Darkest hour

Chapter Ten

The night was filled with awe and fire. The Fabulous Beasts rose up from Arthur's Seat like a bell tolling the passing of an age now out of time, subsumed with righteous wrath and primal fury. And all across the city people threw open their windows or pulled over their cars to watch the end of it all.

The first column of fire came from the oldest of the creatures, sizzling through the air like a missile strike. It hit the centre of the Palace of Holyroodhouse, which ended its long life in an explosion that was heard twenty miles away, ballooning debris as far away as the New Town; it spiralled down in flaming arcs like celebratory fireworks, crashing into the streets, demolishing cars and roofs. The fire itself was almost liquid as it cascaded through the ruins, swamping those who tried to flee.

And high overhead the beasts swooped and soared in a display of freedom, occasionally pausing to roar another blast at the corrupted zone beneath. Their intricate flight patterns almost looked like a form of communication as they slowly worked their way up the Royal Mile. Tron Church became a needle of flame. The City Chambers, which buried the spirits of Mary King's Close, rose up in a bonfire of past hatred. St. Giles's Cathedral exploded in a shower of rock and slate and superheated stained-glass. And among them the smart shops and houses of the regal street dissolved in fire. The remnants of the haar burned off, to be replaced by a thick, black pall of smoke which glowed red and gold on the underside.

A few very privileged souls were astonished to see what appeared to be a river of blue fire surging up the Royal Mile to the castle, as if it were seeking out its destination with sentience; and where it passed, the shadows that had clung to the Old Town in recent times seemed to leap back in horror from the burning light.

All of it was converging on the castle with a rapidity that left onlookers breathless and disoriented.

At the foot of Arthur's Seat, Church and Tom watched the growing conflagration with an odd mixture of dismay and relief.

"It all depends on the others doing their job now," Church said, coughing as the wind gusted charred, sooty air into his face. "I hope Veitch got out."

"If he did, he had God on his side. If he didn't, there's nothing we can do for him now. Nor for the girl."

Church bit his lip, said nothing. Then he covered his mouth with his handkerchief and set off in the direction of the rendezvous point, praying silently that someone would be there to meet them.

Shavi and Laura were sitting morosely on South Bridge when the attack began, still trying to make head or tail of what had happened at Rosslyn. Laura was concerned at how badly Shavi had been affected by the experience, which lay heavily on the already deep scars of his encounter with his dead friend. Neither thing would go away easily; during their short walk she had seen him continually glance into empty doorways or down shadowed alleys, as if someone were standing there. But the moment Holyroodhouse exploded, all that was forgotten. They ran back through the deserted, snowy streets to see what was happening, only to be knocked flat on their backs by a blast of heated air as another house went up in flames.

"This is too dangerous," Shavi said. "We need to be away from here."

"He did it!" Laura could barely hide the jubilation in her voice. "I knew the old bastard would pull through!" She watched the Fabulous Beasts for a moment, tracing their flight path back to Arthur's Seat. "Church-dude-a hero, not a zero." She brushed hair away from her eyes, grinning broadly. "At least one of us isn't a fuck-up."

Her pleasure was sharply interrupted by a terrible sound of pain and anguish that left them both clutching their ears. "What the fuck was that?" she said when it had died away. But Shavi was already slipping and sliding through the snow closer to the Royal Mile.

Laura caught up with him at the vantage point they had occupied before. The source of the sound was two Fabulous Beasts, circling, blasting the spot where Maponus and the Cailleach Bheur had been involved in their titanic struggle. At ground zero was an enormous smoking crater, so hot at the core the stone was turning to molten lava. To one side lay what Laura guessed was the Blue Hag, but her shape seemed to be shifting constantly, desperately trying to hold on to the appearance Laura knew. A blizzard whirled frantically around the tight core of her being where a blue light glowed brightly; the awful sound came off her intermittently, like an alarm threatening imminent meltdown.

Of Maponus she could see nothing at first. But then the smoke cleared to reveal a terrible sight: the beautiful god was also in semi-fluid form, but whether it was because of his own madness or the ferocious heat of the blasts, he had been transformed into a twisted, grotesque shape from which three faces and several limbs protruded obscenely. His mouths opened and closed noiselessly, the silent screaming even more disturbing than the Blue Hag's shriek. Laura wondered why his writhing was so constrained until she saw he was half-fused into the wall of a house.

"He has fallen!" Shavi said triumphantly.

But the words had barely left his lips when a smell like frying onions filled the air and the dim golden light that always suffused Maponus' skin began to grow slowly more intense. The god's skin began to melt from his bones, then the bones themselves, and the odd things that vaguely resembled organs, all of them dissolving into one pure white light. The shapeless radiance pulled itself into a tight orb as it released itself from the wall and then began to move away across the debris.

Another blast from one of the Fabulous Beasts blinded them with a shower of dust and choking smoke for a moment, and when it had cleared they saw the Bone Inspector loping more like a beast than a man across the rubble in pursuit of the diminishing white light.

"Do you realise what this means?" Shavi said, aghast. "He cannot be destroyed. None of them can." His face was drained of all blood.

Laura grabbed his arm and began to pull him away; the heat was so intense she could smell her hair singeing. "There's nothing we can do now." She had to shake him hard to stop his protests. "Mister Freak is on his tail. He can carry the can for a while."

"We have a responsibility-"

"That's all we do have! Later, before I hit you with a rock. You've gone all Apocalypse Now combat crazy, and if you start mumbling like Marlon I really will be forced to cause pain."

Shavi fell silent, but his eyes remained troubled.

"This isn't over," she continued. "Think of it as a brief retreat, right?"

"It is not over," he agreed firmly.

Veitch and Ruth had barely moved several yards along the ramparts before they had once again become transfixed by the Fabulous Beasts.

"Shit, they're blowing the whole place up!" Veitch wrapped his arms around himself to stop shivering; the water from the well freezing on his clothes and hair made him resemble a walking snowman.

Ruth watched carefully for a moment, then said, "They're coming this way."

Witch grabbed her arm and dragged her to the Lang Stairs, and although they were lethal with ice and snow, he took them three at a time. At the bottom he paused briefly to scan the Middle Ward. The Fomorii patrol were rooted near the Cartshed, their waxy human faces turned to the approaching threat. Their statue-like appearance was emphasised by their lack of emotion, but in one second they began to change, the flesh and clothes falling away as horns and carapaces and bones began to emerge amidst a sudden cacophony of monkeyshrieks. Mid-transformation, they scattered like a disturbed ants' nest.

Their stomachs were turning, but Ruth and Witch were already moving down to the Lower Ward before the change was complete.

"I'll never get used to that," Ruth said queasily.

Veitch paused near the Gatehouse and Old Guardhouse. "Maybe we can sneak-"

The words caught in his throat as the Fomor guard emerged from the doorway and barked, "Arith Urkolim!" the moment he caught sight of Veitch. The Londoner tensed, torn between going for the crossbow or the sword, knowing either would be useless as the Fomor advanced relentlessly.

But before he could move, the glaring, reflected light from the snow suddenly darkened and a deep shadow fell over them. It was accompanied by what sounded like giant sails unfurling in a heavy gale.

