Darkest hour

Chapter Thirteen

"I been keeping the full tank of petrol for emergencies," Max said ruefully. `The way things are going, I think it's going to become a priceless commodity." He cast a worried glance at Ruth's drawn face. "But if this isn't an emergency, what is?" He smiled, trying to bolster the atmosphere.

The car was a red Fiesta, peppered with rust on the wings and sills. The inside was a mess. He opened the doors with some embarrassment, then swept the crumpled maps and fast food wrappers out on to the pavement. "Sorry. You can always tell a hack's car."

Tom climbed into the passenger seat while Church took the back seat with Ruth. He slipped an arm across the top of the seat; her head fell naturally on to his shoulder. The others stood on the pavement; Veitch and Shavi were grimfaced, but Laura was impossible to read.

They eventually picked up the B6270 through the ragged, romantic countryside of Swaledale, heading southeast. During the journey Church and Tom tried to explain to Max about Tir n'a n'Og, the Otherworld, and the alien ways of the Tuatha De Danann to prepare him for what lay ahead. In other circumstances his dumbfounded expression would have been comical, but it soon fell away as he assimilated every detail with a speed that surprised them both. It wasn't long before he was babbling excitedly about a new way of seeing the world.

The scenery flashed by in a blur of rolling fields and green hedges; seeming normality. While Max and Tom passed the time in sporadic conversation, enthusiastic on Max's part, barely tolerable on Tom's, Church and Ruth slid down in the back seat and spoke in hushed voices.

"I can't believe this is happening," she said, staring out of the window at the blue sky.

"You're right. You've suffered enough," Church said.

"No, the people out there have suffered enough. I've had a little pain, but at least I know what's happening in the world. What's a few aches and pains compared to having your life turned on its head? I mean, I want to get back to doing something that matters and there's all this-" she gestured irritatedly holding me back."

The weariness was evident on her face. Slowly she lowered her head back on to his shoulder, but Church continued to watch her while she rested, feeling a sense of deep respect that almost overwhelmed him.

They'd just moved on to the A6108 when Tom exclaimed loudly.

"What's wrong?" Church threw himself forward between the seats. He quickly saw it wasn't the right thing to do. Tom was already sliding down as low as he could go. On the side of the road, three policemen stood stiffly around a patrol car. They were gone so quickly Church had no way of telling if they were Fomorii, nor if they had seen him. He ducked down, turned and crawled up the seat just enough to peer out of the back window. The police all appeared to have got into the car, but it wasn't in pursuit. He held his breath and watched until it was out of sight.

"Close shave," he said, still not wholly sure.

Shavi had spent an hour doing his best to boost Veitch's spirits, but the Londoner still wore the broken expression of someone who had seen ultimate victory snatched from his fingertips. "We have to believe Ruth will be all right." Shavi's voice rolled out softly across the quiet bar. His arm rested comfortingly around Veitch's shoulders, and Veitch made no attempt to shake it off. Laura watched them both carefully from behind her sunglasses, but added nothing to the conversation.

"You saw the old man's face. He looked like it was already over." Veitch gently massaged his temples. There was an intensity about him that made the atmosphere uneasy.

"We have to have hope, Ryan. That is the message of this whole era."

Veitch looked up suddenly and curiously into Shavi's face. He seemed surprised at what he saw there. After a moment's contemplation, he said, "Okay, you're right. Course you are." In the centre of the table where they had been abandoned earlier, he noticed the sheaf of notes Ruth had prepared. "We've got to sort this out. Help these poor bastards."

Shavi could see it was merely a displacement activity for the futility Veitch was feeling at his inability to do anything to help Ruth, but if it kept his mind focused on something positive, it was worthwhile. Veitch examined the notes with gusto, making observations as he read before handing each paper he finished to Shavi or Laura. No obvious conclusion presented itself to them, but they continued to turn it over while they ate the dinner Geordie had prepared for them.

"There's nothing new here," Laura protested. "Unless you're thinking of tracking them out to their lair, and then we wouldn't know how to kill them."

"We don't even know where the lair is," Veitch said. He shovelled a forkful of mashed potato into his mouth.

"It must be somewhere in the vicinity of the route we came in." Laura told them about the scarecrow and the glowing red eyes.

"That's something," Veitch said, "but you're right, we don't know how to wipe them out yet. No point looking for them until we get a handle on that. It didn't look like we'd get much of a result with the sword or the crossbow."

Laura re-examined one of the pages of notes. "At least we know where the feeding ground is."

Veitch perked up at this. "What do you mean?"

Laura pointed out the rough sketch of the village layout with the victims' houses highlighted.

"That's a bit of a coincidence, isn't it?" he said.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"All those poor bastards in one place."

"The old biddy wasn't anywhere near them. It's probably just that they've settled on this area because it's near to where they come in to the village. Or something." She stared at the map intently, turning it this way and that.

Veitch chewed on a jagged nail thoughtfully. "I'm getting a very fucking unpleasant idea," he said.

The evening was warm and still as they moved through the village. The chorus of birdsong filled the air, but there was no sound of cars or human voices. Even though it was still light, everyone had retreated to their homes.

Witch first took them to the large, detached house of Mrs. Ransom, quiet beneath its canopy of old trees. They slipped through the creaking iron gate and up the brick path to the front door. Instead of knocking, Veitch simply inspected the door jamb before growing suddenly excited. He ran back down the path and vaulted the low brick wall on to the pavement. Shavi and Laura hurried to keep up with him as he ran the two streets to the collection of council houses which had provided all the other victims.

Oldfield's house was the first to be inspected. Veitch ran from there to the other two. He didn't bother checking the door of the young mother who had lost her child. Finally he rested breathlessly against the wall of one of the houses. He'd obviously figured something out that everyone had missed, but there was no jubilation in his face; instead, he seemed intensely troubled, and when he looked up Laura saw the familiar glint of cold, hard anger in his eyes.

"Fucking hell," he said.

