The Devil in green

The snow started again on December the sixth, floating down from a grey sky just before prime. It was a display of such ethereal charm that it prompted even the depressed and hungry brothers to raise their heads from their struggle and enjoy the moment. By lunchtime, a thin coating had transformed the cathedral and its bleak gothic buildings into a fairy-tale palace, glowing soft and white. Across Salisbury, the rooftops gleamed; everywhere sound and light took on a new quality.

And still the snow fell. By mid-afternoon, brothers were hastily assigned to clear the paths, the crunch of their boots and the scrape of their shovels echoing around the compound. Afterwards, they gathered in the shelter of the west front, stamping and steaming, ruddy-cheeked and bright-eyed, cracking jokes and swapping tales.

Mallory watched them as he returned from a patrol around the bishop's palace, quietly marvelling at how something as simple and natural as a snowfall could have such a transformative effect on human nature. Briefly, they had forgotten the Devil at the gates, though the oppressive nature of the threat had unbalanced several minds in recent days, especially after the horned shape had been glimpsed once again hovering over the city. The apocalypse, they all felt, was now sickeningly close.

The snow provided a break, too, from his own thoughts as they continually turned over the many facets of the mystery without finding any connecting factor; but he was close to a solution, he knew that. A little further on, he spotted Gardener crouching down in the middle of the lawns, occasionally swinging his arm back and forth. Mallory realised he was surreptitiously feeding the birds a few bits of dry bread left over from lunch. In their increasingly dire situation, some would have considered it wasteful, but Mallory found it oddly touching: Gardener, gruff, hard-faced, occasionally unpleasant, locked in a moment of simple sacrifice for lesser creatures.

He watched until the Geordie had finished, then was overcome with a devilish idea. As Gardener trudged away, Mallory rolled a snowball and hurled it with devastating aim, hitting Gardener squarely at the base of his skull. Gardener whirled, eyes blazing, but when he saw Mallory his face went blank. Mallory had a sudden sense of his miscalculation until Gardener dipped down, rolled a snowball and launched it with one lightning move. It struck Mallory in his chest, showering snow across his face.

For a second, everything hung, and then they both exploded with raucous laughter, leaping into a frenzied bout of snowball-throwing. Within moments, they heard a whoop as Miller and Daniels ran up. Gardener and Mallory hit them both before they were halfway across the lawns.

For the next fifteen minutes, they forgot all the pressures of the daily strife in complete childlike abandon. Mallory joked, 'Stay on Daniels' blindside!' while Miller darted back and forth among them, whirling snowballs as if he were crazed. By the end, when they were all covered in white from head to toe, even Gardener was laughing. They collapsed into the snow, exhausted but still in high spirits.

Three members of the Blues walked by, watching their ridiculous fun with disdain. One of them sneered that they were bringing the knights into disrepute, following his comment with a whispered disparaging remark that brought mocking laughter from his colleagues. Mallory gave them the finger, while Miller threw a snowball in their direction. The Blues rounded, spoiling for a fight until the ringleader calmed them and led them on their way.

'Wankers,' Mallory said.

'No sense of humour,' Daniels added. 'Always a bad sign.'

Suddenly something struck Mallory, so obvious that he wondered why he hadn't considered it before. 'Why are they called Blues?' he asked. The blue flash on their shoulders had set them apart from the very first.

No one knew, but after his conversation with James, Mallory had an idea. Their very existence, all the mysterious missions on which they regularly embarked, had something to do with the Blue Fire: they were an elite squad in more ways than one.

His thoughts were interrupted by the acrid smell of smoke drifting across the compound accompanied by the sound of crackling fire. Filled with curiosity, they made their way around the side of the new buildings to its source near the gates, where a large bonfire was sending up thick black clouds.

'What are they wasting all that fuel for?' Daniels asked.

It was only then that they saw the lines of brothers emerging from the cathedral with armfuls of books, some ancient with crumbling spines, many shiny leather-backed volumes, even modern pamphlets.

'The library,' Mallory said. 'He really did it, the Nazi.'

'Ah, they're only books,' Gardener dismissed

Mallory turned on him. 'They're not only books. They're ideas, thoughts, beliefs-'

Gardener interrupted with a shrug. 'That's right, but they're not our ideas, thoughts, beliefs.'

