Darkest hour

Chapter Eighteen

Inverness appeared out of the dark Highlands landscape like a small island of light in a vast sea of shadows. Witch and Tom walked down from the hills with leaden legs, burdened with the crushing weight of exhaustion. They had spent the last few days endlessly dodging the Fomorii, who were swarming across the purple moorland in increasing numbers. Tom had utilised some of his tricksa ritual, some foul-tasting brew made from herbs and roots-which made the two of them oblivious to the Night Walkers unless they were in direct line of sight. But that still entailed endless hours of creeping along rocky gullies, taking the hard route over peaks or skulking in woods until the danger had passed.

It was a far cry from the first leg of their Scottish journey, when they had dined out on wholesome provisions from the villages they dropped in on. Now Veitch was heartily sick of wild game, roots and herbs, however well Tom cooked it. He had an almost unbearable craving for pizza or a curry, washed down with a beer.

"You reckon we'll get time to stop off for a ruby?" he said wearily as they trudged into the outskirts of town.

Tom looked at him blankly.

"Ruby Murray. Curry. It rhymes."

Tom shook his head contemptuously. "Eight days left. Why don't we go on a pub crawl while we're at it? We could have a few drinks for Ruth. That should make her well."

"All right. No need to act so bleedin' crabby." He took a few steps, then muttered, "Twat," under his breath. That made him feel better.

The truth was, their nerves were growing frayed. Time was running away from them. Lughnasadh was close, and the presence of Balor was almost tangible. They had both dreamed of a single eye watching them malignantly from the dark, and had woken sweaty and sick, with the feeling that the monstrous god of the Fomorii was aware of them. Even when they walked, they could feel his attention sweeping over them, the air thick with dread; with it came an overpowering sense of black despair that conjured thoughts of suicide, which they had to fight constantly to repel.

The weariness shucked off their shoulders the more they progressed into town. It felt good to see sodium lights after the oppression of a country night, to smell motor oil and the aroma of home cooking. But the closer they got into the centre, the more they began to realise something was wrong. No cars had passed them at all. Nobody walked the streets, even though it was only just past ten. The pubs were all locked, the curtains drawn, although Veitch could hear people drinking within; when he hammered on the doors a deep silence fell, but no one ever came to answer.

Eventually an old man swung open an upstairs window and hung out, his face filled with such fear Veitch gaped for a second.

"For God's sake, man, get yourself to your hearth!" The old man glanced up and down the street; he hadn't noticed Veitch wasn't alone. "Can you not see it's after dark!" He slammed the window shut and drew the curtains before Veitch could question him; Veitch shouted to him several times, but there was no further response.

"What's up?" Veitch asked Tom with disquiet.

Tom continued to walk briskly, seemingly oblivious to the sense of threat. "What' up? Old friends have come to visit Inverness and they won't leave until they've expressed their infinite kindness." Sarcasm dripped from his words.

"You're talking about the ones we're going to see?"

"The Queen of Elfland-"

A curiously amused expression jumped on Veitch's face. "You're kidding me."

"The Queen of Elfland. That's what they used to call her in the old stories. As if to pretend she was some kind of nice, acceptable fairy-" the word was filled with bitterness "-would somehow deflect her attentions."

"So what would you call her?"

"Nothing she could hear." He looked away so Veitch could not see his face. "The moment we cross over, we must be on our guard."

"You make her sound like some witch ready to tear our bleedin' heads off."

"She will be filled with charisma, magnetic and alluring. That is her danger."

"Okay. No problem."

"No, you do not understand. The slightest wrong move could be the end of you. Every court of the Tuatha De Danann is different. The Court of the Yearning Heart embraces chaos and madness, which is why it is given over to pleasure. It is very easy to be seduced by it." The deep tone of personal experience was unmiss able. "Listen carefully. You know the rules of Otherworld, and they go doubly here. You must accept no food nor drink from anyone or you will instantly fall under the power of the Queen. And she will find it greatly entertaining to trick you into doing so. You have to be sharp, Ryan. You have to be sharp."

Veitch was shocked by the familiarity of Tom's use of his Christian name. For the first time, he felt the Rhymer was truly concerned about his safety. "What'll happen, you know, if I do-?"

"Don't."

"But if I do?"

Tom sighed. "You will not be allowed to leave the Court of the Yearning Heart, at least not until the Queen has taken you apart down to your very molecules and has rebuilt you in whatever way her whims take her at the time. Until you have suffered every pain and pleasure imaginable, until it has become such a way of life that you want such suffering. And when she has finished, you will no longer be the man you are. You will no longer be a man."

If Tom had tried to scare him, he'd succeeded.

"There isn't a man alive who couldn't love her," Tom continued. "But she dishes out joy and cruelty in equal measure; sometimes she isn't even aware that's what she's doing. The gates at Tom-na-hurich remained intermittently open long after the Sundering. There is a story of two itinerant fiddlers who crossed over. The Queen paid them to entertain the Court and allowed them to eat one of the sumptuous meals that are always laid out there. The fiddlers played their hearts out for the rest of the night. But when they were taken back to the Hill of Yews come the morning, they crumbled into dust. Two hundred years had passed without them knowing, and the Queen had taken great pleasure in hiding this from them."

Veitch was silent for a moment. "So how come you didn't turn to dust?"

Tom laughed hollowly. "Why, only humans suffer such fates! The Queen has seen that I can never fit that bill." He stopped in the middle of the road and looked out across the city to beyond the River Ness; Veitch guessed their destination lay in that direction. "The legends say I lie under Tom-na-hurich with my men and white horse, ready to save Scotland in her hour of need."

"Well, that's what you're doing, ain't it?"

Tom snorted. "Heroes only exist in stories. There's no nobility in what people do. We're all driven by a complex stew of emotions and it's down to fate whether people see us as good or bad."

"You're a cynical git," Veitch said dismissively. "And you're wrong."

They continued in silence for the next fifteen minutes until Veitch noticed a golden glow washing over the shops of the High Street. It was moving gradually towards them, casting strange shadows up the grim brick walls of Eastgate Centre. "What's that?" His hand went to his sword under his coat.

"The welcoming committee."

As the glow drew nearer, Veitch saw it was coming off a small group of people wandering along the road, although there was no sign of any light source. The moment he looked at the figures he experienced the now-familiar disorientating effect.

Tom drew himself up; the faintest tremor ran through his body, but his face was a mask of calmness. Veitch moved in next to him, tight with apprehension.

Five figures were approaching, all of them wearing outlandish clothes which mixed golden armour and red silk, topped by unusual helmets like enormous sea shells.

"The Queen's guard," Tom noted. "Out hunting for entertainment."

Veitch took his lead from Tom, although his instinct was to hide. He watched as the guard progressed down the street, glancing into alleyways and side streets, shining their terrible regard into windows.

When they first clapped eyes on Tom and Veitch, sly smiles spread across their faces and they picked up their step as if they expected their quarry to flee for their lives. As they neared, their expressions became even more triumphal with recognition.

"True Thomas!" the leader of the guard exclaimed; there was a dark glee in his words, a contemptuous sneer shaping his mouth.

"Melliflor," Tom said in greeting, giving nothing away.

"Why, we thought you had gone from our doors for all time, True Thomas!" Melliflor smiled with barely disguised mockery. "The many wonders of the Court of the Yearning Heart are hard to resist, are they not? It calls to you always, even when you do not want to hear. Or," he mused, "is it your mistress who has brought you back? Our Lady of Light would be overjoyed to see you, True Thomas."