Ruth dragged him back just as the oldest of the Fabulous Beasts swooped down in a blaze of glittering bronze and green scales. The Fomor and the Gatehouse were caught up in a furious firestorm that left Veitch and Ruth huddled in the snow, choking for breath as liquid fire and rubble rained down all around them. The crashing of mighty wings grew even more intense above them. Ruth rolled on to her back and peered through the billowing smoke. Four Fabulous Beasts were circling the castle.

"Let's move," she choked.

They clambered to their feet, shielding their faces from the blazing ruins of the Gatehouse. "We'll just have to put our heads down and run," Veitch gasped.

The flames closed around them for a second, the heat searing their lungs, but then they were out in the bleak, snow-swept Esplanade, slipping and sliding down the slope towards Lawnmarket.

Behind them they heard the terrible sound of the Fomorii raising the alarm. Ruth glanced back briefly and saw Calatin standing on the battlements of the Upper Ward, shrieking at the darkness that surged around him, pointing in fury at the circling Beasts.

"I hope those monsters don't hurt the Beasts," Ruth said.

Her fears were unfounded. A second later the purifying fire rained down from the heavens. The entire castle was engulfed in an inferno of living flame. Stone which had stood firm for centuries flowed like water or exploded in the instant heat. The lights popped out and windows crashed in.

Ruth and Veitch scrambled down the Royal Mile, trying to put distance between them and what they knew was to come. Ruth guessed the Scots Guards must have had an ammunition store in the castle, for a moment later there was an explosion that felt like the city was being levelled. They were knocked flat on their faces by the pressure wave, which also drove them momentarily deaf. In a world of eerie silence, Ruth rolled over to see a column of fire reaching up to the heavens where the castle had once stood. It shimmered red and gold as the Fabulous Beasts did soundless rolls and turns around it.

At the base there was an odd sight. The flames there were blue and they reached deep into the core of the rock on which the castle had stood.

"It's over." The tears of relief came with the words. She scrubbed them away with the back of her hand, then turned to Veitch, smiling and crying at the same time. "It's over," she repeated, even though she knew he couldn't hear her.

The temperature rose dramatically within minutes as the summer rushed back in to replace the fleeing winter. The near-instantaneous thaw sent water gushing into the drains and pouring in torrents from the rooftops. As their hearing returned, Witch and Ruth were enveloped in the thunderous sound of the castle and the Royal Mile burning, filling the air with choking particles, obscuring the stars with thick, oily smoke.

They hurried down George IV Bridge as fast as they could, but in the aftermath of their victory the adrenalin retreated rapidly and Ruth, in particular, was overcome with a powerful exhaustion. Eventually she was clinging on to Witch as he almost carried her the last few yards into Greyfriars Kirkyard.

The graveyard sprawled away from the overpowering presence of the kirk, surrounded by high stone houses that made it a peaceful backwater untouched by the city. Ancient trees clustered all around, their thick cover blocking out the glare from the inferno. The choking fumes hadn't reached it either. There was only the sweet scent of the rose garden that lay before the main jumble of stones, mausoleums, obelisks and boxes that glowed eerily white, like bones, in the gloom.

None of the others had arrived, so Veitch and Ruth collapsed on to a stone box; he slid his arm around her and she rested her head on his shoulder.

After a second or two, he said, "I know what you went through. Back at Dartmoor, when those bastards were dragging me through their torture mill…" He exhaled loudly. "You did fine."

"It doesn't feel fine. It was like, hanging on, you know?"

"You'll put it behind you soon."

"Is that right?"

A pause. "No."

She retched and dipped her head between her knees.

"Are you okay?"

"No, I feel terrible."

He laid her down on the box and put his jacket over her. Her skin was so pale it was almost the colour of the stone her cheek was touching. She huddled up into a fetal position and a second later she was asleep.

Veitch kept watch over her, his eyes flickering from the gentle rise and fall of her chest to the dark shadows that clustered all around. He wished the others would hurry up. Despite the destruction of the castle, he couldn't believe that was the end of it. With Ruth asleep, the kirkyard seemed too quiet and exposed; an attack could come from any direction. The rustling of the leaves and the shifting of the branches in the faint breeze made him think there was something moving around in the gloom. And the more he sat in silence, the more he thought he could hear faint noises on the other side of the kirkyard.

Another sound nearby warned him that it wasn't all in his mind. It could have been a squirrel or a cat, but over the last few weeks he had learned to expect the worse.

At first there was nothing. Then he glimpsed movement around the kirkyard, shapes flitting among the trees, appearing and disappearing behind the grave markers. He started to count, then gave up, although there was nothing to suggest they were Fomorii. But whatever was out there seemed to be moving closer. His grip grew tighter on his sword.

"Unclean."

The word was just a rustle caught on the wind. He looked around suddenly in the direction it had come from, but the area was deserted.

"Who's there?" he called firmly.

No answer. The nerves along his spine were tingling; he had the uneasy sensation that he was being watched. More movement. He couldn't put it down to imagination; there was definitely someone out there.

"You better come out," he said forcefully.

"What's going on?"

Veitch started at the voice. Church had just marched through the kirkyard gates, beaming broadly, Laura hanging on his arm, looking honestly happy for once. Behind them was Tom, as impossible to read as ever, and then Shavi, who seemed uncommonly downcast. "Did you see it? Did you see what we did?" Church continued. "All those screw-ups and bad luck and this time we got it right!"

Church suddenly noticed Ruth asleep under Witch's coat and threw off Laura's arm to run to her side. Laura's expression changed to one of irritation before she managed to mask it.

"Is she okay?" Church gently touched her wrist where it poked out from beneath the coat.

"She's had a bad time." Veitch kept one eye on the kirkyard; all the movement had ceased. "The Bastards really put her through it, but she's tough. She'll be okay."

Church grinned. "Then we're celebrating! Everything worked out fine. I don't believe it!"

"Unclean."

This time the voice was clear and unmistakable. Church looked round, puzzled. "What was that?"

"There's somebody out there." Veitch pulled out the sword where it could be seen. "I don't think it's the Bastards, but I don't have a good feeling about it."

The others gathered around. "I sense something-" Shavi began.

"Can't you see them?" Tom snapped. "Amongst the trees?"

And then they could all see them: grey figures moving slowly, some of them raising their arms to the heavens as if they were in some kind of distress. They moved forward, silently at first, but as they drew closer faint whispers sprang up like echoes in their wake, growing louder until their voices were clear. They were protesting about something, frightened, outraged.

"What are they?" Church asked.

"The dead," Tom said. "The spirits of the kirkyard."

"Eighty thousand of us." The voice came from behind a mausoleum. Gradually a figure emerged, hollow-cheeked and staring, with eyes that made their blood run cold. He was as grey as the stone, wearing clothes which dated his time to the turn of the century. "That's how many of us are buried here. Eighty thousand."

The spirit of a woman rushed up to them, wailing so loudly they all flinched, but at the last minute she turned away and fled among the stones.

"What's wrong with them?" Laura's voice was hushed, frightened.

The spirits were in a semi-circle before them now, tearing at their ghostly hair, beating their breasts; their anguish was palpable.

"Leave now." The man near the mausoleum was pointing at them accusingly. "You are damned!"

"They are coming for you! They are not departed!" a woman shrieked, her hair as wild as snakes. "They will not let you go!"