Max gunned the Fiesta into Richmond just as dusk was falling. The town was dominated by the ruins of the Norman castle which overlooked the River Swale, the keep towers soaring up a hundred feet into the darkening sky. Beneath it, the cobbled market was filled with people enjoying the warm summer evening as they made their way to the pubs.

Max scrutinised the scene. "People carry on trying to be normal even when they realise something is badly wrong," he mused.

"Nothing there to write about," Tom muttered.

A tight, knowing grin crept across Max's face. "That's where you're wrong. That is something to write about. That's something that speaks loudly."

"Yes. And it says `Sheep to the slaughter,"' Tom noted sourly.

Max laughed easily in disagreement. "And that's just what I'm going to do. Write about it. About all this. This is something I can do, let the people know the truth. It's a kind of-"

"Calling?" Church knew just how he felt. Max nodded, still smiling.

They left the car in the centre and headed towards the castle on foot, Ruth trailing apprehensively between Church and Tom. Church surveyed the broken stone silhouetted against the blackening sky.

Tom followed his gaze. "Do you feel it?"

Church nodded. "The blue fire."

"All the clues are there in the legends. The secret history. The story goes that a potter by the name of Thompson found a secret tunnel under the castle. He followed it and found a large cavern where King Arthur and his knights lay asleep. Sound familiar?"

"What are you talking about?" Max asked.

"All the legends have truths stitched up inside them. Important information, vital lessons." Church could see the reporter was soaking up all the information. "The King Arthur legend is a metaphor for the power in the land, what we call the blue fire. The legends surround all the places where this earth energy is most potent, many of them with links direct to Otherworld."

"Like here," Tom said.

"So when the legends say the king needs to be woken to save the country in the bleakest of times, they're really talking about waking the power in the land?" Max looked up at the castle in a new light.

"Thompson found a horn and a sword near to the sleeping knights," Tom continued, obviously irritated that his story had been interrupted. "When he picked up the horn, the knights began to wake. Naturally, he was scared to death. He dropped the horn and ran back down the tunnel, and as he did so a voice came after him. It said, `Potter Thompson, Potter Thompson, If thou hadst drawn the sword or blown the horn, Thou hadst been the luckiest man e'er born."'

"Good story," Max said warmly.

They wound their way up for a while until they looked back and saw the lights of the town coming on before them. They all found it uncannily comforting; Richmond looked bright and at peace in an inky sea.

Tom followed the lines of blue fire as Church had done at Arthur's Seat until he located their confluence on an open spot on the hillside. The sparks flew like molten metal as he pressed his hand down hard. Within seconds, to Max's obvious amazement, the grass, soil and rock tore apart with a groan, revealing a dark path deep into the hillside.

Max peered in nervously. "Are you sure it's okay?"

"No," Tom said, and gave Max a shove between the shoulder blades that propelled him into the shadows.

Otherworld was bathed in the crisp, creamy light of an autumnal morning just after sunrise. Swathes of mist rolled across the wet grass at calf height. The air was rich with the perfume of turning leaves, fallen apples and overripe blackberries. Melodic birdsong floated out from a nearby copse that was painted gold, red and brown in the dawn light.

Max looked around, disoriented. "I don't get it."

"Time moves differently here." Church strode out towards gleaming white Doric columns he could just make out through another thick copse. "Sometimes faster, sometimes slower. It's not fixed."

Max's face showed his difficulty in grasping the concept of this new reality.

"Here are the rules," Tom said curtly. "Eat and drink nothing. If you are offered anything, politely refuse. Treat everyone you meet with respect. Never, ever raise your voice in anger. It would be best if you said nothing at all. Try to stay in the background."

"I'm getting a little nervous now," Max admitted.

"Just pretend you're in a different country with a culture you don't know," Church said. "You have to be cautious until you know the rules of the society, right?"

They moved quickly through the trees, the curling leaves crunching underfoot. Beyond, they had to shield their eyes from the glare of the sun reflecting off the polished white stone of their destination which rested in majesterial splendour among intricately laid out gardens. The Doric columns supported a portico carved with an astonishingly detailed tableau showing aspects of the history of the Tuatha De Danann. Behind it, the Court of the Final Word spread out as far as the eye could see, like some Greek temple reflected in infinite mirrors.

"It's enormous." Max's voice was laden with awe.

"It would seem." The door was made of polished stone. Tom was there first and hammered on it. His fist barely seemed to make a sound, but they could hear the echoes rumbling through the structure into the distance.

When dim footsteps approached Church and Ruth both caught their breath. Despite all they had seen, they were not inured to the wonders and terrors of Otherworld. The life forms were myriad and astonishing in their complexity; even with the Tuatha De Danann, one could never quite be sure what would present itself.

The door swung open silently, as if it weighed no more than a feather. It framed two figures standing in a cool, enormous hall dominated by a large, tinkling fountain and tall trees which oddly seemed to be part of the structure. The young man and woman looked barely in their twenties and were dressed in what appeared to be gleaming white togas, edged with gold braid. Church and the others' eyes had no trouble adapting to their appearance, which meant the Golden Ones were of low level and low power.

"Frail Creatures?" the young man said curiously, his beautiful face like marble, his heavy-lidded eyes moving slowly, like a lizard in the sun.

"I am True Thomas," Tom began. "You may have heard of me. I have been granted the freedom of your realm."

The woman bowed courteously but a little stiffly, her long, black hair shimmering as she moved. "Greetings, True Thomas. We are aware of your prestigious position."

Tom winced at this, although there was no irony in the woman's words. "My companions and I seek the aid of the Council of the Final Word. Are any of them present this day?"

"All the council members are concerned with the business of study, True Thomas," the man said. "A great deal was lost in the storm that followed the Wish-Hex and now so much has been opened up to them once more. The Fixed Lands for one. I am sure you understand."

Tom nodded slowly; Church was puzzled to see a grey cast fall across his face. "They are not involved in any dissections?" The young man said nothing. Tom composed himself and continued, "With the freedom granted to me, I would wish to wait."

"It may be some time. In your perception."

"If you would inform the council of my attendance I am sure one of the Venerated Ones would eventually find a way to greet me."