Two of the guards had moved behind Veitch and Tom, to prevent any retreat. Veitch watched them suspiciously from the corner of his eye.

"Then take me to her, Melliflor," Tom said. "It will be good to see my Queen again after so long."

Melliflor made an exaggerated sweeping gesture with his right hand to allow Tom to lead the way. After a few steps he arrived by Tom's side; Veitch might as well not have been there.

"May I enquire why you have returned to our doorstep?" Melliflor asked artfully.

"To renew acquaintances, Melliflor."

"I hear you played a significant part in our return to the solid lands. I am sure our Queen will wish to offer her gratitude in her usual way."

"Lead on, Melliflor. I have come far these last few days and I am too weary for conversation."

Melliflor's sneering smile suggested he knew the meaning behind Tom's words; Veitch could quite easily have loosed the crossbow at him there and then.

They moved silently at a fast pace through the deserted streets, crossing Ness Bridge with the water rolling silently beneath, then along Glenurquhart Road, past suburban houses all deserted; some were merely burnt-out shells. Tomna- hurich Cemetery loomed up suddenly, the white ghosts of stones gleaming. Melliflor led them past the neatly tended plots to a road running up a hill which looked strangely unnatural on the flat valley bottom. It soared steeply, cloaked in a thick swathe of trees: yews, oaks, holly, pine, sycamore, all interspersed with thick clumps of spiny gorse; the air was heady with the summery aromas of the wood. Hundreds of graves were hidden among the trees right up the hillside, as if they too had grown there. The road curved in a spiral dance around the hill to the summit, modern in construction but hinting at an ancient processional route. "Welcome to the Hill of Yews," Melliflor said respectfully, "known by the local people as Tom-na-hurich."

They followed the road round until they were swallowed by the trees and the lights of Inverness were lost. It was a strange, mysterious place, eerily still, yet their footfalls echoed in an unusual and unnerving manner; no one felt like talking until they had reached the summit. Here a large area had been cleared at the centre and filled with the jarringly regimented rows of a Victorian cemetery. The fringes were thickly treed with the oldest yews and oaks. At the highest point a cross had been raised to mark Remembrance Day.

They stopped at a nondescript spot among the crumbling, brown gravestones. Melliflor took a step forward and bowed his head before muttering something under his breath. A second later the ground vibrated with a deep bass rumble, as if enormous machinery had come to life, then the grass and soil prised itself apart. From within the long, dark tunnel which had materialised Veitch could hear faint music that immediately made him want to dance; the tang of rich spices wafted out into the balmy night and he was suddenly ravenously hungry. But then he glanced up at Tom and all his desires were wiped clean; the Rhymer's face was as white as a sheet and taut with the effort of keeping in his fear; a faint tick was pulsing near his mouth which, in the emotionless dish of his face, made him look like he was screaming.

At the other end of the tunnel were a pair of long, scarlet curtains. Melliflor held them aside for Veitch and Tom to pass into a great hall which appeared to be the venue for a riotous party. The music was almost deafening; Veitch heard fiddles, drums, a flute, other instruments he couldn't quite place, although he could see no sign of a band. A roaring fire in one corner made the air very warm, but not as uncomfortable as he would have expected at the height of summer. It was filled with an amazing range of scents, with each fresh waft bringing a new one: lime, pepper, roast beef, strawberries, cardamom, hops-so many it made his head spin.

So much was happening in the hall, he couldn't concentrate on one sense for too long. Long tables ranged around the outside of the room on which were heaped every food imaginable, though many he couldn't recognise and some made him turn away, although he couldn't explain why. In the centre of the room the Tuatha De Danann were dancing. Scores of them whirled round and round with wild abandon to the odd music, which occasionally flew off the register of Witch's hearing. It was like a turbulent sea of gold waves crashing against the tables and the walls; it made him queasy to watch.

The assault on Witch's senses was so great he felt his knees go weak and for a moment he was afraid he was going to faint. But then the rush hit him powerfully and he was swept up in it all. His body was reacting as if he had taken a cocktail of drugs, some mild hallucinogen and an amphetamine; he wanted to fling himself into the seething mass.

He was vaguely aware of someone on his right proffering a goblet of deep, red wine. Unconsciously he reached out to take it, his gaze still fixed on the dance floor.

He was jolted alert by the weight of Tom's hand on his forearm. The Rhymer was already thanking the young girl who had offered the wine with the studied politeness which seemed necessary to prevent any retribution. The girl looked disappointed and her face darkened as she turned away.

Veitch bowed his head sheepishly as Tom glared at him; he couldn't believe how quickly he had almost gone against all of Tom's deeply stressed cautions. He would not forget again.

His attention was drawn back to the dancing, and beyond it to the shadows that clustered along the edges. There he could just spy writhing bodies; the gods looked to be in coitus. He could just make out bobbing heads, violent thrusting, sensuous movements, and occasionally the sounds of passion broke through the music; but there was something about it which did not seem quite right, as if the bodies were not penetrating and enveloping, but flowing in and out of each other like mercury; merging. He looked away.

Melliflor was at Tom's side, hands cupped, falsely oleaginous. "The Queen was overjoyed to know you had returned, True Thomas. She will see you shortly. In the meantime, you and your companion be accepted as our guests. There is food and wine aplenty, the finest music in all of the Far Lands. Make merry, True Thomas, and be a perfect son of the Court of the Yearning Heart."

"And is it all given freely and without obligation?" Tom asked dispassionately.

"Ah, True Thomas," Melliflor said cunningly, "you know we can make no promises here."

Veitch and Tom found a pile of luxurious cushions in one corner from where they could watch the dancing. Veitch felt so comfortable after the exhaustions of the previous weeks he could have fallen asleep in an instant, but he was sure that was not wise. He was afraid to do anything in case he committed himself to something unpleasant and he wished he had listened more carefully to Tom's instructions during the long walk to Inverness.

Several times revellers walked up to offer jugs of wine or plates lavishly filled with juicy fruit or spiced meat, but always Tom politely refused. It was like a game the Tuatha De Danann were playing to see if they could catch their guests out; Witch could see them talking excitedly and pointing at him before an even more tasty offering was brought up. By the end Veitch's mouth was watering and his stomach rumbling, and all he could do was think how long ago his last meal had been.

Eventually Melliflor glided up. He bowed deeply. "The Queen will see you and your companion now, True Thomas."

The two of them were led out of the great hall along stone corridors hung with intricately embroidered tapestries and rich brocaded cloth. Braziers burned with scented wood so the atmosphere was constantly heady. They passed many closed doors and from behind them came strange, unnerving sounds; some sounded like yelps of pain, others like moans of pleasure; some it was impossible to distinguish.

They were eventually presented to a chamber draped throughout its length and breadth with gossamer ivory silk which filtered the flickering light of the torches on the walls so that the room was infused with a dreamy white glow. The material was almost transparent, but hung in so many places it was impossible to see what lay at the centre. Melliflor bowed and retreated, silently urging them to continue. They pushed their way through the gently swaying silk, which felt like the wings of butterflies when it brushed their skin. As each layer was passed they could see shapes more clearly. Veitch's heart began to beat hard in anticipation.