"Coming into this place, so unclean!" the man continued. "Foul! Besmirched! And the Night Walkers will follow in your wake, hunting you. You will bring them here!"

"What's wrong?" Veitch yelled at them. "We've actually done some bleedin' good for a change-"

He was cut off by more shrieking.

"Come on," Church said, "let's go." He shook Ruth, who struggled to stand, barely able to keep her eyes open.

The spirits followed closely as the six of them started to back away to the kirkyard gates; the voices became more shrill and intense, wailing like sirens, enough to set teeth on edge.

"Unclean!" the man yelled so loudly Laura jumped back a step. "You corrupt this sacred ground! Your black trail scars our home!"

The dead crowded in suddenly, and although they appeared insubstantial, their clawed fingers caught at the group's clothes, tore at their hair. Church and the others broke into a run, pursued by the shrieking spirits, which were dipping and rising across the kirkyard like reflected light on mist. It was as if the spirits were being tortured by unimaginable pain.

Only when the group was resting against the foot of the bridge outside the kirkyard gates did the sound subside; and even then the spirits could be glimpsed flitting around the kirk in a state of distress.

"That freaked me out," Laura said. A flicker crossed her face and she glanced to Church, hoping perhaps that he would deny her thoughts. "They were saying the Fomorii were going to hunt us down."

But he seemed more concerned by something else. "What made them act like that?" He looked to Tom for an answer.

"It doesn't matter about any of that," Veitch said animatedly. "We did it."

They all turned to him.

"There was some ritual going on under the castle-"

"Ritual?" Church's eyes gleamed.

Veitch nodded, smiling tightly. "Something big. I reckon it was the big one. And we stopped the Bastards doing it."

A ripple of relief ran through the group; they could hardly believe it. Church turned to Tom, questioning silently.

"You saw the place." He was almost smiling. "All that's there now is a big crater."

"We stopped them," Church said quietly, as if the words would break the spell. After all the weeks of failure, disbelief hung at the back of his voice. But it was true. "We burned out the nest. They won't be able to bring Balor back." He dropped to his haunches, one hand over his face while he assimilated the words. The moment hung in the air, and then Laura draped a tentative hand on to his shoulder. It was as if that was the signal; suddenly they were hugging each other, slapping backs, laughing and gabbling inanely as the tension rushed out of them. Witch let out an ear-piercing yell of triumph that bounced among the buildings.

"But those spooks-" Church hugged Laura off her feet and crushed the rest of the sentence inside her. She tried to look aloof, but she couldn't keep the smile in.

"The Fomorii are still here," he explained. "You saw the nest in the Lake District-they're all over the damn place. We've just stopped them getting the upper hand, that's all. That's all!" He let out a whoop. "We've kicked them so hard it's going to take them a while to get back on their feet! Now we've got the upper hand! All we've got to do now is find a way to get the Tuatha De Danann on our side and kick the Bastards out for good."

"Oh well, it's almost over then," Laura said with a smile that dripped irony.

"Ah, shaddup, you miserable git." He kissed her and that surprised both of them.

"We owe ourselves a bleedin' big piss-up," Veitch said, his arm tight around Ruth's shoulders. She was smiling wanly, still scarcely able to believe what she was hearing.

But they all agreed Veitch was right. Swept up in their jubilation and relief, they turned towards the south and began to move out of the city.

They had travelled barely a quarter of a mile when it became apparent they wouldn't get far on foot. Church and Veitch had been supporting Ruth, but with each step they were doing more dragging than carrying.

They eventually halted on a corner while Veitch and Laura disappeared down a side street. Forty-five minutes later they pulled up in a pristine Transit.

"Who'd you kill for that?" Ruth croaked.

"God, even half-dead she's Mother Superior." Laura raised her eyes in an exaggerated response.

They loaded Ruth in the back and made her as comfortable as possible, then Church Joined Laura and Veitch in the front. "Just like old times," she said, without a hint of sarcasm.

Beyond the reach of the Old Town, the streets gave way to well-heeled neighbourhoods where the houses were rambling and set well back from the road, and beyond that were the plain, structured streets of suburbia. By 2:15 a.m., they were crossing the ring road, enjoying the balminess of a warm summer night after the chill environment of the Cailleach Bheur.

Unlike most English cities, the built-up area ended abruptly and they were plunged immediately into rolling green fields punctuated by peaceful woods. The tires sang on dry roads through tiny villages. Away to the east, the remnants of the haar still clouded the horizon, but overhead the skies were clear and iced with stars.

At the sign for Roslin Village, Laura glanced over her shoulder to see Shavi's chin droop on to his chest. He was normally so bright and optimistic, it pained her to see the dismay etched into his features. More than anything, she wanted to clamber over the seat and give him a hug, but there was no way she could in front of the others.

After a long journey through thick woods, they entered a desolate valley plain where sheep wandered morosely over the clipped, yellow grass. In the distance the hills rose up steeply while, nearer to hand, train lines cut a swathe through the heart of the valley. At 4 a.m. they broke off to make camp for the night. Veitch and Church had been determined to keep going until dawn, but the decision was made for them by another technology failure which left the van drifting aimlessly on to the verge. They pushed it for a little way until they found a lane which led behind a small copse of trees where they could hide; even after their success, paranoia still hissed in the background. They'd abandoned all their clothes, camping equipment and provisions at the hotel, so they made themselves as comfortable as they could in the confines of the van. Tom was particularly concerned about Ruth, but she appeared to be sleeping easily enough. After their exertions, they drifted off within an instant of resting.

By the time they rose the sun was high in a clear blue sky and the interior of the van was beginning to bake. Although still weak and exhausted, Ruth was much brighter. They helped her outside where she propped herself up against a wheel and before too long she was exchanging banter with Shavi and Church and baiting Laura and Veitch. On the surface it was like old times, but something had changed; where there had been malice, now there was affection, however well-hidden.

They were eager to exchange details of their experiences. Veitch was reticent in his description of his assault on the castle, and when Ruth emphasised the extent of his bravery his ears turned red. They all did their best to boost Shavi, but his account of Maponus and the thought that he was still at large cast a chill over them all.

Tom listened carefully, then said, "He is beyond our remit now. If anyone can find a way to restrain him, then it would be the Bone Inspector. He has knowledge denied to you and I, and it was his people who imprisoned Maponus initially." He paused. "But he is just one man."

"But Maponus cannot be killed-we saw," Shavi stressed. "None of the gods can."

"No," Tom agreed, "not in the way you mean. Although the lowest of the Fomorii, the troops, if you will, can be eradicated, as Ryan found out at the castle."

"How can we be guerrillas if we can't hurt the ones that really matter?" Laura protested. "We're just an irritation-"

"Situation normal for you, then," Veitch muttered.

"We've done what we can," Laura continued, "done a good job. Can't we leave it up to somebody else, now? We've earned a rest, haven't we?"

Nobody seemed comfortable debating this line and the conversation drifted on to Church and Tom's encounter beneath Arthur's Seat.

"It was the weirdest experience," Church said. "The way reality, time, space, everything, seemed to be fluid in proximity to such a powerful source of the blue fire."