Mallory knew there was no point in arguing. He turned back to the sad sight until he noticed three figures watching the bonfire across the way, almost obscured by the drifting smoke. When it cleared for a moment, he saw it was James, his face drawn, shoulders hunched, standing between two upright, characterless young men who were clearly inquisitors.

The red flames contrasted starkly with the white of the snow. He watched for another moment, then trudged slowly back to the dormitory alone.

An hour later he was called to a fight in the refectory. Two brothers were brawling over the size of their portions at dinner. It was a stupid argument — there couldn't have been more than half a carrot in it — but in that claustrophobic atmosphere tempers frayed easily. One of the men had received a broken nose. The lower half of his face was stained red, and it was Mallory's job to escort him to the infirmary while giving him a caution. Miller was taking the other one for a dressing-down before one of the inquisitors.

As they left the refectory, the broken-nosed man was sullen and depressed; he'd lost his dinner in the scuffle and there would be nothing more until the thin gruel they laughingly called breakfast. Mallory didn't have the heart to deliver the caution Blaine had outlined for such occasions, so they walked in silence.

When they arrived at the infirmary, they were surprised to find the place in disarray. Warwick's surgical utensils were scattered across the floor, the contents of some herb jars had been emptied and the operating table was upended. Warwick sat on a chair in one corner, white-faced and uneasy. He was surrounded by two stony-faced Blues and a tall, weasley inquisitor who was brandishing Warwick's clockwork radio.

'It's not mine, I tell you,' Warwick protested.

'Your assistant said it was.' The inquisitor examined the radio as if it were filth.

'Well, he's wrong.'

'You know the punishment for hoarding banned technology.'

Warwick looked as if he was going to be sick. 'It's not mine!'

'Why was it hidden amongst your things?' The inquisitor plainly wasn't going to let up.

Mallory wanted to say, It's just a little radio! We all loved them only a few months ago, but he knew the object had taken on new meaning in the rapidly developing language of the cathedral. It was a nuclear bomb, an Ouija board, a letter filled with anthrax. He wondered if he was the only sane one in the entire place.

It looked as if the inquisitor was only just beginning, so Mallory abandoned the broken-nosed man there and wandered into the network of back rooms. He was taken with the desire to see Hipgrave, who hadn't been heard from in days.

The main ward was full. With the food declining, more and more people were getting sick and taking longer to recover, while others were being laid low by injuries they would normally have fended off. Every bed was also taken in a makeshift ward in an annexe. Beyond, there were several single rooms with occupants in various states of illness.

The final room was locked, but like the others it had a window of reinforced glass through which Mallory could see Hipgrave lying in bed, arms straight out by his sides, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling.

Mallory hesitated, then rapped gently on the window. Hipgrave's gaze didn't even flicker towards him. He appeared, to Mallory's untutored eyes, catatonic. A rigid man, the strain of all they'd experienced had finally broken him.

For the first time, Mallory felt pity for Hipgrave. Although the captain had been thoroughly disagreeable, he didn't deserve what had happened to him. None of them deserved it.

Back in the surgery, Warwick's radio lay smashed on the floor. Mallory found it hard to deal with the pointlessness of it all; no more information coming from across the country, no more messages of hope. All thrown away, for some stupid idea of religious belief that was as irrational as all the supernatural creatures pounding on the walls. He'd been consumed with thoughts of vengeance against Blaine and the Church authorities for all his suffering, but the pointlessness of everything in the cathedral had worn him down. Now all he wanted was to get away with Sophie. Stefan and the others could stew in the hell of their own making.

Warwick was nowhere to be seen. Mallory didn't try to divine what that meant, nor what it insinuated for all the sick brothers in the infirmary. There was no sense anywhere.

Leaving the infirmary, he had half a mind to go back to the dorm and climb into bed until he heard raised voices coming from the refectory.

He had expected to find another fight, but the atmosphere was much different. Most of the brothers were standing watching a scene being played out near the serving tables. More inquisitors and Blues were struggling to contain a slight figure throwing himself around in a wildcat frenzy. It was Lewis, Daniels' young boyfriend. When he found a gulp of breath, he let out another burst of shouting so filled with passion that Mallory at first had trouble understanding what he was saying.