Finally they were through to the middle of the room. The Queen lay on a bed made of luxuriant cushions, so deep they looked as if they would swallow her. Her face was more beautiful than anything Veitch had seen in his life; there was a cruelty there which counterpointed the beauty in such a way it made her even more desirable. Her black hair was long and lustrous, her lips full and red; her eyes sparkled with an inner green light. And she was naked, her golden skin shimmering in the filtered light. Her breasts were large, her nipples tautly erect, her waist slim, her hips shapely, her belly flat; the epitome of what many would consider a male fantasy, truly the Queen of Desire. Veitch wondered if that was how she really looked, or if it was a form she thought could manipulate him; he tried to tell himself that with the Tuatha De Danann nothing could be trusted.

But then his eyes were drawn to her sleek, black pubic hair. She lay with her legs curled round so he could see her vagina. She made no attempt to hide herself; indeed, she seemed to be presenting herself to them. Veitch could see how Tom had been so entranced by her.

"It is wonderful to see you again, True Thomas." Her voice was lazy and filled with strange, enticing notes.

"My Queen." Tom bowed.

"Come." She waved them nearer. "Who is your companion, True Thomas?"

They stood so close Veitch could smell the warm perfume of her skin. She looked at his face intently, her eyes dark beneath half-lids; Witch felt sucked in by them.

"This is Ryan Veitch, my Queen. He is a Brother of Dragons."

"Ah, one of the champions of the solid lands." There was none of the mockery or contempt in her voice that Veitch had heard in so many of the other Tuatha lle Danann. She sounded honestly interested, even impressed. He attempted an awkward bow, which seemed to please her. "You did us a great service by freeing us from the Night Walkers' place of exile," she said directly to Veitch. "You are in our gratitude. If there is anything you require here in my court, you only have to ask."

"Thank you." Veitch was embarrassed his voice sounded so strained.

The Queen suddenly noticed the colourful tattoos only half-covered by the sleeve of his jacket. Her brow furrowed in curiosity. "What have we here? Is that the Staff of Heart's Desire?" She looked up brightly into Veitch's face. "Please. Remove your shirt. I must see."

Veitch glanced at Tom who nodded curtly. Self-consciously he slipped off his jacket and shirt; on his naked skin, the tattoos gleamed vibrantly. The Queen leaned forward until her face was close to his hard stomach muscles; Veitch could feel her breath. "The Watchtower," she mused. "And here, the sword, Caledfwlch. Amazing. You are a walking picture book."

She smiled seductively. Then, while her eyes were fixed firmly on his, she reached out gently until her fingers touched his skin just above his belt. A deep, uncontrollable shiver ran through him. Within an instant he had an erection so hard it was painful. The Queen kept her fingertips there a moment longer, then withdrew them just before he came. Veitch took an involuntary step back and sucked in a juddering breath.

Her little game won, the Queen turned from Veitch as though he were no longer there and spoke directly to Tom. "You were always my favourite, True Thomas."

He bowed. "You are gracious, my Queen."

"Why have you returned to me? I thought it likely I would never see you again. I presume you are not here to seek my affection?"

"We request your aid in a matter of great importance, my Queen."

"We, True Thomas?" Her gaze was incisive.

"I request your aid, my Queen. And I will be forever in your debt if you will help me."

"That is indeed a gift worth having, True Thomas."

Veitch had the impression of an owner curbing her dog. Suddenly he could see the huge edifice of power and malice that lay behind her eyes, but that did not stop him desiring her.

"One of the Sisters of Dragons has been infected with the taint of the Night Walkers," Tom began. He paused while he formed his argument, knowing that everything depended on it. "That understates the situation. It is not a taint, it is the ultimate corruption. The essence of the Heart of Shadows grows within her. The Night Walkers seek to bring back the End of Everything."

"That is indeed a serious development." Her gaze never wavered from Tom's face; she didn't seem even slightly troubled by the news. She shifted her position, raising her behind slightly so Veitch once again had a perfect view of her sex. "What is your primary wish?"

Tom collected himself before he said, "To destroy the End of Everything."

Veitch started. "To save Ruth's life," he corrected sharply.

The Queen's smile grew as she looked from one to the other. "A disagreement?"

"No disagreement." Tom fixed a cold eye on Veitch.

"There is no need to argue." Her voice was like honey. "There is a possibility I may be able to help you achieve both your aims."

Tom bowed again. "Anything you can do to help us would be gratefully received, my Queen." She glanced at Veitch and he realised he was supposed to prostrate himself too. He bowed awkwardly once more and muttered something that approximated Tom's statement.

It appeared to please her; she nodded and smiled. "There are many secrets here in the Court of the Yearning Heart, some which are hidden even from my brethren; even from the Court of the Final Word. Here, all things are given up eventually." She sucked on her index finger as she thought deeply for a moment. "The Eddy-Ball," she said with a certain nod. "A gift of great value to me." A smile; the game had begun. "The orb opens out into the void between worlds. It has the ability to suck the essence from the solid."

"And this could be done without harming the Sister of Dragons?"

"Of course. And the Heart of Shadows will find itself in a place where no shadows are cast." This amused her.

Veitch could barely contain his relief. Although Tom maintained his plain expression, Veitch could see the signs in the Rhymer's face too.

"Thank you, my Queen," Tom said.

"And you will do something for me. True Thomas?"

His face grew taut. "Of course, my Queen." Tom waited for her to demand he stay behind.

She pretended to think, toying with him. "No, True Thomas, not you. This Brother of Dragons." She glanced seductively at Veitch. "I will give the Eddy-Ball to him and him alone, and in return he will carry out a simple request for me."

"Anything," Veitch replied before Tom could stop him.

There was a triumphant note in her smile that made Veitch uneasy. "The Questing Beast has again escaped from the pits beneath us. It is loose in the solid world. It is my heart's desire that this Brother of Dragons seek it out and destroy it, or at least lead it back here to the Court of the Yearning Heart."

Veitch could hear her words, but all he could see was Tom's face, which had grown eerily bloodless. "The Questing Beast-" he began.

The Queen silenced him with an upraised hand, her eyes watching Veitch's face intently. "Will you do this for me?"

Whatever doubts Tom felt, Veitch knew he didn't have an option. "All right."

"Then I will make the arrangements. Go with Melliflor and he will provide you with all you require."

They moved slowly away until the gently stirring sheets of silk had swallowed up the Queen once more. As they walked, Veitch brushed against Tom and felt the trembling that was running through the Rhymer's body.

They were provided with two connecting chambers far from the noise of the Great Hall where they could rest and prepare themselves. They were both ravenously hungry, made worse by the plates of food left for them on tables in the corners of the room. Tom plucked from his ever-present haversack two bags of roasted peanuts he had been saving as a last resort, and they munched on them hungrily.

Veitch was filled with questions, but at first Tom wouldn't speak to him; it was almost as if he couldn't bring himself to do it. He retreated to his chamber for an hour where he smoked a joint quietly on the deep, comforting bed.

Veitch couldn't begin to rest. His mind turned over all that he had experienced, but kept returning to the image of the naked Queen; it was beginning to torment him. And when he forced himself not to think about her, his eyes drifted to the food.

When Tom finally walked in, he sat bolt upright with relief and said, "Come on. Spill the fucking beans. What am I up against?"

Tom pulled up a chair and sat on it backwards, folding his arms on top of the backrest. "You and your big mouth, agreeing to anything she said."

"We didn't have any choice."

"Of course we had a choice. They play games, barter, throw things back and forth. You don't take the first thing offered. You were too hypnotised by the sight of her cunt."

"And you weren't? You were almost down on your knees with your tongue hanging out!"

Tom cursed under his breath and put a hand on his eyes. "There's no point arguing about it. It's done. We have to find a way to make sure you survive."