The man nodded and stepped aside so they could enter. They were led to a room off a long, lofty atrium. It was filled with marble benches and sumptuous cushions piled alongside rushing crystal streams cut into the gleaming stone floor.

"I wish I'd brought Laura's sunglasses," Ruth said feebly.

"How are you feeling?" Church gave her a hug.

"Still sick."

They arranged some of the cushions in a circle and lounged. "They're like the worst kind of arrogant aristocrats," Max whispered. Tom made a silencing move with his hand. Max nodded and continued, "How long are they going to keep us waiting?"

"Hours. Perhaps days. Maybe even weeks."

"Weeks!" Ruth said dismally.

Yet it was only twenty minutes before they heard movement in the corridor without. "Looks like you've still got some clout," Church whispered.

A deep, unfocused light glimmered across the white walls, as if whoever was approaching held a lantern, but when the figure emerged he carried nothing. And this time Church did experience the unnerving shift of perception; faces seemed to float across the figure's head, some of them sickeningly alien and incomprehensible, others cultured and sophisticated. Eventually he settled on a set of educated, aristocratic features that centred on a Roman nose and a high forehead with piercing grey eyes and full lips; his hair was long and grey and tied at the back in a ponytail. There was a sense of tremendous authority about him that made Church almost want to bow, although he was loath to debase himself before any of the invaders.

Tom, however, was already down on one knee. "You honour me, master."

"True Thomas. It pleases me to see you so hale and hearty after everything." His smile was broad and warm; Church felt instantly at ease. "And these companions, are they as resilient as you, True Thomas?"

"Oh, more so by far." Tom stood up and gestured to Church and Ruth. "A Brother of Dragons, a Sister of Dragons." Tom introduced them by name, studiously avoiding bringing any attention to Max. Then he motioned to the gentle, kindly figure while keeping one eye on Ruth. "You are honoured. This is Dian Cecht, High Lord of the Court of the Final Word, seeker of mystery, master healer, supreme smith, builder of the silver hand of Nuada-"

Dian Cecht waved him silent with a pleasant laugh. "There is no need to trumpet my successes unless you also tell of my many failures, True Thomas, and those I would rather leave to the shadows. I would thank you, Brother and Sister of Dragons, for the part you played in freeing us from the privations of the Wish-Hex." Church winced at the memory of how the Tuatha De Danann had manipulated them, made them suffer in the extreme, just for such an occasion. Dian Cecht gestured magniloquently. "Now, tell me your request."

Tom laid a hand on Ruth's shoulder and pressed her forward. "The Night Walkers have inflicted their corruption on this Sister of Dragons, Good Lord. We ask your favour in helping to remove it."

Dian Cecht nodded thoughtfully. "I sensed the whiff of the Night Walkers' presence. Their vile trail is too distinctive to hide. I would not have thought a Sister of Dragons would have allowed herself to be so tainted."

Ruth felt as if she had failed in his eyes.

"There is nothing ignoble in this suffering," Tom said in her defence. "This Sister of Dragons has proved the most hardy of her companions. She succumbed only in the face of overwhelming force." He paused, then added, "Much in the way the Tuatha De Danann succumbed to the first onslaught of the Fomorii."

There was a flicker of coldness in Dian Cecht's eye as he cast it suddenly in Tom's direction. "Ah, True Thomas, one would have thought you would have learned diplomacy during your time among us. Still, I am sure there was no offence intended, and I understand your point." He turned back to Ruth, now smiling warmly. "The Filid I am sure will sing loudly of your courageous struggle. I will do for you what I can."

As he turned to go, he spied Max hovering behind the others. "I see you have left this Fragile Creature out of your accounts, True Thomas."

Tom had the expression of a schoolboy who had been caught out. "He is here to keep a record of these great things transpiring in this world of ours."

"Ah," Dian Cecht nodded thoughtfully. "Then you maintain the traditions of the Filid. Good, good. Wisdom and knowledge needs to be recorded and disseminated."

Once he had glided out of the room to make his preparations, Ruth turned to Tom. "Who is he? Can he do the job?"

"I was speaking correctly when I said you were honoured. Dian Cecht is one of the greatest of the Tuatha De Danann." Tom flopped down on to a cushion as if his conversation with the god had wearied him.

"He seemed… wise," Max ventured.

"Wisdom is the essence of him. He has a vista into the very workings of existence. He sees the building blocks that make up everything, the spirit that runs through them. That is why he is the greatest of physicians, the deepest of thinkers, the best maker of all things." Although his words seemed on the surface to be filled with awe, there was a sour note buried somewhere among them.

"All of the Tuatha De Danann seem very different from each other," Church noted.

Tom nodded. "While obviously a race, they are all set apart as individuals-"

"So he's a top doctor?" Ruth interjected.

Tom sighed at her phraseology. "He is the god of healing in the Tuatha De Danann pantheon. He was renowned for guarding the sacred spring of health, along with his daughter, Airmid. It is believed it has its source here, within this temple complex, though no one knows for sure. Its miraculous waters can cure the sick and bring the dead back to life." Church stirred at this, but he didn't dwell on the thoughts that surfaced. "It can, so they say, even restore the gods."

Ruth could barely contain her relief. "So he shouldn't have any problem with whatever those dirty bastards did to me."

"Then he's one of the good guys," Max said.

"You could say that," Tom replied contemptuously. "The truth is buried in the old stories. When Nuada lost his hand in the first battle of Magh Tuireadh, Dian Cecht made him a new one out of silver. The Tuatha lle Danann were impressed by his handiwork, but it was not enough. Because he was not truly whole, Nuada was no longer allowed to lead them into battle. He coped as best he could with the shame, but eventually he turned to Dian Cecht's son, Miach, who was believed to be an even greater physician. And it was true. Miach knew the workings of existence even better than Dian Cecht. He grew Nuada a new hand, a real one, and fixed it on to him. A remarkable feat, even for the Tuatha lle Danann. Nuada was whole again and once more took up the leadership of the race. A time of celebration, you would think? Instead, Dian Cecht promptly murdered Miach for upstaging him. So, yes, a good guy. That's a fair description, isn't it?"

