, trying to avoid the smell of vomit, but the stench was too strong. She retched again. Shaking, she lowered her head on to the cold floor and hoped sleep would come soon to save her from the nightmare.

Veitch's instincts had been sending sharp prompts throughout the morning, and by late afternoon he had already made up his mind to move by sundown. Scarcely had he accepted the decision than he heard a tumult echoing across the city from the Old Town. From his window he could see nothing but scattered groups of people looking up to the old, grey buildings that crested the great ridge which ran down from the castle, so he quickly made his way outside.

Dark storm clouds hung oddly over the Old Town, while the rest of the city was bathed in the reddish light of the setting sun. Further down the Royal Mile towards Holyrood those clouds seemed to be churning and there were flashes of light that were not lightning erupting among them; each flash was accompanied by a rumble like distant gunfire.

The crowds were uneasy and apprehensive. It was a manifestation of all their deepest fears that had grown since the Old Town had been so mysteriously sealed off. "What's going on up there?" one man asked darkly, of no one in particular. Those nearest looked at him fearfully, looked back at the disturbance, said nothing.

Veitch watched it for a moment or two longer, until he decided it might well be the diversion for which he had been waiting. He didn't know if it was the doing of Shavi and Laura or Church and Tom, but he should move fast to seize the moment. He broke away from the crowd and hurried in the direction of the Old Town.

He realised how much had changed the moment he began to climb the steep steps of Advocate's Close. Within the space of a few feet the temperature had changed from summer balm to deepest winter; his breath clouded and the steps shimmered with hoar frost. When he reached the summit he was startled to see thick, fresh snow drifting across the Royal Mile, unspoilt by footprints or tire tracks. The mist had quickly descended, casting a spectral pall over the entire area.

Shivering, he zipped his leather jacket to the neck and waded out into the street. The covering of snow was crisp; it was several degrees below zero.

Another flash and rumble startled him. The battle, or whatever it was, was still raging at the foot of the Royal Mile, obscured by the haar. His first instinct was to head straight to the castle, but he knew he had to be sure the Cailleach Bheur was being distracted. He made his way out into the middle of the road where the snow wasn't so deep and set off towards the disruption.

About halfway down the Royal Mile the mist had thinned out enough for him to see what was happening. The Cailleach Bheur stood with her back to him, both hands grasping her gnarled staff, which was planted firmly in front of her. Bubbles of blue energy were forming around her, increasing in size rapidly, then rushing out in waves. Whenever they burst, the deep rumble rolled out, making Veitch's ears hurt. That close to her, it was almost unbearably cold; Veitch convulsed with shivers.

The object of her attack was a gloriously beautiful young man floating several feet above the road, his long hair whipped by the force of the energy. He seemed to glow with an inner golden light, but there was some unpleasant quality in his face which disturbed Veitch immensely. The flashes of light appeared to be generated somewhere within him; they were diffuse, like a heat haze on a summer day. Veitch occasionally felt their warmth breaking through the cold. He guessed this was the power Shavi and Laura had been despatched to find and was pleased by their speedy success. The first strike went to the underdogs, he thought; perhaps things weren't so bad after all.

Although the two forces were obviously in battle, Veitch saw no anger, no emotion of any kind that he recognised. But he was relieved to see the new arrival was more than a match for the wintry ferocity of the Cailleach Bheur. With renewed vigour, he left them to their fight and hurried back up the steep road.

Edinburgh Castle stood at the very summit of the Royal Mile on a mound of volcanic rock created three hundred and forty million years before. The Fomorii had chosen their location well. Surrounded on three sides by sheer cliffs, its position was impregnable. And if the Fomorii had somehow burrowed into the very rock beneath the castle, Veitch knew they would be almost untouchable. His comfort came from the knowledge that he didn't have to defeat them-that would be up to the others-he must merely get Ruth out.

To that end he had spent his time well since the departure of the others, reading up on the fortress's history and studying its layout in intricate detail until he had his strategy well mapped out in his mind. Subterfuge was the only way forward. In the times when the garrison had fallen into English hands, the Scots had only been able to retake it through stealth, once by scaling the cliffs and taking the defending troops by surprise, once by disguising themselves as merchants and using their supplies to block open the castle gates so a larger force could sweep in. Deception went against his nature-a direct assault always made him feel much better-but he was learning rapidly.

The approach to the castle was across the wide-open forecourt where the Tattoo was held every year. In normal weather Veitch would not have been able to cross it unseen, but the drifting thick mist provided reasonable cover. He sneaked into an entryway near the Camera Obscura for a few minutes while the sun set completely. Then, with the night providing added protection, he crept around the perimeter wall.

It was an eerie scene. The castle was ablaze with light reflecting off the thick snow, a Christmas confection designed to lure tourists from across the city, but there wasn't a sound in the vicinity. The drifting mist that resembled smoke on a battlefield muffled any sound from the New Town and obscured any view of the modern city. Veitch felt like he had been transported back in time.