Veitch kicked the other chair so hard it flew across the room. "Come on, then. Talk. What's this thing I've got to hunt?"

"The Questing Beast. It's a living nightmare, something that even the Tuatha De Danann are wary of facing head-on. Their own legends say it was there in Otherworld long before they arrived, one of the first creatures to exist after the universe was formed. They call it a Rough Creature. A prototype for what was to come, if you will. Not fully formed."

Veitch sat carefully on the edge of the bed. "If it's in their legends-"

"Exactly."

"So they're sending me out there because they don't want to have a go themselves. That's par for the course, isn't it? Those Bastards don't like getting their hands dirty. So if they're so wary of it, what was it doing here? And how the fuck am I going to kill it?"

"The Queen keeps many dangerous things here at the Court. It's a mark of prestige. How are you going to kill it?" He shrugged wearily. "I don't know enough about it. Neither do the Tuatha De Danann. But their distaste for it isn't because of its power, it's because of its imperfect form, which they find abhorrent in the same way they react to the Fomorii. Us, they can just about tolerate. Anything less is to be despised."

"So how dangerous is it?"

"Very. Make no mistake about that. It escaped into our world several centuries ago, before my time, and many people died before it was driven back to Otherworld. The general belief of the time was that a mortal girl gave birth to it after having sex with the Devil. The legends that grew up around it described it as having the head of a snake, the body of a big cat and the hindquarters of a lion, which is just another way of saying the people of the time couldn't describe it. It was said to give off a sound like forty hounds baying, or questing, in its stomach, and that's how it got its name."

"So we don't know what it looks like, just that it's very fucking bad." Veitch jumped to his feet and started pacing round the room; his eyes repeatedly strayed to the appetising food. "Well, it was driven off, so it can be done. It sounds like a big deal, but I'll be hunting it, not the other way round. Anyway, it's got to be, for Ruth, for Church and everything. Can't fuck up now."

Tom realised he was talking to himself, planning, bolstering; it was like the ritual of a boxer preparing for a fight.

After another moment's pacing, he turned to Tom and said, "Okay, I've got my head round it. I'm going to get some Zs in now. We'll do it when I wake."

As he left the room, Tom hid the fact that he was secretly impressed; once a conflict situation had been established Witch's developing abilities made him like a machine. Fear or overconfidence didn't burden him; he simply weighed up all the available evidence and decided what needed to be done. Tom hoped that would be enough.

In the court it was impossible to know if it was night or day. But when Veitch woke his body told him he had had a good rest; the exhaustion had seeped from his muscles and he felt ready for anything. He was still hungry, but he knew he could find something to eat back in the real world.

Tom joined him soon after, as if he had been waiting for the sounds of stirring. Together they stepped out into the corridor where Melliflor was waiting.

Veitch had hoped the Queen would have come to see him off, but she was nowhere around. Instead, Melliflor led them to the armoury, a long, lowceilinged chamber where the walls were covered with a variety of bizarre weapons and strangely shaped body armour. Veitch picked up one of the weapons which looked like an axe with a spiked ball hanging from it, but in his hands it felt a different shape completely to how it appeared and he replaced it quickly.

While Melliflor oversaw, three other members of the guard brought Veitch different pieces of armour. They strapped across his chest a breastplate which shone like silver, but which was covered with an intricate filigree. Shoulder plates were fastened on, and he was given a helmet which vaguely resembled a Roman centurion's, but was much more ornate. After mulling over the weapons for fifteen minutes he eschewed them all for his own sword and crossbow.

He had no idea of what the armour was constructed, but it was surprisingly lightweight; he could have walked for miles in it. He didn't have to, though, for as soon as he was ready Melliflor took him through to an adjoining stable which contained enough horses for a small army.

"Stolen from our world," Tom muttered. It allows the lesser members of the Tuatha De Danann to travel quickly when they cross over."

"This is no bleedin' good, I've never ridden before," Veitch moaned.

"The steed will respond to your every movement. We have adapted it," Melliflor said ominously.

Melliflor offered Veitch a handsome white charger, but he didn't feel comfortable with it. "Too flash," he grumbled. Instead he chose a nut-brown stallion indistinguishable from many of the others.

Once he had mounted the steed, Melliflor led it by its reins to a blank stone wall at one end of the stable. He made a strange hand gesture and the wall opened with a deep, rumbling judder. They were high up on a hillside with a vista over Loch Ness. Mist drifted across the water in the post-dawn light. From all around came the sweet aroma of pine trees. Everywhere was still and quiet.

Veitch turned to view the scene in the stables, but he couldn't think of anything to say to Tom. Instead, he merely waved; Tom nodded curtly in reply, but there was much hidden in the two gestures. Then Veitch spurred his horse and galloped off into the world.

The darkness licked at the foot of Mam Tor, an angry sea crashing on the rocks. From his vantage point beneath a burning sun and a brilliant blue sky, Church watched as hopelessness washed over him.

"They'll be coming up soon." Laura's voice made him start.

"Best not to think about that."

"Sure. Do you want me to help bury your head or can you do it yourself?"

Church managed a tight smile; he didn't have much humour left in him. With Ruth's condition worsening by the day, the strain of their isolation and the constant fear that their hiding place would be discovered at any moment, it was surprising he hadn't lapsed into permanent silence.

"No sign of the others yet?" Laura rested on his shoulder and peered out to the horizon. It was a running joke; she asked the same thing every day, knowing the answer.

"Not yet. Maybe tomorrow." He tried, but he couldn't help believing that they wouldn't be coming back at all. He knew they had long distances to travel, with huge obstacles along the way, but they still seemed to have been gone a long time. Even if they did return, how would they be able to slip past the mass of Fomorii? He had been right the first time: best not to think about it.

"She's asking for you." Laura continued to scan the horizon, as if by doing it everything in the foreground could be forgotten.

"How is she?"

"Not talking like she's pissed up for a change." Ruth's lucid moments were increasingly few and far between; at times she ranted and raged in the throes of her delirium so much they thought they would have to restrain her. It always happened at night, in the small hours, snapping them out of sleep and filling them with fear that they were being attacked. Sometimes she would hold conversations with someone neither of them could see; on those occasions they didn't go to sleep again.

Church turned despondently to wander back to the house, but he hadn't gone more than a few steps when Laura grabbed him and gave him a long, romantic kiss. It was an astonishing show of emotion for someone who seemed ever more locked up with each passing day.

"What was that for?" he asked, pleasantly surprised.

"What's the matter? Can't I show you I love you?" She had turned and was walking away before he had a chance to grasp what she had said.

He mulled over it until he was in the house, but the moment he saw Ruth it was driven from his mind. Her skin was like snow, emphasised by the darkness of her hair, which was plastered with sweat to her head. There were purple rings under her eyes and her cheeks had grown increasingly hollow. Beneath the sleeping bag, her belly was hugely swollen. Her appearance was so shocking he had a horrible feeling she was going to die before Balor's rebirth. A part of himself that he never faced hoped that was the case; then he would be saved from having to make the awful decision to kill her.

Although he was creeping quietly, she looked up before he had crossed the threshold. "Hi. You're starting to get a tan." Her voice was just a rustle.

"You know how it is. Nothing to do apart from lie by the pool with a good book." He knelt down next to her to brush a strand of hair from her forehead. When he rested his hand against her cheek, her skin felt like it was burning up.

She put her hand on top of his and gave it a squeeze. "I'm glad you're here."