'This is wrong!' Mallory eventually deciphered. 'I'm a good Christian!'

Eventually, the Blues got a grip on his arms and pinned him between them. His face was flushed and tear-stained. Inquisitor-General Broderick turned to the crowd, obviously feeling a need to explain the arrest of someone so young and unimposing.

'This one has committed a sin against the Lord,' he began.

'No sin!' Lewis shouted.

'A terrible sin, against the very order of things. He is a sodomite-'

Lewis shouted him down. 'I'm someone who loves! Is that wrong? No, it's God's message!' he added incredulously. 'Then why am I being punished for it?'

'Take him away!' some of the fundamentalists in the corner were shouting, their faces filled with hatred.

Mallory noticed Daniels standing in the front, not far from Lewis. He looked as if he was about to tear himself apart.

Lewis's eyes fell on Daniels. 'If you believe in love,' he proclaimed, seemingly to everyone, though Mallory knew it was aimed at his boyfriend, 'speak out now! Speak out on my behalf! Because if this is allowed to happen, this cathedral… this religion… will lose something much more important this day! And you'll all know in your hearts you turned your back on a truth… on love… on me!'

In the candlelight, Mallory could see tears glinting in Daniels' eye. It seemed he was ready to go to Lewis's aid. Mallory prepared to restrain him, knowing that if Daniels spoke out, he would be dragged away with Lewis to an uncertain fate.

Daniels hovered for a second, then turned and pushed his way through the crowd, his head bowed. Lewis cried out as if he had been wounded, but even then he didn't say Daniels' name.

In the confusion of Lewis's arrest, Mallory forced his way through the mute crowd in search of Daniels to try to mitigate the blow. But Daniels was not at the back of the refectory, nor was he outside, or back in the dormitory. Mallory searched for half an hour and in the end was forced to give up. The day that had seemed hopeful only a few hours earlier was ending so bleakly he didn't want to see the morrow.

Wrapped in his cloak with the hood pulled low over his head, Mallory drifted around the buildings for a while, lost to his own dark thoughts, until he was drawn to the cathedral by the distant sound of plainsong drifting through the cold evening air. With the candles gleaming through the frosted windows and the blanketing snow casting the night white, a sense of peace and hope fell across him.

He felt an urge to be on his own, so he made his way to the kitchens, which he knew would be empty at that time. With the ovens burning around the clock, it was also the only continually warm place in the entire cathedral compound; the list of brothers seeking work there had been long ever since winter had come. But how long would the fuel last, he wondered?

The dinner pots and pans had been rinsed and lay gleaming on the work surface; the ovens had been stoked, the few vegetables trimmings put aside for composting. Dinner had been even more meagre than usual and Mallory's stomach was rumbling, but he resisted the urge to raid the larders out of responsibility to the others.

Instead, he found a space beside the furthest oven from the door and shuffled in. The temperature was just right to begin to ease the aching cold from his feet and hands. When he swallowed the warm air, the contrast allowed him to feel the permeating cold all the way down his throat into his lungs; it felt as though he hadn't been warm for months.

In the soporific atmosphere, it wasn't long before his eyelids began to feel heavy. He fought it — it would be embarrassing to be discovered there — but within minutes he had drifted off.

'You've all done a terrible thing.' Sophie walked slowly around the moonlit glade.

Mallory knew what she meant. 'The Fabulous Beast.'

'How could you do such a thing? It was something wonderful, Mallory.' The deep sorrow in her voice made his heart ache. 'It was more than just a living creature, it was a symbol, it was the manifestation of the Earth Spirit, the power of life given form. And you killed it!'

'I'm sorry.' That sounded pathetic against something so huge. He wanted to say that he hadn't joined in; it wasn't his hand that had helped bring the creature down. But he knew that was no mitigation. As she had pointed out to him before, he was complicit because he hadn't taken sides; there was no sitting on the fence. He had known that at the time, and he knew it now.

'We can't begin to guess the repercussions of what you did, Mallory,' she continued. 'The echoes will run through the universe, through time. Goodness knows what the end result will be, what price we'll all have to pay. And there will be a price, Mallory, make no mistake.'