The castle gates were open-the Fomorii obviously feared no direct assault. Witch ducked below the level of the low stone wall and crept beneath the dark arch of the gatehouse. Adrenalin was coursing around his body; he felt revi talised, ready for anything. In the Lower Ward he paused and glanced through a window back into the gatehouse. A guard in military uniform stared blankly across a bare table. Veitch couldn't reconcile the army presence with the Fomorii until he recognised the waxy sheen to the guard's face; on close inspection, it resembled a mask: it was a shape-shifted Fomor. This was obviously how the Fomorii had managed to take the castle in the first place, quietly, unnoticed, while the Old Town bustled around them. Somewhere, he guessed, there lay a charnel house filled with the bodies of all the soldiers who had been replaced.

He kept to the shadows as he climbed the stairs towards the Middle Ward, trying to muffle his footsteps as much as he could. If he allowed himself to recognise it, he would have had to admit he was terrified, but every sense was fixed on the here and now, smelling the wind for the familiar reek of the Fomorii, listening for even the slightest sound, constantly scanning for any movement in the shadows. He had no idea if the Fomorii had established any kind of secret defence which would alert them to his presence, but he put his faith in moving fast, so he didn't stay in one place too long.

As he rounded the corner into the Middle Ward he was brought up sharp by a patrol moving in step across the windswept expanse. Quickly, he pulled himself back against the wall, praying he had not been seen. With foreknowledge, it was obvious the patrol did not consist of human soldiers; there was a brooding presence to it which set his nerves on edge.

He held his breath, let the darkness settle on him; the cold bit sharply and he could no longer feel his feet where they were covered by the blanket of snow. As he scanned the battlements, towers and building, it was clear the Fomorii were everywhere. It would take all his skill and a large dose of luck to slip by them unseen; if he were spotted at this early stage he wouldn't stand a chance.

His task was to find where the Fomorii had established their entrance to whatever lay beneath the castle; his only chance of discovery was to follow some of the Bastards to the location. He guessed, though, that entrance could lie in the Castle Vaults, which were on the closest level to the base rock. But his progress wasn't going to be easy-the Fomorii patrol was marching back and forth across the Middle Ward, barring his advance. At least his detailed preparation had left him with a fairly comprehensive knowledge of the castle's labyrinthine byways. Slowly, he edged backwards through the shadows until he found the Lang Stairs, seventy mediaeval steps that led up into the mist. Cautiously he advanced up them; if a Fomor was coming in the opposite direction, the haar would prevent him knowing until they were on top of each other.

By the time he reached the top he was covered in a cold sweat. Somewhere ahead he could hear the crunch of footsteps in the snow. Quickly he dashed past the rows of cannon lining the battlements until he found another hiding place. At that point he was off the beaten track and the chance of another Fomorii patrol passing by was slim. He squatted down and caught his breath, wondering what Church would have done in the same situation. The tension was so high it would have been easy to turn back, but his evening of conversation with Reynolds had filled him with an uncommon, fiery hope; he really believed he could reach Ruth, get her out, even. And then, perhaps, she would recognise him for who he truly was.

It was too cold to remain in one spot for long. Crown Square, with its clustering, towering buildings, was his best chance for cover as he made his way towards the Castle Vaults. At the square's east entrance he paused to survey the scene. It was quiet and deserted, the snow deep and unbroken across the broad expanse. The mist drifted hazily along the rooftops. To his right, the Scottish National War Memorial loomed up, dark and foreboding; there would be no one in there at least, among the silent monuments to those who had died in defence of the realm. The other buildings around the square could well be occupied, but they were all dark too.

Warily, he stepped out; the snow crunched unnervingly loudly under his feet. The exit to the vaults was directly opposite him, just a stone's throw across the way. He had made it halfway across when he came up sharp. The lights from the Upper Ward that filtered into the square were suddenly throwing a large, distorted shadow on to one of the walls ahead of him. Veitch had only an instant to think before launching himself to his left and his only possible hiding place: the Great Halls, where the door hung open.

The shadow was across almost the entire square as he threw himself through the opening. He prayed he had been quick enough, but as he scurried into the gloom his foot clipped the door and it swung shut. It must have been seen by whoever was approaching, for it was followed by the insistent, nauseating barks and shrieks of the Fomorii dialect. Veitch propelled himself into the main hall and searched for a hiding place. If he could lie low, the Fomorii guard might simply think the door had been blown shut by the wind.

The darkness in the hall was magnified by the oppressive wooden panelling beneath the deep red walls and heavy beams which supported the vaulted roof. Stained-glass windows along one wall allowed dull beams of light to filter through. The hall was a museum to armoury: swords, pikes, spears, shields, breastplates and helmets were everywhere. Two heavy wooden chairs stood in front of an enormous stone fireplace at one end. Veitch dived behind them into the shadowy hearth and waited there.