"Sure. I'm doing so much-"

"I just feel better having you around." He smiled; her eyes brightened briefly before she was forced to close them; a tear squeezed out and trickled down her cheek.

"I'm sorry you've had to go through all this," he said gently. "You've had the worst of all of us. One bad thing after another."

"You know, bad things happen." She pulled his hand round so she could softly kiss his fingers; her lips were too dry.

"You don't have any right to take it so well. You're giving us all too much to live up to. You git."

They laughed together, and the sound of it in that dismal room made Church's own eyes burn. He blinked them dry. "Sometimes I feel like I've known you forever. I know it's only been a few months since that night under Albert Bridge, but it seems like a lifetime ago."

"Maybe we have known each other forever. Maybe it's that old Pendragon Spirit speaking. Telling you we've stood side by side across the centuries."

"You're an old romantic."

She tried to laugh again, but it broke up into a hacking cough. When the attack had subsided, her mood had grown forlorn. "I just wish it wasn't happening here. This house feels bad, sour. I don't know what happened here, but sometimes I can hear voices whispering to me. The things they say… that Ryan's going to die… that other terrible things are going to happen-"

"Hush."

"That writing on the wall… Sometimes words seem to leap out at me-"

He put two fingers on her lips to silence her. Gradually the delirium returned to her eyes as they started to roll upwards. After a moment or two she began to rave, occasionally speaking in tongues, thrashing from side to side. Church sat patiently beside her during the worst of it, then stroked her head until she eventually drifted off to sleep.

Sometimes Church thought he had never seen a night sky like the one above Mam Tor. Unencumbered by light pollution, benefiting in some indescribable way from the sheer height above sea level, they seemed to be enveloped by the sparkling heavens. If not for their circumstances, it would have been a sublime experience.

He stood with Laura in his arms, looking up at the celestial vault; for once she had removed her sunglasses. "We've come a long way, despite everything. Pity if it had to end here."

"No fat lady singing yet, boy."

"No, not yet." He watched a meteor burn up over their heads, wondering if it were some kind of sign. "Sometimes it's hard to take a step back and appreciate exactly what we're doing here. You know, I look at myself, look at you and the others, and all I see is normal people with all the stupid kinds of problems everybody has. And that's who we are, but at the same time we're something else as well-the champions of a race, a planet. The living embodiment of the Pendragon Spirit, whatever that might be-"

"Maybe we're not special."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe this thing the old git calls the Pendragon Spirit is in everybody. Maybe it's the spirit of man, or some shit. Listen to me, I sound like some wetbrained New Age idiot. What I'm trying to say is, what if he's just calling us special to keep us on board. So we think sorting out this whole mess is just down to us."

"Or so we dig deep to find the best in us to get the job done."

"That too." She rested her forehead on his shoulder. "That would explain why we all seem like such a bunch of losers. We are a bunch of losers."

"Doing the best we can. And doing a damn good job-"

"So far. But if we've not got any special dispensation, the chances of us fucking up are even greater. We've got through on a wing and a prayer and too much confidence. But sooner or later the blind, stupid luck is going to run out."

Church thought about this while he continued to watch the stars. Then: "I might have agreed with you a few weeks back, when we first met each other. But in all the shit we've waded through, everybody has shown a real goodness at the heart of them. There isn't anybody else I'd want around me at this time and there isn't anybody else I think could do a better job-"

"You don't know the thoughts in my head-"

"I can guess at them."

"No, you can't. There are sick, twisted things crawling around up there. Take Little Miss Goody-Shoes back there. Sometimes I wish she'd hurry up and die so she wouldn't carry on getting between me and you. I know it's a nasty, evil little part of me and I hate myself for it. But I still do it."

"She doesn't get between us."

"You're too stupid to see it. She loves you and I think you love her, and if there wasn't a constant state of crisis you'd recognise that."

Her words sparked rampant, brilliant bursts in his mind, but they were all too fleeting to get a handle on. He pulled back slightly so he could try to read her; she half-turned her head away. "You're a good person, Laura."

"You're a good liar."

"You've got an answer for everything."

"If I had, I wouldn't be feeling like my brains were leaking out of my ears. Too much thinking isn't good for anyone."

"Look-"

She slammed her hand on his mouth. "Don't say anything. It'll sort itself out one way or the other." He didn't like the look that crossed her face when she said that.

He hated to think anything unpleasant of her, so instead he kissed her. At first she seemed to be resisting him, but then she gave in, and for the briefest instant everything seemed in perfect harmony.

But then an unseasonally cold wind came whipping across the tor and buffeted them. Church broke off the kiss, shivering. Away in the west, billowing clouds were sweeping towards them at an unnatural rate. Lightning flashed within them, illuminating the underside of the roiling mass; one bolt burst out in a jagged streak to the ground. But they were not storm clouds, and there was no thunder.

The wind grew stronger as the clouds neared until it was lashing their hair, then threatening to throw them to the ground.

"What's going on?" Laura said. "Is this it?"

The clouds came down until they were rolling across the ground, and at that point Church realised there was a figure among them. At first it was just a silhouette almost lost beneath the shrouding mist, but then it came closer to the fore and Church realised who it was, and what was happening.

"Get back to the house." The snap in his voice stifled any questions instantly. Laura took one more glance at the clouds, then ran for the cottage. Halfway across the turf she realised Church wasn't behind her, but when she looked back he waved frantically for her to continue.

Then the wind did knock him to his knees and as he tried to scramble to his feet again, it hit him with all the force of a rampaging bull. He rolled over and it kept him rolling, driving him towards the jagged cliff edge and the precipitous drop to the rocks far below. Desperately he tried to dig his fingers in the grass, but they were torn out immediately; his bones cracked on stones, his face was dragged across the rough ground until it burned and bled.

The cliff rushed towards him. He had a fleeting vision of his broken, bloody body smashed at the foot of the tor and then the wind eased off just as he was half-hanging over the edge. He sucked in a deep breath, shaking with shock, tried to scramble back using his heels for purchase, but another gust came and pinned him on the cusp between life and death.

He had to calm himself, order his thoughts; it was his only chance. The gulf beneath him tugged at his hair, made his head spin.

Niamh hovered in front of him a foot above the ground, wrapped in the clouds of her discontent. He barely recognised her. The beautiful face was lost; instead, it rippled and twisted, unable to settle in a vision his mind could comprehend; her fury and dismay had reduced her to her primal form.

"Betrayal!" The word seemed to come from all around them, not spoken by any human voice, filled with strange vibrations that reverberated in the pit of his stomach.

"I didn't-"

"You gave me your word! You promised me your love solely! You lied! Untrustworthy, like all Frail Creatures!" A gust pushed him another inch over the drop. His fingers ached from clinging on to the rock lip.

"I'm sorry!" He had to raise his voice to be heard above the wind that was rushing all around the tor.

"No more lies!" Her voice exploded with the fury of a breaking storm, but at the centre of it Church could hear her heartache.

"I'm sorry!" he shouted again. This time she seemed to hear him, for there was a faint lull. He seized the opportunity. "I was stupid… confused-"

The wind hit him hard; he moved another inch. One more and he wouldn't be able to stop himself falling. His fingers felt like they were breaking from clutching on; the panic in his throat made it difficult to catch his breath.

"Lies." Her voice sounded less frenzied, more openly emotional, more humanity creeping into it. Church forced his head up so he could see. Her face had settled back into the features he knew, but they were broken with hurt. At that moment his heart went out to her and he was consumed with guilt at how he had disregarded her feelings. "We Golden Ones live our lives in the extremes of passion. We feel too strongly. You cannot even begin to understand the slightest working of our hearts and minds!"