They all fell silent while they considered this information. Then Church said, "If he's such a big shot, why did he come so quickly when you called instead of sending out some menial?"

"Perhaps," Tom replied, "he was stricken with guilt." But he would not elaborate on his comment any further.

The young man and woman who had greeted them at the door were sent to fetch them an hour later. With Church supporting Ruth, who had been overcome by another bout of nausea, they were led into a massive precinct with a ceiling so lofty they could barely see it through the glare that streamed in through massive glass skylights. Vines crawled around the columns which supported the roof, while some seemed to have trees growing through them as if the stone had formed around the wood.

Dian Cecht stood in a shaft of sunlight in the centre of the room, next to a spring which bubbled up out of the ground. The water was crystal clear and caught the light in a continually changing manner. Although it had no odour, the air near it seemed more fragrant, clearer. They found their gaze was continuously drawn to its sparkle and shimmer, as if it were calling them on some level they didn't understand.

Dian Cecht was wearing robes of the deepest scarlet, which made Ruth instinctively uneasy; he was like a pool of blood in the whiteness of the room. A scarf of red was tied around his head, hiding his hair. He motioned to Ruth to come forward. She glanced briefly at Church for support, then moved in front of the tall, thin god. His eyes were piercing as he silently surveyed her face; she felt he was looking deep into the heart of her, and that made it even more worrying when a troubled expression crossed his face.

"What is it?" she asked.

He shook his head, said nothing. Beside him, a strange object lay on a brass plate that rested atop a short marble column. Ruth tried to see what it was, but her eyes strangely blurred every time she came close to focusing.

He bent over the object and muttered something that sounded like the keening of the wind across a bleak moor. It seemed to respond to the sound, changing, twisting, folding inside out, until it settled on the shape of a bright, white egg with waving tendrils. Ruth instantly recalled the creature she had seen in Ogma's library immediately after the operation to remove the Fomorii equivalent from Tom's brain. "A Caraprix," she said.

Dian Cecht smiled when he looked on it. "My own faithful companion." He said something else in that strange keening voice and the creature glowed even brighter.

"What are you going to do with it?" Ruth asked, suddenly wary.

"Do not worry. You will not be harmed." He took her hand to comfort her, but the moment they touched a shudder ran through him. "The Fomorii have weaved the darkness tightly inside you. I cannot see through it." He retracted his hand a little too quickly. "But my friend here should be able to penetrate to the periphery of the shadows and return with the information we need."

Church's heart leapt when he saw the pang of fear in Ruth's face. "What is inside me? What have they done?" Her voice sounded as if it was about to shatter.

Dian Cecht smiled a little sadly, then gentle brushed her forehead with his fingertips; she went out in an instant, as she had when Tom had utilised the same technique at Stonehenge. Church started forward, but Dian Cecht caught her easily in his deceptively strong arms and carried her to a pristine marble bench nearby. Church was shocked to see her skin was almost the same colour as the stone on which she lay.

The atmosphere grew more tense and Church had the uncomfortable feeling that a cloud had passed across the sun, although the light in the room remained as bright as ever. Dian Cecht knelt down beside Ruth's head and held the gently throbbing Caraprix in his palm. Church glanced to Tom for support, but the Rhymer would not meet his eyes; Max's face was still with queasy concentration.

The Caraprix was brought slowly towards Ruth's right ear. When it was almost touching, the creature burst into life, snapping like elastic in a wild blur before becoming something like a tapeworm that darted into the waiting orifice. Even unconscious, a spasm crossed Ruth's face.

Dian Cecht stood up and took a step back, fingering his chin as he watched Ruth with resolute thoughtfulness. Church fought to contain his disgust. He imagined the Caraprix wriggling through the byways of Ruth's body, probing into the nooks and crannies as it sought out the Fomorii corruption. But he guessed it wasn't like that at all. Instinctively he knew that if a surgeon cut Ruth open he would find no sign of anything unusual in her body at all; the shadow Dian Cecht sensed was lodged in the invisible shell of her spirit.

The moments went by agonisingly slowly. Neither Dian Cecht nor Tom moved, which made Church realise how very alike they were, although he would never have told Tom that. Max, it was obvious, was forcing himself to watch the proceedings: a trained observer, lodging every incident for posterity.

The tableau seemed frozen in time and space; and then everything happened at once. There was a sound like a meteorite shrieking through the atmosphere to the ground. Ruth's face flickered, then grimaced; finally she convulsed, jackknifing her knees up as if she had been punched in the belly. There was a blur in the air erupting from Ruth's ear and then a shush-boon as the shrieking sound crashed into the room with them; Church clutched at his aching ears.

The Caraprix, once more in its egg shape, lay on the floor, surrounded by a pool of gelatinous liquid, throbbing in a manner that Church could only describe as distress. Dian Cecht's face contorted, ran like oil on water until Church found it unrecognisable; it settled only when he was on his knees beside the Caraprix, scooping it up into his hands like a broken-winged sparrow, and then he was hurrying out of the room, the air filled with the terrible keening of the wind.

Ruth came round soon after with the sluggish awareness of someone waking from a deep anaesthetic. She made no sense at first, talking about a ship skimming across the sea, and then her wide eyes focused and locked on Church. He held her hand tightly, brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Beads of sweat dappled the pale skin.

"What did he find?" Her voice was a croak. Church maintained his demeanour; she looked past him, at Tom, and then Max, and a single tear crept on to her cheek.

They wondered if Dian Cecht was ever going to return. He kept them waiting for more than two hours in the cathedral silence of the precinct. When he did finally arrive, he was not alone. On either side were the young man and woman who were obviously his attendants, and behind them at least twenty others, some with the stern, shifting faces that signified high power. A grim atmosphere wrapped tightly around them.

Dian Cecht spoke in moderate tones; the others remained silent, but it felt as if they were on the verge of screaming. "We cannot help you or your companions, True Thomas."

Tom stepped forward and bowed slightly. "Thank you for the assistance you have given, High Lord of the Court of the Final Word."