"Maybe that's how reality really is," Ruth mused. "God knows, we've had enough proof we can't trust our senses to perceive anything correctly. When you think about it, it's scary. We're prisoners in our heads, completely at the mercy of our brain functions, and beyond that little bit of bone, the universe might be completely different to how we imagine it."

"There is a line of scientific thought, currently growing in popularity," Shavi mused, "that suggests time does not exist. We perceive it as flowing constantly because that is the way our brains have been structured to understand it. But we are really living in all times at once. That would explain precognition-"

"But how does it work?" Ruth said.

"I wish you lot would shut up-you're making my head hurt," Veitch said irritably. "Talk, talk, talk, like a bunch of bleedin' students. Things are how they are, that's all. We've got more important things to think about."

A hawk hunted for prey over an area of scrubby undergrowth in the middle distance. The image triggered a succession of disturbing thoughts in Church.

"Tom and I weren't alone beneath the Seat," he said.

"Yeah, the old git took along the chip on his shoulder," Laura said tartly.

"The one who took Ruth was there." Church flashed a glance at Ruth, not quite knowing how she was going to react.

Veitch bristled. "What did he look like?"

Church exhaled through the gap in his teeth. "You know what he looked like. A bloody big wolf, just like Laura said. With yellow eyes and everything."

"You should never have left the path, little girl," Laura said to Ruth with a faint smile. From the corner of his eye, Church caught Veitch watching the two of them intently, coldly.

Church nodded to Tom. "You tell them what you told me."

Tom took off his spectacles and cleaned them on his shirt. Without the glasses he looked less like the sixties burn-out case and more like the erudite, thoughtful aristocrat he was. "When the old gods have…" There was a long, jarring pause while he searched for the right word. "… adjusted someone, it is often difficult for the mind to fully fix their shape. It's as if something fundamental has been altered on a molecular level, something so in opposition to nature it seems to set up interference patterns for the senses. The first few times you see something like this, unless you're prepared, it's like a punch in the stomach. To make sense of it, the mind gives it a shape which is closest to the essence of its being-

"So it's a wolf at heart?" Ruth asked. There seemed to be a stone pressing at the back of her throat.

"Is this the origin of werewolves?" Shavi interjected.

Tom shook his head. "The Lupinari are different. This creature was mortal once. And the ones who have been altered sometimes seem so enamoured of this inner self, they grow into it. Physically."

"I've met a few guys like that," Laura said. "They don't need a full moon. Just seven pints."

"You don't remember anything?" Church asked Ruth.

She shook her head. "Just Laura-"

"Laura?" Veitch's voice was a whipcrack.

"Laura was around somewhere. That's all I remember."

They sat in silence for a few moments, weighing the evidence. And then, once they had exhausted all possibilities, they were forced to turn to Ruth again, although none of them wanted to hear what she had to say.

"How was it in there?" Church asked tenderly.

She smiled weakly. "Oh, you know… You can guess."

He nodded. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She shook her head. "I just want to get back on my feet."

"I might be able to help there." Tom gave her a faint smile, but it was warm and honest, a rare sight. He headed off into the countryside. They watched him for a while, dipping down occasionally to pluck something from the ground.

"Hmmm, grass and weeds. You're in for a treat," Laura said. "What is it with the old git? He knows all about these herbs and shit like he's some old witch." Ruth flinched, but no one noticed.

"He's had a long time to learn." Church continued to watch Tom. Their relationship had always been abrasive, but he had respect for the Rhymer's wisdom.

"He learned it from the Culture, the people of the Bone Inspector," Shavi said. "It is age-old knowledge, from the time when people were close to the land."

"We need to sort out the way forward." Veitch cut through the small talk sharply.

"What's to sort out? I'm so hungry I could eat you." Laura let the double- entendre hang in the air teasingly, her sunglasses obscuring her true meaning. "Calm down, big boy. That wasn't meant in a nice way."

"Laura is right," Shavi said. "Hot food first, then provisions, camping equipment, clothes. We need to replace everything we left at the hotel."

"Yeah, because that city is not going to look very pretty after the air-raid," Witch said sharply. "We need to find a place to lie low while we work out what we're going to do. Somewhere the Bastards can't find us."

Church nodded in agreement. "We should head south."

"Yeah, I'm sick of heather and tartan," Veitch said. "And all the bleedin' Jocks hate us anyway."

Tom returned half an hour later with two handfuls of vegetation while Ruth was vainly searching the sky for her owl. He used the wheel brace in the van to pound them into two piles of pulp. One he applied as a poultice to Ruth's finger, the other he made her eat, despite her protests.

"Stop whining," Laura said. "As soon as you get past the gag reflex it'll be fine."

Eventually she ate it, and she did retch noisily for a while, but nothing came back up. They helped her back into the van and she fell asleep as soon as they set off.

The journey was not easy going. They stopped at a roadside cafe for a large meal that doubled as breakfast and lunch, before they were hit by two technology failures, lasting two hours and forty-five minutes respectively. In Peebles they used their credit cards to stock up on everything they needed, but the shop assistants were wary of taking the plastic; with the failure of the phone system it was impossible to check their validity, and everyone seemed to suspect the whole system was collapsing anyway. To recognise that fact was a blow too far so the cards were swiped in the old-fashioned way, with an unspoken prayer that everything would sort itself out soon. But it was obvious to Church and the others that the balloon was on the point of going up.

As they passed through Melrose, Tom waxed lyrical about his home area until Laura yawned so loudly and repeatedly it brought him to cursing. Jedburgh passed in a blur and they crossed the border in late afternoon.

There was a heated debate about which route to pursue after that, but everyone bowed to Veitch's strategic decison to head into the wide open spaces of high hills and bleak moorland that comprised the Northumberland National Park. They swept from the rolling fields of the Scottish Lowlands into a majestic landscape of purples, browns and greens, brooding beneath a perfect blue sky. It was a place of rock and scrub, wind-torn trees standing lonely on the horizon, and a howling gale that rushed from the high places as if it had a life of its own.

The hardiness gave way to the pleasant shade of the Border Forest Park, where the play of light and dark through the leaf cover on to the windscreen made them all feel less hunted. There was a deep peace among the thick woods that was a pleasure after the omnipresent threat of Edinburgh.

While Shavi drove, Veitch took charge of the map book. He made them follow a circuitous route through the quiet villages that must have added fifty miles to their journey, but he insisted if there was any pursuit it would make their destination less apparent. Laura noted tartly that he'd already baffled the rest of them about where they were going.

They eventually came to a halt at an abandoned railway station at High Staward, eight miles southwest of Hexham. They loaded all their possessions into four rucksacks which Church, Veitch, Tom and Shavi shouldered with much protesting. Laura taunted their lack of manliness, and even Ruth tossed out a few quips, and eventually they were marching along a footpath northwards through the deserted countryside.

Veitch had selected the location after careful study of the maps, and they all had to agree it was so off the beaten track it was as good a hiding place as any. They plunged down into thick woodland where the dark lay heavy and cool and the only sound was the eerie soughing of the wind, like distant voices urging them to stray from the path. A mile later they emerged to a breathtaking sight: the Allen Gorge. Four miles long, its precipitously steep sides soared up two hundred and fifty feet, covered with so many trees it looked like an Alpine landscape. Secluded pathways wound along the riverside and away into the trees.