The clouds continued to churn behind her, occasionally lifting her a few more inches higher before she settled down at the same level. Church wanted to say something to calm her, but he didn't have any grounds to defend himself and he was afraid he would only make it worse.

She floated closer to him, almost to the lip of the edge, so he could see her face without straining. Her pain had now turned to a cold, hard anger; he feared for his life once again. "My people always said nothing good could ever come of an affair with a Fragile Creature, and it appears they were correct. I have watched you too long from afar, Jack Churchill, and I have allowed my judgement to be swayed by what I saw."

The gale began to press on his chest; he could feel himself sliding. In that moment, thoughts went rushing through Church's head and he was surprised to realise he was less scared for himself than angry that he had once again allowed his emotions to ruin everything; if he died, every hope would die with him.

Before he could say anything the wind retracted and Niamh began to drift away, her face still cold and hard. "Our agreement is broken." Church followed her pointing finger towards the dark horizon; there, golden light flashed ominously. "The Good Son will soon be paying you a visit."

And with that, the clouds folded around her so she was completely lost to him, and the whole mass moved quickly back over the landscape until it disappeared beyond the summit of the tor.

Church scrambled back. When he was lying on solid ground, he gulped in mouthfuls of air and felt his pumping heart slowly return to normal. As he dragged himself to his feet, Laura ran from the house.

"You really know how to fuck women up, don't you?" she said breathlessly.

He could barely hear her. His attention was drawn to the occasional bursts of light in the distance and the engulfing darkness closer to home.

"I've done it again," he said quietly.

"What?"

"Screwed everything up." He couldn't even bring himself to tell her that a near-hopeless situation had suddenly become much worse. With his head bowed, he turned and trudged back to the house.

Veitch spent the first two days roaming through the heavily wooded slopes which enclosed the loch. It was a place like none he had experienced before, enveloped in its own strange, eerie atmosphere; purple hillsides cloaked in mist just beyond the tree boundary, outcroppings of orange, brown and black rocks, ancient trees, gnarled and twisted and scarred with green lichen that showed their great age, and over all the constant, soothing sound of the waves lapping against the pink shale and pebbles at the water's edge. The way the pines clustered so deeply to the shore on the south bank made him feel penned in, and there was an unshakeable sense that he was being watched from somewhere in their depths. But there was also a deep serenity, almost mystical in its intensity, with the birdsong hanging melodically in the air. At times the water was as still as glass, reflecting the verdant landscape and clear blue skies so perfectly he felt he could dive in and walk among the cool glades. At other times storms sprang from nowhere, sweeping up odd, eddying waves that crashed against the steep banks. Fog came and went among the trees, like ghosts, and at night, beneath a shimmering moon and diamond stars the valley was filled with the pregnant hush that came before a conversation.

He saw no traffic at all along the sinuous road that ran along the banks of the loch, and he didn't know if that was down to the Questing Beast or if everyone had simply fled to the cities. In Drumnadrochit, the quiet village that lay where Glen Urquhart intersected the Great Glen, the houses were still and locked, although a wisp of smoke rose from the occasional chimney. At the loch's southern tip, Fort Augustus was near empty too, and the occasional resident who saw him coming quickly ran for cover.

He made camp on both nights in a tree-lined gorge not far from Fort Augustus. Without even the slightest sign of the Questing Beast, he had started to wonder if it was another of the Queen's incomprehensible machinations, perhaps to separate him from Tom.

On the third day, he realised his hunt was true. In the early morning, he travelled alongside the tumbling river at the bottom of Glen Urquhart. The valley was blanketed beneath the drifting white mist that seemed to come and go with a mind of its own, muffling and distorting the splashing of the water and the clipped echoes of the horse's hooves. In a lonely spot surrounded by acres of sheep-clipped grass he came across an old stone cairn. There was a fading majesty to it, and even he, who was usually insensitive to the blue fire, felt a hint of its power there. But among the standing stones beyond the cairn he came across the remains of a man, half-strung over a barbed-wire fence. From his clothes, he looked like a farmer or an agricultural labourer. He was partially disembowelled as if he had been gored by a bull or a boar, but he had been out there long enough for the carrion birds to have been at his eyes and genitals, so it was impossible to tell if the Beast had consumed any of him as well. Veitch inspected the corpse and the surrounding area for anything that might help him, but there was no spoor or other discernible sign. The only thing that troubled him was that the poor man's blood had splattered randomly on the ground in a shape that resembled a screaming face. After spending time with Shavi he had grown reasonably adept at reading meaning in things that appeared to have none, and that image began to eat away at his subconscious. As he moved away his mind's eye had already begun to paint a picture of the true appearance of the Questing Beast.

That night he made camp among the trees high up on the hillside where he had a clear view of the loch and the bleak southern slopes. The setting sun painted the water red and purple; it was once again so still the water gave the illusion of glass. The air was sweet with the aroma of pine and wild flowers, and an abiding peace lay over the landscape. Yet it was hard for him to rest knowing that the thing could come at him from any direction at any time; he had even started to think of it as invisible or as something that flew on silent wings. All he wanted was something solid to latch on to, something he could stab or shoot or hack at, and then he would be fine.

As he had done the other nights, he dined on chocolate, biscuits and crisps he'd taken from a mysteriously deserted garage in Fort Augustus; the sugar and the processed taste sickened him, but he would have felt ridiculous striding into a supermarket for something more sustaining in the armour bequeathed him by the Tuatha De Danann. He was almost too distracted to think of food. Whenever he rested, Ruth loomed heavy in his thoughts, her face, darkened by fear after her discovery of what she carried with her, a frequent, troubling image he never seemed able to shake. Spurred by Church's right-thinking motivations, he had set out to help in the fight, but he knew his own motivation had been a quest for redemption for his past crimes. The chance to become a better person still weighed on him, but now, more than anything, he was doing it for her; to find some solution to heal her in the short term, to save her in the long term, whatever the cost to himself. Being driven by love was a strange experience for him and he was surprised how much he liked it.

As darkness fell, he stoked up the campfire for warmth during the cold night ahead, before taking time to groom the horse of which he had grown increasingly fond. When he had asked Melliflor for its name, the reply had been something indecipherable, so he had secretly decided to call it Thunder after the horse of some cowboy hero in an American comic he had read as a child. He would never tell the others something like that, but it gave him a deep, personal comfort. He got pleasure from treating it with affection, although he privately wished it were a little more responsive. It seemed unduly wary of him, almost as if it were scared, which he guessed must have come from whatever treatment had been meted out in the strange stables of the Court of the Yearning Heart. I can't even get a horse to like nze, he thought as he stroked its flank; the notion was so ridiculous it made him laugh out loud.

It was Thunder who alerted him to danger as he settled down to sleep next to the fire under the fragrant canopy of a pine. It whinnied and stamped its hooves long before Veitch heard any sign, and he was up on his feet with the sword in his hands as the howl of fear came from somewhere near the road on his side of the loch. The cry was suddenly infused with pain, before being snapped off.

Veitch jumped on to Thunder and spurred him through the trees on the steep slopes down to the road. The horse was uneasy, but it responded to his heels and it didn't take him long to find the mangled remains of a motorbike. There was a pool of blood on the tarmac, but no sign of any body. He dismounted and examined the road surface. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but the splatters of blood appeared to point in the direction of the inlet overlooked by the ruins of Castle Urquhart. Briefly, he stopped and listened, but the night was as quiet as ever. He wondered how swiftly the Beast could move; perhaps it was already miles away. Cautiously he climbed back on Thunder and headed in the direction indicated by the blood.