Church couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Hang on a minute," he said incredulously, "you can't just brush us off like that!"

Dian Cecht surveyed him with aristocratic coldness, his warm nature suddenly departed. "It would do well to maintain respect-"

"No," Church said firmly. "You respect me. I represent this world, these people. I'm a Brother of Dragons."

Tom stepped in quickly. "He has not learned the ways of-"

Dian Cecht silenced him with an upraised hand. "For all your power, Brother of Dragons, you are powerless. You are a Frail Creature. Your voice may crow louder than your stature prevails, but in essence that is what you are and that is what you will always be. And even by your own meagre horizons you have failed so dramatically that you are not worthy of whatever position to which you so feebly aspire." His freezing gaze washed over Church's face. "You have no notion what has happened?"

"What did you find?" Church tried to maintain equilibrium in his voice. His contempt for the Tuatha De Danann was growing; he wanted to drive them all from the land at that moment, Niamh included.

Ruth's hand closed tightly on his forearm. "Church. Don't." He ignored her.

"The Sister of Dragons has been corrupted beyond all meaning of the word." Dian Cecht's stare fell on Ruth, but he seemed unable to keep it there. "She is the medium for the return of the Heart of Shadows."

His words fell like stones in the tense atmosphere. There was a sharp intake of breath which Church guessed came from Tom. Church watched the Rhymer's hand go involuntarily to his mouth, but slowly, as if it were only confirmation of an idea he had not dared consider.

"What do you mean?" Church didn't want to hear an answer.

"The black pearl-" Ruth began.

"Was the essence of Balor, the one-eyed god of death, Lord of Evil, Heart of Shadows." Dian Cecht's face filled with thunder.

Church's head was spinning; he looked from Dian Cecht to Ruth to Tom, who seemed to have tears in his eyes, then back to Ruth.

"The black pearl, the Gravidura, was distilled over time by the Night Walkers to maintain the consistency of whatever essence remained from the Heart of Shadows," Dian Cecht continued. Church recalled the drums of the foul black concoction they had come across in Salisbury and under Dartmoor. "It is the seed. He will be reborn into the world at the next festival of the cycles."

Ruth turned to him, her face filled with a terrible dawning realisation. Tears of shock rimmed her eyes. "What are you saying? That I'm pregnant?" Her hands went to her belly; she watched them as if they belonged to someone else, with a look of growing horror. "Inside me?" She started to scratch at her stomach, gently at first, but with growing manic force until Church caught her wrists and held them tight. The look in her eyes was almost unbearable to see. "What will happen?" she asked dismally.

"When the time comes, the Heart of Shadows will burst from your belly fully formed." Church wanted to run over and hit Dian Cecht until he removed the coldness from his voice. "No Fragile Creature could survive that abomination."

Ruth looked dazed, like she was going to faint. Church slipped an arm around her shoulder for support. "Why are you treating her this way? She's a victim, not a-"

"She allowed it to happen."

"Don't be ridiculous-!" Church caught himself, tried a different tack. "Look, you've got him here, your arch-enemy. If you can get the essence… the seed… out of her-"

"We will have nothing to do with the corruption. Even to be in the same presence fills us with…" He made a gesture as if there was a foul smell under his nose.

"But it makes no sense! If Balor is reborn he's not going to leave the Tuatha De Danann alone for long. He'll wipe you out like he's going to wipe out everything-"

The words dried in Church's throat when he saw Dian Cecht's face flare with rage, become insubstantial, shift through a range of alien visages. He suddenly acted as if Church were no longer in the room. "We will deal with the Heart of Shadows and the Night Walkers if they become a problem, True Thomas-"

"Ifl" Church raged.

Tom moved quickly to push him and Ruth towards the door. "Quiet, you idiot!" he hissed. "You're close to having your blood boiled in your veins!"

"Leave now, True Thomas, and do not bring this foul thing to this place again." Dian Cecht turned sharply and led the others from the precinct.

The silence that lay in their wake was all-encompassing. Ruth dropped her head heavily on to Church's shoulder. "God…"

"Are you going to tell us your blinding revelation or what?" Laura tried to keep apace with Veitch as he marched back towards The Green Man. His face was flushed with anger and there was determination in every fibre of his being.

"I'll do more than tell you."

Laura glanced back at Shavi, who shook his head dumbfoundedly.

Veitch burst into the pub like he was looking for a fight. Most of the action group had already gathered there, hunkering in serious conversation at the bar. They looked up in shock as Veitch marched up. He muttered something to one of the group which Laura and Shavi couldn't hear and then he spun round and was heading out of the door again. Laura thought about catching his arm to slow him until she glimpsed his expression. She dropped back several feet and let Shavi move ahead to keep up with the Londoner.

Night had almost fallen by the time they had reached the area of large, old houses at the top of the High Street. Only a thin band of pale blue and gold lay on the horizon and that was disappearing fast. Veitch ranged back and forth along one of the streets, his fists bunching then opening, his breathing ragged. Eventually he found the house he was looking for. One boot burst the wooden gate from its hinges and then he was racing up the path.

The door was locked. He hammered on it so loudly the glass in the front windows rattled. "Open up!"

A hollow voice echoed somewhere inside.

"I said open up or I'll kick the fucking thing down and then you'll have nothing to protect you!" he raged.

Footsteps approached quickly and they heard the sounds of bolts being drawn. The door had opened only a crack when Veitch kicked it sharply, smashing it into the face of whoever was behind it. There was a groan as someone crashed back against the wall of the hall. Veitch pushed his way in with Laura and Shavi close behind. They didn't recognise the man who was desperately trying to staunch the blood pumping from his nose; it had streamed down over his mouth so that he resembled a vampire from some cheap horror movie. He was in his fifties, balding and overweight, with large, unsightly jowls.

But instead of berating him, Veitch marched past, glancing into the first room he came to before moving on to the next. He stopped at a large drawing room at the rear of the house. French windows looked out over a garden so big they couldn't see the bottom in the dark. The room was decorated with an abundance of antiques on a deep carpet; large, gilt-framed paintings hung on the walls and a log fire crackled in the grate, despite the warmth of the day. A piano stood in one corner.