'I wish it hadn't happened, Sophie, more than anything, but everyone in the cathedral is under tremendous pressure. They've been facing a siege for weeks now… they're running out of food, and fuel. They feel they're in a fight to the death against Evil, not just to save themselves, but to save the whole world. And they're completely powerless-'

'I know,' she sighed. 'But that doesn't justify-'

'I'm not trying to justify anything, just explain.' He walked over and took her hand; she let him, folding her cool fingers into his. 'If there's any way we can put this right, make amends…'

'I don't know. It's hard to think how. I'll have to petition Higher Powers, see what can be done.'

He tugged gently on her hand and she looked into his face, her eyes lost in pools of shadow. 'Against all the terrible things happening in the world, we should be nothing, but it doesn't feel like that to me.'

She rested her head on his chest. Even in that place he could feel the tension in her brought on by the weight of all her obligations. Behind her confidence and power lay a woman as unsure as everybody else, desperate for a break from the demands heaped on her, someone who had managed to put her own needs to one side to do her best for others. Sensing that, Mallory felt even more drawn to her.

'We're going to make a go of this, aren't we?' she said wearily. 'It would be so nice to have someone to help with the burden… of this life.'

There was a weight of belief in her voice that suddenly scared him. She was implying he had the strength, the ability, the confidence, to stand beside her, to help support her, and he was very good at presenting that view to the world; but inside, he wasn't half the man he pretended to be.

Once again she appeared to be reading his thoughts. 'You're a better man than you think you are, Mallory,' she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

'Where do we go from here?' he said. But even as the words had left his lips, he was aware that they were moving apart, not through any conscious will of their own, but as if a rope were dragging him back.

Her voice floated to him even as she was swallowed by the trees. 'I'll you soon, Mallory. In the flesh next time.'

He awoke with a start, still wrapped in thoughts of trees and a moonlit landscape. Briefly, he wondered where he was, until the warmth of the oven brought him back to earth quickly. Someone else was in the kitchen. Cautiously, he peered around the edge of the oven.

Gibson, the Canon of the Pies, was opening a padlocked larder built into one wall. It had been constructed to be almost hidden unless it was actively being sought: the doors merged with an area of wood panelling, the keyhole lying behind a swivelling, decorative rail. Only the padlock around the two handles, both disguised as ornaments, gave the game away.

Inside the larder were shelves filled with food. Mallory could see cured meats, dried fruits in jars, pickles in larger glass containers, and assorted tins. Gibson was removing what looked like salt-beef from a large Tupper- ware box and stuffing it into his mouth till his cheeks bulged. From his anxious backwards glances, Mallory understood this was Gibson's own private store. He had plainly stockpiled emergency supplies under his role as head of the kitchens to keep him well fed. Meanwhile the rest of the brothers underwent privations to ensure everyone had enough food to survive. Mallory felt a dull flare of anger. He considered confronting Gibson there and then, but he knew the canon would use his authority to deny his crime and Mallory would be the one made to suffer.

While he considered his options, Gibson finished off half of the salt-beef and followed it with two pickled onions. Then he pulled out a stoppered bottle — some fortified wine, probably brandy, Mallory guessed — and took a long draught.

Just as Mallory had reached the conclusion that he could no longer contain himself, he became aware of a sickening but disturbingly familiar smell. His heart began to pound as desperate images of the labyrinth at Bratton Camp crackled through his mind.

Gibson filled his mouth with dried apple and raisins until the contents were falling out even as he pushed more in.

Anxiously, Mallory searched for the origin of the foul odour. Gibson wasn't aware of it. He popped one whole sugary biscuit into his mouth and began to close the cupboard. At that moment, he heard or sensed something and froze. Mallory saw Gibson's fear that his sins had sought him out.

Mallory drew his sword slowly.

'Who's there?' Gibson snapped the padlock shut and turned, pressing his huge bulk against the larder. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining.

Who's there? Mallory echoed in his head.

A shadow moved on the far edge of his vision, but was gone the instant he looked towards it.

The air in the kitchen appeared to deaden. The only sounds were the dim crackling of the logs in the oven and Gibson's laboured breathing.