The clatter of the hooves echoed loudly in the quiet. It still surprised him to be riding down the middle of a road without seeing any sign of headlights in the deep night that hung over the water.

Ten minutes later he passed the still ruins of Urquhart Castle. There was no anxiety within him, just a quiet, intense concentration that took over his mind and permeated his being. His instinct told him his quarry was somewhere in the vicinity; there was a constant resonance vibrating inside him that he had come to trust: a warning to be as alert as he could be.

Around the bend in the road that led to Drumnadrochit he came across a few shreds of bloodied clothing. He jumped down to investigate without once lessening the sharp focus of his attention. He could hear nothing, smell nothing. The Beast left no sign in its passing, but Thunder seemed to sense something; its eyes rolled and it stamped its hooves again.

From the shape of the clump of clothing he could at least discern the direction in which the Beast had been travelling when the remnants were dropped. It was moving towards the area where the road was darkest and the trees clustered claustrophobically close. Back on Thunder, he gently urged it on; slowly, slowly, eyes constantly searching the surroundings. He rounded the small bay; ahead, the road moved off towards Inverness.

From the corner of his eye he caught a sudden movement in the trees away to his left. It was a darkness deeper than the surrounding shadows, moving so quickly it disturbed him.

He spurred Thunder into the trees, his crossbow held over the crook of his arm, his finger poised on the trigger. At that point there was little opportunity to manoeuvre among the trees. The movement of the branches in the faint breeze made odd shifts in the ambient light that at times made him feel something was creeping up on him. His heart pounding, he kept glancing all around to reassure himself.

Another movement, again away to his left. Was it trying to circle him, come up from behind? He suddenly realised it was a mistake to be in such a constricted space and he quickly sent Thunder back on to the road. From some where came the sound which Tom had described as forty hounds baying. That didn't even begin to capture the bone-chilling noise which now drifted out across the deserted countryside: high-pitched and filled with an abiding hunger, it didn't sound like anything earthly at all.

Something shifted back up the road. This time he was ready. In an instant his mind weighed up all the evidence, projected the path of the Beast; he aimed the crossbow, loosed the bolt. It shot into the shadows, bringing what could have been a squeal of pain. His teeth went on edge. He spurred Thunder on while managing to use the crank to draw the crossbow for another shot.

There was no sign of the Beast at the point where he had hit it, but he hadn't expected to bring it down with just one bolt. But there were dark splatters on the tarmac which smelled like charred batteries. So it could bleed, he thought. It could be hurt. That was all he needed to know.

It was heading back towards the castle ruins which rose up like bleached bones in the cold moonlight. Once it got on to the rugged, irregular promontory jutting into the icy waters, he would have it cornered. Could he take it out with just a crossbow and a sword? His blood thundered with the thrill of the hunt. He thought he probably could.

The car park for the castle was lit for tourists who would probably never come again. Across the shadowed edge of it the deeper darkness moved. Veitch got another impression of something big and dangerous. He loosed another bolt. It rattled across the car park, slammed into the fleeing rear of the creature. Another squeal of pain. It was proving easier than he thought.

His horse trotted down the steep path from the car park that eventually ran across an open stretch of grassland up to the castle's defensive ditch. At the drawbridge he dismounted and left Thunder next to a light. He had more freedom to move and react quickly on foot.

The castle was ruined, but still robust enough to glimpse the majesty of the fortress that had looked out over the loch, in one form or another, since the Pictish kings ruled the land in the Dark Ages. The grey stone of the impenetrable walls stretched out on either side, while the still-standing tower loomed like a sentinel away to his left.

There was more ichor splashed across the path that ran under the gatehouse; it looked like the Beast had been seriously injured. Veitch reclaimed the two bolts that had been knocked loose and prepared for another shot.

He could hear movement within the castle compound. He entered through the gatehouse slowly, aware that the enclosed space, with its dips and hillocks and many ruined buildings, could be a dangerous maze. Cautiously he scanned the area. There were too many places in which the Beast could hide.

Another sound sent him sprinting up the steps across the grass to the Upper Bailey. From this vantage point he had a view across the castle and the loch beyond. Nothing moved. Sooner or later it would give itself away, especially if it was badly injured, he told himself; but it was possible, if he was clever enough, to herd it to the area around the tower where it would have no escape.

He spent a few minutes convincing himself it was nowhere in the Upper Bailey and then he advanced slowly towards the hulking ruins of the chapel, Great Hall and kitchens. A brief wind swept up from the black water, singing in his ears.

But as he crossed into the Nether Bailey a figure erupted out of the periphery of his vision. He had only the briefest instant to register what was happening and then he was flying through the air. The landing stunned him for a second, but his sense of self-preservation took over and he shook himself awake. He lay on the grass in the shadow of the North Lodge; nothing moved near him. There was a chill wetness across his chest. When he looked down he saw his jacket and shirt lay in ribbons and there were three deep gashes cut into his flesh. The blood was pumping out through his ruptured armour. Desperately he tried to staunch it with a torn-off piece of his shirt, but as he tended to himself there was another blur of movement. His head snapped round so sharply he thought his neck had broken. Stars flashed across his vision; then the pain came, thundering out in a wave across his temples. By the time he had caught himself, his eyes were filling with liquid. He wiped them clear with the back of his hand, glanced down, saw the dark smear, dripping on his trousers.

The blow had dazed him; everything seemed to be moving too slowly, fractured, as if a strobe had been activated. The terrible hunting cry rose up all around him, different this time, triumphant.

No, he thought. I had it.

A shimmer of activity, so quick he barely saw it. Somehow he managed to fire off a bolt. The Questing Beast avoided it with ease.

As it could have done before, he realised. How stupid was he? He searched for a path back to Thunder, the images coming in broken, stinging form; he had to get away, recover. But the blur of movement was going around too fast, circling, forcing him back. It had cut off all escape routes. He was trapped, his back coming up against a stone wall. Then he stumbled through the gap of the Water Gate and rolled over and over down a steep bank, coming up hard against more stone blocks beyond which was a small, pebbled beach and the dark, lapping water.

As his thoughts started to come free from his daze, he realised: the Questing Beast had shown a ferocious intelligence and cunning, recognising the danger from him, probably over the days he thought he had been stalking it. He had been treating it like a stupid beast; it had been waiting for the opportunity to neutralise him.

It lashed forward from the dark and retreated in the blink of an eye. A gout of blood erupted from his forearm.

The pain was lost in the wild reel of his thoughts. He tumbled over the stone blocks on to the beach; now there was only water at his back.

The Questing Beast knew he was wounded; fatally, he realised, the same time the word entered his head. He could feel his clothes heavy with blood. How much longer did he have? The fragility of his thoughts gave him an answer. He'd failed: himself, Ruth, all the others. His stupidity had come through as it always did.

The Beast no longer seemed to be hiding from him. Through the haze he could pick it out more clearly than he had before. Its shape was not fixed and did not settle down like the Tuatha De Danann did once his mind had formed an analog; it was as if it preceded form, shouting across the aeons from a time when there was only intelligence and emotion. He glimpsed writhing, serpentine coils, something hard and bony, something that moved like gelatin and lashed with the spike of a scorpion's tail; felt, in one terrible moment, the cold, hard fury of its mind, as if it could reach out physically and strike him. This was bigger than him, better than him.