A second after he'd settled, footsteps echoed across the room. He peered under the chairs to see a Fomor disguised as a Royal Scots Dragoon march into the centre of the hall and slowly survey it. Veitch held his breath, every muscle of his body tense. The moment was suspended for what felt like hours until the creature turned and began to walk back towards the door. Just as Witch was about to breathe again, the guard stopped, threw one more glance around, then began to fumble for a radio at its belt. Veitch knew instantly from the body language what was intended: a warning of a potential intruder, or just a call to be more vigilant; either way, it was bad news.

The thought had barely registered when he was stealthily slipping out from behind the chairs. As the guard brought the radio up, Witch pulled a stout short sword silently from a baize-covered display table and began to creep across the floor. He could catch it unawares, drive the sword into the base of its skull before it had a chance to raise the alarm. He'd seen how powerful the things were; he didn't want to risk a face-to-face confrontation.

He slid quickly across the room, raising the sword as he moved. He was almost ready to put his shoulder behind the plunge when the radio suddenly let out an ear-piercing shriek. In a split second it had changed form, like mercury being dropped on to the floor. A silver sheen flooded over it as it sprouted legs like a spider before scurrying up the guard's arm, where it proceeded to shriek.

Veitch only had the barest instant to realise the thing was a Caraprix-one of the symbiotic shape-shifting creatures which both the Tuatha De Danann and Fomorii carried with them-before the guard was whirling. In the same fluid motion his human face began to melt away like candle-wax, rolling, pluming, becoming something so hideous it made Veitch's gorge rise. He tried not to look as he continued with his sword stroke, driving it towards the creature's head. But the Fomor had shifted enough for the blade to glance off its shoulderbone or whatever the unpleasant ridge was that was materialising under the guard's shirt, splitting it open.

The creature swung something that had been an arm but now resembled a scorpion's tail, still changing, catching him hard on the side of the head. He flew sideways, hitting the floor hard as purple stars burst in his brain.

He rolled on to his back as the Fomor advanced like a reptile, indistinct and dark and sickening, smelling of raw meat. Veitch gave himself wholly over to instinct, that strange fighting prowess that had gradually emerged from deep within him. He propelled himself forward, tangling himself in the creature's legs. Its momentum carried it forward and over him. As it fell, he held up the sword, then rolled out of the way at the last moment. The Fomor's own weight drove the sword through its neck and into its skull. It lay on the floor twitching and shrieking, leaking a substance that smelled so bad Veitch had to fight back the nausea.

The Caraprix, too, was wailing. It leapt from the fallen guard and scuttled across the floor. Veitch reacted instantly. He jumped forward and stamped down hard with one heavy boot, splattering it in a burst of grey ichor; its wail of alarm was cut off midnote.

Witch allowed himself one moment of relief, scarcely able to believe he had killed one of the creatures, though he still didn't fancy his chances in a direct fight. Then he hurried over to the wall display, selected another short sword and a dagger which he tucked into his jacket, then a crossbow and some bolts, which he hung on a strap over his shoulder. And then he headed hastily to the door to see if anything had responded to the creature's dying cries.

The square was as quiet and deserted as when he had first seen it. The only tracks were the guard's and his own. Quickly he ran to the west exit from the square. He could hear the patrol still moving around the Middle Ward, but there was nothing between him and the Castle Vaults.

He kept close to the walls until he reached the entrance, still amazed he had made it so far. The vaults were dark and dank and smelled of wet stone and earth. The first section consisted of a long arched corridor; there were two rooms leading off it. After the wide open spaces, the place felt claustrophobic. Water was dripping from the ceiling in a constant rhythm and echoes bounced wildly off the stone.

His teeth went on edge when he heard the Fomorii dialect reverberating from the furthest room. Guardedly, he crept to the corner and peered round. Two more Royal Scots Dragoon guards stood talking next to an enormous cannon, which he knew from his reading was the mediaeval siege gun, Mons Meg. Beyond it was a ragged hole in the stone floor from which cold air currents drifted. He had been right. Here was the entrance to the Fomorii's subterranean lair. But how was he going to get past the guards?

He noticed the room had a door near the far wall, which he guessed connected with the other chamber that led off the corridor. He returned to the first room, where there was a tourist display detailing the vault's history as a prison, a bakehouse and barracks. Steeling himself, he used the haft of the sword to smash the glass, then hurried back to his original position outside the second room. As he had guessed, the guards took the back route to investigate the disturbance, allowing him a free run to the hole in the floor. Rough steps led down into the dark.

There was no time to deliberate. It had been a gamble to do anything which might alert the Fomorii to his presence, but it had been the only option; he would deal with the consequences later. Fighting back his anxiety, he put his foot on the top step.

Seconds later he was in dark, freezing tunnels only occasionally lit by a barely flickering torch. Branches broke off on either side from which drifted foul smells like the cooking of rotted meat; from the distance he could hear odd sounds of indiscernible origin which made him strangely fearful. It was a maze. The chances of finding Ruth were slim, of returning alive even slimmer.