Several people were gathered in the room, their apprehensive, pale faces turned towards Veitch, Shavi and Laura. There were four women, one in her forties with blonde hair so lacquered it resembled a helmet, the others in their sixties or older, but still well turned-out. The rest were men of different ages and shapes, but they had one thing in common which only Veitch could see: the vague air that the world belonged to them.

"I say, what do you think you're doing?" Sir Richard stepped forward from the back of the group, a glass of brandy nestled in his palm. His cheeks were slightly flushed; Laura couldn't tell if it was from the fire, the brandy or the interruption.

Veitch stepped forward and smashed the glass from his grip with the back of his hand. It shattered on the floor.

"Good Lord, are you mad?"

"I fucking hate toffs and rich bastards," Veitch spat. There was a note in his voice which made Laura's blood run cold.

Shavi stepped forward. "Ryan, are you sure-"

He whirled. "Yes, I am fucking sure! You two wouldn't even have thought of this because you've got a good outlook on life. You were brought up right in a modern world where everybody treats each other at face value, and that's how it should be. But there are still people out there, even in this fucking day and age, who think they're better than others, because they were born that way or because they earned a bundle of fucking cash." He turned back to Sir Richard. "Am I right?"

Sir Richard flustered indignantly. "If you're implying that I-"

"Shut the fuck up."

Laura watched the scene with a terrible fascination. The sense of irrational, uncontrollable threat that Veitch was radiating scared even her, so God knows how frightened the great and good of the village felt. She looked round and saw the dismay and worry marked in their faces; they looked as if Veitch was about to shoot them, then rob them; and with her hand on her heart, Laura couldn't say that he wouldn't.

Veitch turned to Shavi, but he was obviously talking to the whole room. "Let me tell you what happened. When the rich old lady was the first to catch it, this lot were horrified. They thought they were fucking untouchable here in their little sanctuary. But that was a big alarm: anybody could get it now the whole world had been turned on its head, and they had no special fucking privileges to protect them. And then when the drunk got it the little lightbulbs started popping over their heads. He was a fucking undesirable, a piss-head and a burden on fucking society. Maybe it wasn't even so bad that he got it. The village would look a lot prettier without his piles of puke in the gutter. And then they thought, it didn't have to be them who ended up as dead meat. There were a few more that the village could do without. Lazy layabouts without a job for a start." He put on a mock high-class voice, but it was still laced with venom. "Wasn't there a little pocket of them down in that part of the village we never went to, where those cheap, dirty little houses were?"

"Now hang on a minute! Those were our neighbours!" a tall, thin man in a dark suit said sharply. "We always got on well with them."

"You tolerated them because you were on top," Veitch snapped. "But when your backs were against the wall, you didn't have far to look for sacrifices. You knew those fucking creatures left you alone for a bit after they'd eaten. But you knew they couldn't get into a house without the door open. So what did you do? One or two of you fucking cowards went down after dark and jimmied a door open."

Laura suddenly realised why Veitch had been examining the door frames; he'd been looking for splinters where the locks had been forced. And she guessed from his past experience he had a perfectly good idea what a jimmied door looked like.

"So you consigned those poor bastards to be meat for another scavenging class we've all had dumped on us."

Shavi was looking from Veitch to the faces of the assembled group and then back; the truth of Witch's account was in the guilt that was heavy in every feature. But Shavi was still puzzled. "I do not understand. If all the doors were locked, the creatures would not have been able to get to anyone-"

Veitch shook his head. "You're too much of a good bloke, Shav. You've got to think like these bastards. They like cash. They'll do anything for cash. It's their fucking god. They hated being prisoners in their own homes. Couldn't make any lucre. But if those creatures laid low for a few days they had a chance to see if they could get their businesses going. Working their fucking big farms or trying to keep their fucking wine-importing business going or whatever the fuck it was." He turned slowly around to them. "That was it, wasn't it?"

Sir Richard began to protest. Veitch stepped forward and hit him sharply in the mouth; his lip burst open and blood splattered on his clean, white shirt. A gasp rippled round the room, and Laura realised she had joined in, so shocking was the image.

One of the old women started to cry. "I'm sorry-"

"Bit fucking late for that. Thought you'd get rid of a single mum last time, didn't you? Instead you got a poor kid."

"We didn't mean-"

"Shut up. Whose idea was it?"

There was a long silence while everyone in the room tried to read what his next actions would be. Finally Sir Richard stopped dabbing at his lip. "It was all of us. We discussed it together." There was an unpleasant defiance in his face that gave the truth to everything Veitch had said.

"Yeah? Fair enough." Veitch nodded reasonably. Then he slowly drew the crossbow out of the harness, loaded it and pointed it at the thin man in the dark suit; his face turned instantly grey. "We'll start here then."

"No, Ryan," Shavi cautioned. Veitch ignored him. He slowly tightened his finger on the trigger.

"No!" The thin man pointed a shaking finger at Sir Richard. "It was his idea! Yes, we all went along with it! But it was his idea!"

"You know what? I fucking thought as much. I'm a good judge of character like that. I know scum when I see it. And I knew you slimy fuckers would all be jumping to save your own skin when the shit hit the fan." He motioned to Sir Richard with the crossbow. "You're coming with me, matey."

"I certainly am not!" Sir Richard's eyes darted round like a hunted animal. Before he could move Veitch had loosed the bolt into the floor and had clubbed him on the side of the head with the crossbow. Sir Richard slumped to the floor unconscious.

Veitch coolly reclaimed the bolt and slipped it back into the harness with the crossbow. Then he bent down and effortlessly slung Sir Richard over his shoulder. He turned to Shavi and Laura as he marched towards the door. "I'll see you at the pub later."

"Where are you going, Ryan?" Shavi asked darkly.

"I said, I'll see you later." He tried to mask what was in his face with a tight smile, but Laura and Shavi both saw, and wished they hadn't.