"We could hide here for weeks if we wanted." Veitch's voice held a note of pride that the reality matched up to his expectations.

They followed a path into the area with the thickest tree cover and then ploughed off into the wild. They finally halted when they couldn't see the path clearly any longer. The tents went up quickly in a circle, and at the heart of it Veitch dug a pit for a fire.

In the early evening sun, Church and Shavi went exploring. They found an outcropping rock in a clearing on the side of the gorge where they had majestic views over the entire area. They were both instantly struck by the immaculate beauty of the place.

"You know, if we lose all the technology, maybe it won't be so bad," Church mused. "We'll still have all this."

Before Shavi could reply, the tranquillity was shattered by the roar of two jets burning through the sky in the direction of Newcastle. "I bet they're not test flights," Church said. "Looks like trouble."

Fifteen minutes later another one followed, but before it had crossed the arc of the sky, the technology chose that moment to fail once more. They saw the jet plummet from the sky like a boulder, hitting the ground with an explosion that made their ears ring despite their distance from ground zero. They stood in silence for a long time, watching the black pall of smoke merge with the clouds. Wrapped up in that incident was the failure of everything they knew; Church found himself questioning his earlier statement. They couldn't put it into any kind of perspective, and in the end, they didn't even try. They wandered back to the camp, thinking about the poor pilot, wondering what was happening in Newcastle, glad they were hidden in their perfect isolation.

Dinner was beans and bread, and sausages for all except Laura and Shavi. They ate around the campfire in the balmy summer evening atmosphere, enjoying the fading light as it filtered down through the canopy. The crack and pop of the fire was relaxing as the night drew in. It was the first time in weeks they had been able to eat peacefully without a very real fear of pursuit or some other pervasive threat hanging over their heads; they found it hard to adjust.

After the meal, they sat drinking coffee for a while, listening to the sounds of the owls coming alive in the trees and then they broke up for some time to be alone with their thoughts. They agreed to meet up later in the evening to celebrate with the good supply of beer and whisky they'd brought with them.

Church was the first back to the camp after a quiet stroll among the trees, where he had forced himself not to think about anything too troubling. Ruth was still resting where they had left her, staring into the flames. She looked up and smiled when he approached.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Much better. My stump's stopped aching and I feel quite rested-my energy's coming back. Whatever Tom puts in those foul concoctions he makes up, he should sell it in bulk to the NHS." She paused thoughtfully. "If there still is an NHS. Apart from that I've just got a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, like I've eaten sour apples. That's the least I expected, to be honest. I could be up and about like normal in a couple of days."

He dropped down next to her and slipped an arm around her shoulders. They had grown easy in their friendship since the night they had met under Albert Bridge, drawing comfort from the many similarities between them, enjoying the differences. They both felt that when the situation was at its worst, they could always turn to each other for support.

"I'm glad you're back," Church said matter-of-factly.

Ruth dropped her head on to his shoulder, remembering a similar scenario on Skye, not so long ago, but a world away in experience. "There was a time I thought I wasn't going to make it back. I thought they were going to torture me and torture me until I died just because I couldn't take it any more."

"Ryan's right, Ruth. You came through it. You've shown what huge reserves you've got inside you. It may seem like a nightmare now, but in the long term, that's a good thing."

One thing still troubled her, but she didn't see any point in telling Church; it seemed so minor after everything else. Since she had left her cell there had been no sign of her owl, or whatever creature it was that took that form. She was surprised at how distressed that made her feel. It wasn't just that it hadn't found her yet; she felt instinctively that some deep bond had been broken.

What could have happened to cause that? The education she had been receiving in her cell still sang in her mind, so powerfully had it been learned. She had been rapidly growing closer to the way the familiar had wanted her to be.

One thought did worry her: that there had been no familiar; it was all a hallucination caused by her suffering, and the owl that had followed her for the last few weeks was simply a bird and nothing more.

Church lounged back on his elbows. "It feels good to know we've done something right for a change." He glanced down at her hand and winced. "Even though we paid a big price for it."

"What are we going to do now? We can't call ourselves losers any more." Ruth butted him gently with her head; their easy familiarity soothed her almost as much as Tom's herbal remedies. "Don't tell me you've finally shaken that mis- erabilist streak."

"What, and change the habits of a lifetime? It's just taking a few days off." He laughed quietly. "And I'm certainly not going to let anything ruin the celebration tonight. After all the shit we've waded through over the last few weeks, this is going to be the party to end all parties."

Laura had found a boulder near to the river where she could sit and think. The sound of rushing water always calmed her. As a girl she'd dreamed of living near the coast and taken every opportunity to let her parents know how she felt. Her father had even agreed once, and they'd sat together looking at his AA Book of the Road, searching for the perfect home. If she remembered rightly, they'd decided on somewhere in South Devon. But that was before her mother had truly let God move her in mysterious ways-all the way from sanity to the other end of the scale. The failure to uproot, despite her father's promises, was just the first and most minor of a lifetime of disappointments. Since then there had been so many she'd become inured to them; any happiness was an aberration to be questioned.

She'd never really thought her cynical outlook actually brought about her disappointments, but if it was the case, it was too late to change. After she'd met Church, it had seemed her life's route had taken a sudden detour to the sunny side of the street and things really could work out as she hoped. But perhaps that had just been the desperation influencing her. She'd long ago learned wishing and hoping didn't make things real, and now it all seemed to be slipping back to the old ways. Church didn't love her, not the way she loved him. The others, she was sure, secretly hated her; she certainly hadn't done anything to make them think otherwise, however much she secretly admired them. She was always screwing up, dragging them into bad situations.

And now there was the thing with her blood. What was happening to her? It terrified her to the core of her being and she desperately wished there was someone she could talk to about it. But there wasn't, not even Church. Her thoughts and emotions had to stay locked up, same as they always had; it was the only true way to protect herself.

She would have expected a degree of bitterness, but now that she examined her state of mind she realised there was only a damp, grey acceptance. And wasn't that the most pathetic thing?

A vague movement among the trees caused her to turn suddenly. It was only Veitch, his face a curious mask that hinted at emotions but gave nothing away.

"I thought you were supposed to be the big warrior-strategist-whatever," she sneered. "You couldn't creep up on a deaf, blind person."

"I wasn't creeping."

Now she thought she did see emotions: anger, suspicion, hatred, although that was perhaps too strong. Suddenly, inexplicably, she felt frightened. "Yeah, well, don't try coming a-wooing. I've already told you where I stand on that front."

"I wouldn't dirty myself."

"Ooh, bitchy. Well, you're not exactly the catch of the century, believe me."

He grabbed her arm so roughly she let out a sharp squeal.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" She shook him off angrily.

His eyes blazed coldly and suddenly she was aware of the hardness of his body, the tendons like steel wire. She jumped off the rock and began to march back in the direction of the camp. He made another lunge at her, but she anticipated it and dodged beyond his fingers.

"Don't fucking walk away from me."

"What's the matter? Can't get laid the normal way so you have to take it like some Neanderthal?" She fought to keep the tremor from her voice.