And then he realised, with some primal instinct, that it was gearing up for the final blow. He had little sense left through the pain; most of it was leaking out with his life's blood. But he asked himself this question: how cunning was he?

How cunning?

Blackness formed a tunnel around the periphery of his vision. He dropped the crossbow, went down to his knees, blood pooling in his eyes; he only had his instinct to go on. He bowed his head, prepared himself for the final blow.

The Questing Beast came forward in a wave of night; it was as if the wind had teeth and was roaring at him.

Veitch threw himself down on his stomach. At the same time he somehow managed to pull the sword free and raised it above his head. He held it firm when he felt it bite deep, and even when the sheer force of the Questing Beast's attack threatened to knock it from his grasp, he dug in and angled. The stink of charred batteries filled the air. The liquid swamped him in one awful deluge. The Questing Beast's momentum carried it over his head, screaming so loudly his eardrums burst.

And then he was in a syrupy world of silence, didn't hear the splash as the creature plummeted into the water. He turned on his back, saw stars and the moon; knew, in a damp, sad way, it would be the last time he would see them. He'd lost feeling in every part of his body. There were just his thoughts now, bursting like fireworks, slowly winding down.

The play of light on the lapping water was hypnotic. It was a good sight to see as the last sight. But it wasn't the end, it wasn't the end. The Beast wasn't dead; not yet. The black shape was moving through the water like a stalking shark. Thoughts triggered, stumbled into each other and then ran away obliquely; and he wondered how many times in the past it had broken through before Otherworld sucked it back, slinking through the waves, creating ripples of mythology on flickering black and white frames.

And as he thought this, it suddenly spurred into life, sending a V-shaped ripple breaking out on either side as it hurtled towards him. He had only a second to force himself up on his elbows before it erupted out of the water in front of him. He had a brief impression of a blackness as deep as space, of sharp, clacking teeth, and things that could have been tendrils or tentacles or arms, and then he closed his eyes and waited for pain that never came.

Somehow his lids flickered open again, and this time he wondered if he was already dead, for the scene around him had changed dramatically. There was a flurry of activity. Melliflor was there with the rest of the Queen's guard, oddly twisted spears catching the moonlight, and nets that billowed like the sails of a ship. And there was Tom looming over him, looking like Veitch had never seen him before; not stern nor angry, but caring and frightened, and in that instant he knew he was dead; or dreaming; or both.

The tunnel around his vision closed in tightly. And as everything faded into oblivion, his mind flashed back to that brief contact with the alien mind of the Questing Beast. It was a moment of sublime mystery, but there were some human reference points he could grasp: loneliness, a terrible yearning for another of its kind, long, long gone, lost in those early days when the world was new. That was why it was questing. Pain and hurt as brittle as glass; not a beast at all.

How awful, he thought. To be hunting it in that way. For it to be imprisoned by the Tuatha De Danann in the stinking bowels of their court. How awful and stupid and meaningless.

"You'll be okay now."

The voice: in his head, or somewhere outside? Then, like treacle flowing into his mind, the realisation that he was hearing; how could that be? When Witch's eyes finally responded he saw through a haze the stables in the Court of the Yearning Heart. His blood stained the dirty straw. Thunder stood nearby, stamping its hooves.

With the return of consciousness, agony exploded throughout his body. He was slumped against the wall in the mangled remnants of his armour, now coloured browny-purple with his dried blood. The deep gash across his chest was still ragged, but it didn't look quite as deep; even so, Veitch couldn't understand how he was still alive. From the way he had started to shiver, his death still seemed a definite possibility. But he could hear again, although he knew his drums had burst at the lochside.

Tom hove into view, dropping down on to his haunches; it was his familiar Scottish brogue Veitch had heard earlier. "What happened?" Witch's voice a feeble croak.

"The Queen saw-"

"I saw your tremendous victory." Tom stood up and walked over to the other side of the stables as the Queen knelt down next to Veitch. She was wearing flowing, diaphanous white robes that were startlingly out of place in the bloody grime of the stables. "You proved yourself a great champion. My champion." There was great pride in her voice. "I had you brought here, for in my court nothing truly dies if I so wish it. Here your wounds will have time to heal. You will be well again, Ryan Veitch." Melliflor laid a crystal bowl of water next to her. She took a white cloth from him, dipped it in the water and began to dab gently at his forehead, slowly wiping away the splatters of his blood.

"I can't believe it," he muttered deliriously. "A Queen… tending to me..

"Even Queens must recognise great bravery. Your name will be exalted, even among the Tuatha De Danann. And that bravery was carried out in my name, a fitting tribute to the Queen of the Yearning Heart. The Questing Beast is back in its chamber-"

"It survived?"

"It exists, as always."

Witch had the sudden feeling the Beast had been released merely for him to hunt it down, a perverse sport for the Tuatha De Danann so they could see what depths existed within him; and on that front he had even surprised himself. "Will you help Ruth?"

The Queen continued to dab at his forehead. Some of the water ran into his eyes and she wiped it away softly. A drop trickled down the bridge of his nose. "I will be as good as my word, Ryan Veitch." A smile he couldn't quite read.

Veitch could feel himself starting to black out again. The Queen's ministrations were so soothing, her touch so gentle; the coolness of her fingers seemed to ease his pain wherever they touched.

She wiped down his cheeks, brushed the drips from his chin. He had lost so much liquid his body felt like sand inside.

She dabbed at his brow, smiled enigmatically. Then she held the cloth before his face and squeezed tightly. A single droplet eked out of the bottom, hung for a second, then dropped. He stuck out the tip of his tongue.

"No!" Tom's voice, filled with the most indescribable anguish.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the Rhymer rushing forward. Melliflor and another guard restraining him harshly. The droplet hitting his tongue, so cool and refreshing, belying its size. Slowly seeing the Queen's expression change, from gentle care to something much darker, like a shadow falling across the face of the moon. Still not grasping what had happened. Hearing Tom shouting his pain to the heavens.

The Queen put the bowl to one side sharply, stood up and swirled her robes around her as she strode to the door; there she turned and flashed a smile that was both triumphant and proud, the expression of someone who always gets her way. Veitch, in his befuddled state, still tried to grasp why the ministrations had stopped. The break had been so harsh; he wanted to feel that cool touch of her fingers.

And hearing Tom's words for the first time and feeling instantly cold and hopeless: "You took a drink, you fool! You took a drink and you're in her power now! She'll never you let go!"

Then she was gone, and Melliflor and the guards trailed out behind her, each of them smirking in turn at Veitch and Tom, knowing there was no longer any need to guard them.

Witch's thoughts turned instantly to Ruth and the three days she had left. An awful emptiness opened up within him at the knowledge that he had failed her; he might as well have killed her himself. His part in everything was over. He was scum; when it all came down to it, that was all he was and all he could ever be.

"I can't leave you here," Tom croaked. "Not on your own. I'm going to stay with you."

"The others need you."

"You need me more." Tom's face was filled with the all the terror and suffering that lay ahead for Veitch; that stretched out for years and decades and centuries.

Veitch looked through him, two thoughts turning over and over in his mind: that he wouldn't have the resilience that Tom had exhibited to survive the relentless tearing apart of his body and mind; and that he would never see the world, and Church, and Ruth, ever again.

Tom dropped to his knees and took Veitch in his arms. Veitch could feel vibration running through him, felt moisture splash on his face, and realised Tom was sobbing. And somehow that was more terrifying than everything, for all it said about what the future held for him there, in the Queen's incisive power.