The journey through the temple, across the autumnal fields, and out into the wide world, resembled a funeral procession. Ruth's face was like jagged shards of glass, her eyes constantly fixed on an inner landscape. She leaned on Church, for emotional rather than physical support, but his tread was heavy. Tom followed behind, unusually disoriented, with Max looking poleaxed at the rear.

In Richmond it was midmorning, the air heavy with an unpleasant heat. Insects buzzed in from the surrounding dales, and traffic fumes choked the market place. They had no idea if it was the next day or several weeks hence; although it remained unspoken, they all knew the date was now mightily significant.

In the back seat of the car, Ruth could no longer contain herself. She undid her jeans and pulled them down over her belly; there was an unmistakable swelling there.

"It doesn't make any sense!" Church protested to Tom. "There's nothing actually, physically inside her! Is there?"

Tom looked away, shaking his head; it could have meant anything. Ruth broke down in sobs of shock.

After they had subsided, she slumped on the back seat in desperate silence. Tom caught Church's eye and the two of them slipped out, leaving Max to keep an eye on her.

"There must be something we can do," Church said when they were far enough away from the car not to be overheard.

"Perhaps. But there is a more immediate problem. The Fomorii will never leave us alone until they have Balor back. Inside her is their entire reason for existence, the Heart of Shadows. They must have regrouped after the devastation in Edinburgh. Once they locate us their pursuit will be relentless." He paused. "They can't take the risk that you'll kill her to prevent Balor being born."

"Kill her?" The thought hadn't even entered Church's head.

Tom nodded gravely. "At the moment it's the only option."

Church cursed Tom furiously for his cold-heartedness, but his reaction was so extreme because he knew, if he could bear to examine his thoughts rationally, that the Rhymer was right. The rebirth of Balor meant the End of Everything. To prevent that, Ruth's life was a small price to pay. Rationally, objectively, from a distance. But from his close perspective she was so dear to him her life was more important than everything. How could he kill her? And he knew, with a terrible, hollow ache, that ultimately the decision would come down to him; one of the burdens of leadership. And whatever his choice, he also knew it would destroy him forever.

The atmosphere on the way back was thick with unspoken thoughts. Church could see Max was seething with questions, but he didn't feel like answering anything; it was too big to consider even in the privacy of his head. Ruth had dried her eyes and was coping with the shock remarkably well; somehow, that made Church feel even worse.

"That's why my familiar has disappeared," she muttered, almost to herself. "It won't come anywhere near me while that thing's inside me."

They drove with all the windows down, but even that couldn't disperse the oppressive heat in the car. They were sleeked in sweat, sticking uncomfortably to the seats, flushed and irritable. There wasn't even a breath of wind across the lush landscape; the trees remained upright, the crops and hedgerow flowers unmoving.

Max drove speedily along the empty roads, leaning forward to peer through the windscreen that was streaked yellow and orange with the remains of a hundred bugs. But as he rounded a corner, he cursed loudly and slammed on the brakes, the Fiesta fishtailing to a sudden halt. A stream of cars filtered past the turning they needed for the route home: ahead were the unmissable signs of another police roadblock.

"They did see us on the way here." Church grabbed Max's shoulder. "You need to back up and get out of here. Find a different route."

The words were barely out of his mouth when a spurt of blue activity broke out at the road junction; someone had already spotted them. Officers wearing body armour and helmets were tumbling out of the back of a van parked on the edge of the road; Church thought he glimpsed guns.

Max slammed the car into reverse and stepped on the accelerator. With a screech of tires, they shot backwards, but they'd only travelled a few yards when he hit the brakes. Church and Ruth crashed into the seats in front. Roaring out of a field behind them where it had been hidden was another police van, lights flashing.

"What now?" Max shouted. Before Church could answer he engaged gears, threw the car to the right and shot through an open gate into another field. The going was easy on the sun-baked ground, but they were still thrown about wildly as the car propelled itself over ridges and furrows.

Church gripped on to the ridge of the back seat so he could watch through the back window. The police were drawing closer. "I hope you watched The Cannonball Run," Church said.

Max grunted something unintelligible. All four wheels left the ground as the car crested a rise. They came down with a bone-jarring crunch and careered sideways on the dusty soil for a short way. "It always looked easier in the movies," Max said.

The police were only yards away when Max swore fitfully and suddenly drove directly at the barbed wire fence ahead. They ploughed through it with a rending and scratching and slid down a steep bank, bouncing over a small ditch on to the road with a shower of sparks.

The police vehicle followed suit, but when it hit the ditch its higher centre of gravity flipped it over. It smashed upside down and slid along the tarmac. Max gave a brief cheer as he watched the scene in the rearview mirror.

"Don't celebrate too soon," Tom said gruffly. They followed his gaze to the bottleneck of traffic at the police checkpoint.

A shadow had risen up ten feet off the ground beyond the vehicles. Its outline shifted ominously in a manner Church had seen too many times before. Max started to retch loudly.

"Don't look at it!" Church snapped. "Whatever you do. Keep your eyes on the road. Drive!"

Max couldn't resist one last look and vomited on to the floor between his feet. It deflected his attention from driving. The engine idled while he wiped his mouth, shook his dazed head.

The shadow moved, began to take on a sharper form. It was enormous, powerful, dense, seeming to suck in all light from the vicinity. It accelerated towards them, oblivious to the vehicles lined up in its path. A Renault flipped up end over end with a sound like a bomb going off, then a Peugeot and a Mondeo. A Jag folded up like paper in an explosion of glass and a rending of metal.

Church was transfixed; it was like a shark ploughing through water, leaving carnage in its wake. Cars flew like sea spray as it surged onwards. "Drive, Max." Church's voice was almost lost beneath the orchestral crashing of metal on tarmac.

It was relentless; as it built up speed it began to change, parts of the dense shadow detaching themselves and folding out, unfurling then reclamping themselves around the figure. It was like the horny carapace of an insect slowly building before their eyes, impenetrable plates, then something that looked like a helmet, but with horns or claws, and all of it in shimmering black. And still it moved.

Finally Church recognised his vision of the monstrous Fomorii warrior in the distorting cavern beneath Arthur's Seat; the same creature Veitch had seen at the ritual under the castle.