Her words, though, seemed to shock him. A puzzled expression crossed his features, as if he was struggling to understand her meaning. Then the anger returned harder than ever. "I'd never do anything like that!" The words hissed between his teeth like steam from a fractured pipe. "Is that what you think of me?"

"You're not exactly acting like Prince Charming." She couldn't resist turning to face him, knowing she had a clear path to the camp if she needed to make a run for it.

"You've got a smart mouth." He took a step forward, but he restrained himself from making another lunge for her.

"Come on then!" Suddenly it was impossible to control herself and all the pent-up rage, all the self-loathing and despair erupted. "Give it to me! What's rubbing you up the wrong way?"

"You!" He jabbed a finger at her face. "You wander around throwing out smart comments, acting so cool and aloof like you're better than everybody! But I've got you figured out! I know you had something to do with what happened to Ruth-"

She threw up her arms in amazement. "You are so off the fucking mark you're on another planet!" She turned and set off through the trees, her head spinning from the rush of emotion.

The roar of breath expelled from Veitch's mouth was animalistic, the sound of someone who couldn't cope. And then she heard the crash of his feet on the ground as he set off after her. She didn't wait any longer. She put her head down and ran, glad she was wearing boots and jeans, weaving through the trees as fast as she could go. But it was too dark. She slammed against a tree, winded herself, smashed a shin against an outcropping rock. Behind she could hear the grunts and yells of Witch's angry pursuit; he was moving swiftly, avoiding all obstacles like some night-hunting panther. He'd be on her in a minute.

The fear sluiced all the hot emotions from her in a cold wash. And what would he do when he caught her? Her heart hammered as she leapt a fallen tree, ducked beneath a low branch.

"Bitch!" The word was low and hard.

In her rising panic, her thoughts flatlined. She made a move to jump a hollow, twisted her ankle, and then she was falling off-balance. She hit the ground hard, saw stars, slid through the undergrowth that tore at her face and hair, and came to a halt against a pile of rocks. Pain flared through her side and involuntary tears sprang to her eyes.

Veitch was over her a second later, rising up dark and empowered like some monstrous creature from a forties horror movie. His fists were bunched, raised to hit her. "I know you did Ruth somehow! Did it yourself, or fucking sold her down the river! You're the traitor they told us about! But I'm fucking on to you!"

Something seemed to explode in his face and then the fist was swinging. Laura cried out, closed her eyes, threw her head to one side.

When the blow didn't come, the chaotic jumble of her thoughts fell quickly into place and she looked up. Veitch was sitting down, his head in his hands and when he looked up a few seconds later, his eyes shone with tears. "Fucking bitch! You've brought me to this!" His voice was a croak of repressed emotion. "I'd never hurt a woman. Never!"

"You have a good way of showing-" For the first time she managed to bite off her comment. "I didn't have anything to do with what happened to Ruth. And I'm not a traitor." She tried to keep her voice measured.

"I don't believe you." By the time he'd stood up and walked a few paces through the trees he'd composed himself. "I don't believe you," he repeated; the threat in his voice made her blood run cold. "I've been watching you. I'll keep watching you. I'm not going to let the others get hurt. I'm going to make sure someone pays for Ruth. One sign, that's all I need. One sign. And you're dead."

He disappeared into the gloom among the trees, silently, dangerously.

Once he was out of sight, Laura crumpled and all the tears she had held in for a lifetime came flooding out.

After she had managed to collect herself, the golden glow of the fire drew her back to the camp. But as the trees thinned towards the clearing her heart caught in her throat. There was Church, his arm around Ruth, her head on his shoulder. It wasn't jealousy she felt; she could see there was nothing furtive about their body language. Instead she was hit by the aching revelation that she could never attain the depth of Church and Ruth's relationship: the easy familiarity, the emotional honesty, the warmth were all apparent, even at a casual glance. And she could see there was love there, a kind she would have given anything to experience, so subtle Church and Ruth seemed oblivious to it themselves.

She couldn't blame Church. The fault was within herself. Something had been broken during those lean years of childhood and early teens; however much she tried, she couldn't give up her emotions honestly, and so she had consigned herself to a life of being shut in the prison of her body, feeling something keenly, hearing a corrupted version emerge from her lips; an emotional synaesthesia.

As she watched them, she hurt so profoundly she felt there was a physical pain deep inside; the hopelessness for herself was even more overwhelming than when she had realised she could never attain the loving family life of her school friends, so deep there was no point fighting it; acceptance was the only option.

She rubbed her face muscles, as if that would break up the desperate expression, fixed an ironic smile and stepped out from the shadows.

"Well, Siamese twins," she said sharply. "You should get on the waiting list for the operation."

Within the hour they were all sitting around the heartily blazing campfire. The night was balmy, dreamlike, alive with the crackle of the burning wood, the calls of hunting owls, the flitter of moths and crane-flies. It felt like a time of peace, a time when anything could happen.

Church lounged on his side and threw twigs into the flames. Next to him was Ruth, who seemed to be getting brighter with each passing moment, except for the occasional queasy expression. Laura and Veitch sat on opposite sides of the fire, never making eye contact, yet acutely aware of an atmosphere of suspicion and threat hanging over them like a poisonous cloud. They both knew, whatever happened, they would never overcome it.

Tom sat cross-legged, rolling a joint, alone with his thoughts. Shavi was beside him, handing out the cans of beer when needed, ensuring the bottle of whisky never stayed in one place too long. When he had first returned to the camp, his face was grey and haggard, as if he was suffering from some debilitating illness, but Laura recognised the truth instantly. She knew in the dark woods he had encountered the thing that would never leave him alone, and she knew how deeply it had affected him, yet he never complained to any of the others about his private burden. She wished she had some of the inner strength that saw him through it. When the others weren't looking she gave his hand a secret squeeze; his smile made her night.

The drink flowed freely, the conversation ranged across a variety of subjects: archaeology, drugs, music, films, sex, football, but nothing dark or threatening; it was a celebration of all the things that made their lives worth living.

Shavi became animated when the talk drifted on to some of the places they had seen in their travels: the wonders of Stonehenge and Avebury, infused with history, meaning and mystery, the rugged beauty of Cornwall, the joys of little seaside towns, the majesty of the Lake District and the Scottish Highlands.

"There is nowhere in the world that is richer in natural beauty than Britain," he said. "Stories of the people live on in the shape of the hedgerows, in the cut of fields, in the landscape itself. The place is a living mythology, constantly changing with the weather. The fens in a storm, Oxfordshire in winter, London on a summer night. Mountains and marches, beaches and flood plains, rivers and gorges and chalk downs. Where else can you find all those in a short drive of each other?" He sighed, tracing his fingers along the soil. "There is magic infused in the very fabric of the place."

"The history adds to it for me," Church noted. "It's not just about the beauty of the landscape. It's the places where humanity and nature have interacted."

"Exactly," Shavi said passionately. "Which is why an industrial landscape can be as exciting as a natural one. It all comes down to single images, frozen in time. Step back, look at them, and you can see the magic instantly. Power stations gushing white clouds at sunset. Wildfowl skimming the glassy surface of the Norfolk Broads. People trooping home from the tube after work on a cold winter night, smelling cooking food, hearing music and TV noise coming from a hundred windows. Tractors rolling down a snow-covered lane." They drifted with his lyrical words, conjuring up the pictures he described. "And that," he said firmly, "is what the blue fire represents."