A People Carrier went over as if it weighed no more than paper. How powerful is it? Church thought. "Come on, Max!" he yelled again.

The urgency in his voice finally shocked Max into activity. The car shot forward, throwing them all around once more.

"Don't look in the mirror," Church cautioned; he knew Max, who was not inured to the terrible sight of the Fomorii, would black out instantly. "Give it all you've got."

The car began to race just as the Fomorii smashed through the last of the cars and started on the open road between them. Church could feel the thunderous vibrations from its pounding feet through the frame of the car.

"Is it gaining?" Ruth asked. She was clinging on to a corner of the seat to stop herself being thrown around.

"It's making the car jump around!" Max shouted over the racing engine. "I'm having trouble controlling it!"

Agonisingly slowly, the car began to move faster. It didn't appear to be fast enough, but Max kept his foot to the floor, bouncing up and down in his seat as if trying to add to the momentum. And then, although they hardly dared believe it, the bone-jarring vibrations began to subside a little. Church glanced back once more at the nightmarish image of the beast and saw it had started to fall back; but it was still driving on, and he knew that even if they escaped this time, it would always be somewhere at their backs until it had completed its frightful mission.

"We're doing it," he said. "Just pray we don't have another technology failure. And be thankful we've got an open road ahead of us."

Eventually the twists and turns of the road took them out of sight of the pursuing creature, although they could still hear it for several minutes after. Gradually, Church's heart stopped racing and he rested his face on the back of the seat.

"That's it," he said. "That's what they've sent after us."

"One of the things," Tom corrected. "Every resource will be marshalled-"

"Oh, God!" There was a note of hysteria in Ruth's voice.

Church took her hand gently. "Once we get back to the village we need to get moving again," he said. "We can't stay in one place too long."

"Why? We've only got to kill time until Lughnasadh. Then it will all be over," Ruth replied bitterly.

He didn't know how to answer that.

"We thought you lot were never coming back," Witch said when the car pulled up in the dusty High Street. He tried to hide his concern behind an irritated facade.

"How long have we been gone?" Church helped Ruth out, wondering how he was going to break the news to the others, in particular to Veitch.

"Three days." Veitch couldn't contain himself any longer. He stepped up so he could look Ruth in the eye and said tenderly, "How are you?"

She forced a smile. "Pregnant." Veitch looked shocked, then worried, and that made her laugh. They retired to The Green Man where Church, Tom and Max had a steadying drink and Ruth attempted to put a brave face on the end of her life.

Witch's face never flickered when they told him what they had learned, but Church knew he would never forget the look buried deep in the Londoner's eyes; it was the mark of someone who had discovered there wasn't a God. Veitch took a drink, put his arm round Ruth, cracked a joke and said they'd find a solution-they always did; all the right noises. But that deep look never went away. Church wondered how Veitch would cope the closer it got to Lughnasadh; and what his response would be if that terrible decision had to be taken.

The mood remained sombre while they caught up over drinks. Shavi's account of what had taken place in the village left the returnees horrified. Max looked dazed, then queasy. "I've known Sir Richard since I've been here. All those others too. I can't say I ever really got on with them, but I thought we were all coming from the same place. And I'm supposed to be a trained observer and a good judge of character." Despite the shock, his spirits soon raised as they always seemed to, and it wasn't long before he was feverishly scribbling everything down in his notebook.

Their attention turned to Witch's success in uncovering the deception. His ears coloured when Church congratulated him effusively; he looked genuinely touched by the praise.

"And I always thought he'd been clouted with the stupid stick," Laura said. "Looks like I'll have to find some other insults. Good job there's a long list." She was getting braver once more; and Veitch, for his part, seemed to take her words in good humour.

"But you haven't told us what happened to Sir Richard," Church said. "You couldn't really take him to the cops, could you?"

Shavi and Laura watched Veitch intently. "I convinced the bastard to leave town," Veitch replied coldly.

Finally it was time to go. Max offered them his car, an act of generosity that brought a warm hug from Ruth and a back-slap from Veitch, but Church knew the police would be watching for it. After a heated discussion they decided to make their way on foot across the deserted countryside far away from the roads, cities and towns, despite the dangers that might lie away from the centres of population; it would give them a better chance of evading the Fomorii while they decided what to do next.

It was midafternoon and still unbearably hot when they left the cool confines of the pub. There was still plenty of the day left to put them deep into the heart of the wild upland country. They shook Max's hand, waved to Geordie, who grunted gruffly, and then they wound their way wearily towards the horizon.

Max stood with Geordie in the middle of the street until they had disappeared from view. "Bloody rum bunch," Geordie muttered.

"No, mate, heroes," Max said. "They might not know it, but they are. They just need writing up. Some of the rough edges taken off them so people can see the wood for the trees."

Geordie grunted dismissively. "Not my kind of heroes."

"You're not seeing it right, Geordie. We're at war now. Under siege. In times like this the people need someone to look up to, someone who'll give them courage to keep fighting." He smiled tightly. "I reckon that lot fit the bill-if their story is told in the right way. And I'm just the man to tell it."

As they passed the outskirts of the village, Laura glanced up at the scarecrow which had unnerved her so much on her way in. She was surprised to see it looked different, although she at first wondered if it was a trick of the glaring sun. Squinting, she tried to pick out what had changed; gradually details emerged. It was no longer just a scarecrow. Something had been tied to it. She squinted again. Another scarecrow appeared to be hanging at the front of the original in the same crucified position, only the bottom two thirds of it was missing. And the head of the second one didn't look very good either.

But something was still jarring. Curious, she took a few steps forward so the sun was away from it. And then, in a moment of pure horror, she realised what it was. It wore a white shirt splattered with something dark near the collar. Instead of straw, something gleamed in the sun; bone that had been picked clean by the creatures in the fields.

Unable to mask her queasy thoughts, she snapped round at Veitch, suddenly aware of the dark, hidden depths of his character. She knew from his body language he realised she was watching him, but he never turned to meet her gaze. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, his expression cold and aloof.