The conversation came to an abrupt halt when Veitch saw the light. It floated among the trees like a golden globe, slowly and silently, almost hypnotic in their drunkeness. But they had seen too much to accept any phenomenon at face value; threats lurked in even the most mundane sight. Veitch leapt to his feet instantly, his sword gripped firmly. Church and Shavi joined him a second later.

"What is it?" Ruth whispered, but Veitch waved her silent.

The globe bobbed and weaved directly towards them, and as it drew closer they realised it wasn't alone. They could hear a faint, melodious singing, and although they couldn't understand the words, the music made them feel like they were filled with honey. The sword gradually fell to Veitch's side. Only Tom remained alert.

A second later they spied the outline of two figures approaching through the shadows. The globe was a lantern one of them was holding to light the way. The singing grew louder as they neared, and it seemed like it was a song of joy with the world, of great experiences savoured, of drinking in all life had to offer.

Veitch's languor disappeared the moment the two arrivals stepped into the light from the campfire. They were both of the Tuatha De Danann, their skin faintly golden, their features breathtakingly beautiful. They were obviously of the caste closest to humans, for none of them felt the squirming alien thoughts in their heads or experienced the warping perception caused by the more powerful of the gods.

One of the visitors had long, flowing fair hair and a face which seemed to permanently beam. The other looked more sensitive and thoughtful; his hair was tied in a ponytail. They both wore loose-fitting blousons open to the waist, tight breeches and boots like movie buccaneers.

"What have we here? Fragile Creatures? Alone in the woods at night?" The smiling one turned his open face from one to the other and they all found themselves smiling in return. "Do you not realise the seasons have changed? The dark is no longer a time for Fragile Creatures to walk abroad."

"We are not as fragile as you think." Tom stepped from behind Shavi to present himself to the visitors.

"True Thomas!" His smile grew broader, if that were possible. "We have missed your rhymes in the Far Country. How have you fared, good Thomas?"

"As well as could be expected, Cormorel, under the circumstances." Tom gestured to the others. "You have heard of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons?"

Cormorel looked surprised for an instant, but then the smile returned and he bowed his head, politely and formally. "It is indeed a great honour to meet the blood-champions of the Fixed Lands. The fame of the Pendragon Spirit's vessels has extended even unto our home. Hail, Quincunx. The faithi have spoke proudly of the five who are one hero."

Veitch surveyed the two new arrivals suspiciously, poised to move at the slightest sign of danger. Church was afraid Veitch's barely contained rage would force an unnecessary confrontation, until he realised his friend was surreptitiously watching Tom for his lead.

"This is my good friend and fellow traveller, Baccharus," Cormorel continued. The other golden one's bow was more clipped than that of his colleague.

Church and the others introduced themselves hesitantly. Tom motioned to the campfire. "Will you join us?"

"Gladly, True Thomas. It has been too long since we enjoyed the company of people." Cormorel pronounced the last word as if it were alien to him.

Cormorel and Baccharus sat together next to the fire, seemingly revelling in the event. Church took a position next to them with Tom on the other side, while the others gathered around the rest of the fire with varying degrees of discomfort; only Shavi seemed truly at ease.

Church picked up his beer to take a sip, then noticed Cormorel's eyes following his hand. "Would you like a drink?" Church said. "Can you drink?"

"We can eat, drink, make merry in many ways." Cormorel eyed Ruth and Laura slyly. "Of course, we may not appreciate the sensations in quite the same way as you Fragile Creatures. But it is the experience we seek, the keys to existence." Church opened two cans for him and Baccharus, which they took gratefully. They sniffed the drink, sipped at it cautiously, then nodded to each other. "When we were last here there was something made of honey," Cormorel noted thoughtfully. "This is more to my palate."

"What brings you here, Cormorel?" Tom asked.

"We are reacquainting ourselves with the Fixed Lands, True Thomas. It always held a special place in our hearts. We have been denied its pleasures for too long."

Baccharus leaned forward and said quietly, "Here, with your truncated existence, lives burn brightly. Experience is savoured. There is a potency which we find invigorating."

"And you are all so much fun!" Cormorel added with a flourish.

"Glad we entertain you," Veitch muttered coldly. If Cormorel and Baccharus noticed the offence in his voice, they didn't show it.

"We are revisiting the places we knew before the Sundering," Baccharus said, "but so much has changed. The air is filled with unpleasant particles. The water in the rivers is sour. Even the trees are in pain. I can hear the dryads whispering their distress as I pass. You have not fared well without us."

"Things haven't gone well on a lot of fronts," Church agreed. Baccharus' words touched a nerve with him that made him uncomfortable. Was humanity really better off when the gods ruled over them?

Cormorel suddenly noticed Ruth staring at him curiously. "What is it?" he asked.

"We don't know anything about you," she replied. "The only ones of your kind we've met before weren't exactly easy to talk to."

"And as you can see," Cormorel said, raising his hands, "we are not all cut from the same cloth."

"Tell us about you, then. About your people. Where you come from, what excites you." Church recognised the incisive gleam in her eye; she was using her lawyerly skills to extract information which might be of use to them later.

"You are trying to define us in your terms and we cannot be defined. We simply are. A part of the universe and outside the universe, outside of time and all reality. We move among the stars, slipping between moments. As great as the fabric of existence, as fluid as thought." He winked at Tom. "It is hard to know us, eh, True Thomas? However long you spend at our side."

"But you seem comfortable with the way we perceive reality," Ruth continued, undeterred. "Try to express it in terms which make sense to us."

Cormorel nodded thoughtfully. "Then I will try to tell you of the glory and the wonder and the anguish and the pain. Of a race cut adrift from its home, condemned to wander existence for all time." His voice took on a mournful quality which made their hearts ache; there was something in the way the Tuatha De Danann manipulated sound which had a dramatic effect on human emotions; Church wondered if this explained his confused feelings for Niamh. "We have always been the Golden Ones. There when the universe winked into life. And we will be there when it finally whispers out. Our storytellers spin vast accounts of our days when all was well with Creation and we resided in four cities of wonder. It is the arch-memory, the homeland, to which we all dream of returning. We have never found it in our wanderings." His voice grew sadder still. "And I for one would say we probably never will. But the Far Lands, with their ebb and flow, and, strangely, the Fixed Lands too, are the closest in our hearts. And so we move between one and the other, and we stay and go, and we yearn. And though we remember our home and see the connections, we are always an echo away. That is our curse. Never to be at peace. We exist in the great turn of the universe. Our lives are lived at the heart of everything. And so our joys are great, and our sorrows too." He fixed a sad eye on Ruth. "Can you understand what it is never to have the only thing that makes you whole? Without our home, we cannot understand our place in the scheme of things. We are bereft. That is our character."

"That is everybody's character," Shavi said.

Baccharus began to sing in their lyrical, alien tongue; there was so much sadness in every syllable they felt as if their chests were being crushed by despair. Their heads bowed as one, and in that song they finally felt the true pain of the Tuatha lle Danann.

When the last note of Baccharus' magical singing finally faded away, there was a brief moment of ringing silence, and then Cormorel brightened instantly. "Come. We have driven the sadness from our being for a time and now we are free to drink deep!" He raised his beer and emptied the can, letting forth an enormous belch. Church handed him another one, which he glugged eagerly.

"Now let me tell you of joy and wonder!" he continued. "Would you like to hear how our greatest warriors crushed the Night Walkers beneath their heel at the second battle of Magh Tuireadh? Or perhaps a personal tale of my great wassailing? Or perhaps something of the Fragile Creatures who preceded you?" He gave a strange, weighted smile that none of them could quite understand. "Not so fragile, some of them. For your breed at least. They did not accept us with kindness in the early days."

"I heard they resisted you quite forcefully," Tom noted.

Cormorel mused on this for a moment. "They were slow to appreciate the true order of things. They were, I think, quite brutal in spirit. There was something of the Night Walkers about them."

"A matter of perception, I would say," Tom persisted.

Cormorel didn't seem offended by his tone. "We crushed them in the end, you know."

Tom nodded. "Yet they still exert an influence. Knowledge encoded in the landscape for future generations to decipher. Information to be used to resist you." Church and the others all looked at Tom, but he wouldn't meet their eyes. "Their bravery is beyond question, but perhaps you have underestimated their intelligence. They were playing a very long game." Tom let the words hang, but it was obvious he was not going to elucidate.

Cormorel maintained a curious expression for a moment, then shrugged as if it were nothing, but Church could tell Tom's comments were still playing in his mind.

"Tell me why some of you are almost like us and some are just… unknowable," Ruth said.

Cormorel smiled condescendingly. "None of us are truly like you."

Baccharus held up his hand to silence his partner. "No, that is a good question. Some of us are very like the Fragile Creatures, if only in our joys and sorrows. How many of our brethren would take pleasure in this, here, tonight, around this fire? Yet to me this is a moment of great pleasure, to be savoured and discussed at length once we are back in the Far Lands." He smiled sweetly. "We love our stories. They are the glue that holds the universe together."

Tom bent forward to intrude in the conversation once again. "There is a hierarchy among the Tuatha De Danann. They have a very complex society which is layered depending upon the power they wield. At the top is the First Family. At the bottom…" He motioned towards Cormorel and Baccharus.

Church flinched; it sounded distinctly like an insult. Cormorel seemed to feel the same way, for he eyed Tom askance as he sipped his beer.

"Do you hold no grudges, True Thomas, for the time you spent with us?" he asked pointedly.

"I have learned to be at peace with my situation."

Cormorel nodded. "That is not quite an answer to my question, but I will accept it nonetheless." His smile grew tight. "Did you know, True Thomas, your Queen has returned to her court under Tom-na-hurich, the Hill of Yews? Your white charger still resides there, as vital as the last day you saw him." His eyes never left Tom's face.

Tom's face remained as emotionless as ever, but Church recognised a faint hardening. "The point I was making," he continued, turning to the others, "is that power seems to come with the extent of time they have existed, and some of the Tuatha De Danann are much more powerful and alien than us. Although they say they have all existed since the dawn of time, it would appear that some are much older than the others. Dagda, the Allfather, was there at the beginning, and he has no connection to us at all. These two, I believe, came later."

"Then perhaps there is an evolution, even among the gods," Shavi mused.

Church was struck with a moment of clarity. "And perhaps one day we will evolve to be like the Danann."

Cormorel laughed faintly, patronisingly. "And perhaps the arc of sky will rain diamonds."

"It is unwise to be so arrogant, Cormorel," Baccharus said. "Though it is easy to accept our place in the universe, we of all races should know there is a cycle to everything. Powers rise and fall, influences ebb and flow. And the Fragile Creatures have shown their resilience in the face of the uncaring hand of existence. You see these here, you know the power they represent."

Cormorel shrugged dismissively. "You are a dreamer, Baccharus."

In the brief lull that followed, Church saw his opportunity. "How are you dealing with the Fomorii?"

Cormorel took the whisky and sipped it, smacking his lips. "They leave us alone. We do not bother them," he said as he passed the bottle on.

"They won't leave you alone for long. They were trying to bring Balor back. Now we've stopped them they'll just turn to something else. And you could be the target next time."

"Oh, most certainly. And when they dare raise their hands against us, we shall strike them down."

Church couldn't believe Cormorel's arrogance. "Surely it would be better to attack first, before they can-"

"There are too many things to do, too many places to visit here in this world that has been denied us. We need to be making merry, drinking this fine…" He held up the can, then shook his head when he couldn't summon a word to describe it.

"They beat you once before. When they first emerged into this world."

Cormorel's gaze lay on Church coldly. "We did not fully realise the extent of their treachery. Now we are prepared." He sighed, his annoyance dissipating quickly. "However much I meet people, I find it hard to understand your inner workings. You have so little time and indulge in so little enjoyment. But you are entertaining, for all your foibles. We will continue to try to understand you."

"Have you heard what the Fomorii are doing now?" Shavi asked.

Cormorel smiled and shook his head. "They may burrow into the deep, dark earth and wrap themselves in shadows until the stars fall, for all I am concerned. The Night Walkers are a poisonous brood, given to plotting and hating, but they are wise and would not seek to challenge us unnecessarily. We can afford to leave them alone." He peered at Church, his brow furrowed. "Strangely, I see you have the taint of the Fomorii about you."

Church explained how the Fomorii had infected him with the Kiss of Frost and how, although the Roisin Dubh had been destroyed, some of its dark power still lay within him.

Cormorel shook his head sadly. "Very unwise, Brother of Dragons. You will not find any of the Golden Ones aiding you until you have expunged that taint." He wrinkled his nose as if there were a bad smell.

"And how do I do that?" Church asked.

Cormorel shrugged. "Perhaps if you travelled to the Western Isles, immersed yourself in the Pool of Wishes…" His voice trailed off; the question was obviously of no interest to him. "Now," he said animatedly, "have we more drink? This is a celebration, not a conference!"

They drank deep into the night, with Cormorel and Baccharus taking it in turns to entertain with wild songs and great stories which carried with them the vast movement of the depths of the ocean or the shifting of tectonic plates. Church and the others were entranced with stories of the four lost cities of wonders, of the many, deep, mysterious mythologies which the Tuatha De Danann kept close to their heart, of puzzles and tricks, great battles and terrible failures, of passion and love, cruelty and hatred. The Tuatha De Danann, for all their alienness, were a race of powerful emotions and Church and the others could not help but be awed by the things they heard. Even Veitch gave in to a broad grin during one song, while Laura had to hide the tears that came to her eyes during another particularly sad lay. Only Tom remained impassive throughout.

And when the birdsong rose in earnest and the shadows receded at the first lick of dawn, Cormorel and Baccharus stood up and bowed, thanking the others profusely and politely for their hospitality.

"The next time you are in the Far Lands we will return the favour," Cormorel said.

"I fear not," Tom interjected.

Cormorel eyed him cunningly and nodded, but said nothing. And then the two of them turned and set off through the woods, their melodious singing eventually fading into the sounds of nature awakening.

"They were very charming," Ruth said. "The stories they told were wonderful. You could yearn for everything they've experienced, the sights they've seen. Otherworld could be such a magical place to live."

Tom turned his back on them and headed towards the tents. "Yes, and that is the greatest danger of all."