The key-ring jangled as Gibson dropped it into a pocket in his robe. He wiped the saliva from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Mallory had grown taut. He scanned back and forth across the kitchen but could see no sign of any other person even though every fibre of his being told him the threat was there. Gibson, too, appeared to have come to this conclusion, for his expression was now tinged with nascent dread. He shivered, steeled himself, then began to march insistently towards the door.

The shadow reappeared, driving towards Gibson so fast that Mallory had no time to react. Half-glimpsed, it seemed to be made of glass, falling almost into view, then vanishing completely, like flashes of light illuminating a statue. At first it was undeniably human in shape, but altering as it progressed: tentacles, wings, a fan of knives, a bulking body with too many arms and legs, each blurring into the next.

Gibson only had time to let out the briefest scream. His twisted, horror- filled expression showed that the attacker had presented itself to him fully. Mallory launched himself from his hiding place, a dazzling sapphire light dancing across the kitchen from his sword.

The sheer speed and ferocity of the attacker made him feel rooted. Though barely seen, its effect on Gibson was of unyielding substance. As Mallory vaulted a preparation table, he was aware of a rapid back and forth movement and Gibson simply crumpled.

He reached the canon in seconds, but all that remained was butcher's- shop detritus, the final spark of life just winking out.

He whirled, but somehow, even at that close range, the monstrous attacker had become lost to him. Yet as he searched, the light from his sword created a shadow where none should be, away by the doors into the storerooms; and it was the shadow of a man.

As it attacked, he brought up his sword, hoping whatever power it held would be enough. The blue glow illuminated something so foul his conscious mind refused to accept it, but at that point he realised — as he had known at Bratton Camp — that he could never defeat it alone. He turned and sprinted out into the snowy night.

Things only fell into place when he was sucking in the freezing air, finally accepting that nothing was going to come out of the open door. Downcast before, his mood was beginning to fan into despair.

The killer wasn't human at all: somehow they had brought the thing from Bratton Camp back with them.

He ran into the cathedral to raise the alarm. Compline was just coming to a close. Before he had time to yell out, Blaine ran over and gripped his arm. 'Shut up, you idiot! Do you want to start a panic?' he hissed. He could see from Mallory's face that something terrible had happened.

Roeser, the Blues' captain, manhandled Mallory out into the night while Blaine attempted to convince the brothers that all was well. After Mallory revealed what had happened, Roeser gathered a coterie of Blues and rushed to the kitchens, leaving Mallory with Blaine, two other Blues and Broderick, who watched Mallory closely with his inquisitor's eyes.

Stefan arrived shortly with the knight sent to summon him, and spoke hurriedly with Blaine before they both approached Mallory. Blaine looked hateful, but Stefan remained as emotionless as ever.

'Do you swear now before God that you did not kill Gibson, and before him, Cornelius, our beloved bishop, and his assistant, Julian?' Stefan asked abruptly.

At first, Mallory was taken aback, but then he saw the hardness in Blaine's face and realised the connections that had been made. 'No, I did not,' he said forcefully. 'I've already told what I saw.'

'He's lying,' Blaine said. 'I've had him under observation for a while. He can't be trusted.'

Mallory didn't flinch in the face of the accusations. 'I have not killed. I could never do anything like that.'

'Not even in the service of God?' Stefan said slyly. He softened as he turned to Blaine. 'We must not distrust this young knight,' he said. 'He has made his vow before God. He has proved himself in the past as a good crusading Christian.'

Mallory didn't believe him for a second.

'Besides,' Stefan continued, 'we will shortly be putting all of our good souls to the test. Then the truth will be there for all to see.'

Mallory wondered what Stefan meant by this, but he didn't have time to consider it for Roeser ran up, looking more worried than Mallory had ever seen him.

Blaine recognised it, too. 'What is it?' he barked.

'No sign of the perpetrator, sir,' he replied. His lips had grown thin and white. 'But the storerooms have been ransacked.' He looked from Blaine to Stefan and back. 'All our supplies have been destroyed.'

The assault on the walls began soon after, with a ferocity that took them all aback. Mallory could hear the clattering against the gates even from outside Blaine's office, where a council had been hastily convened. When Roeser made his announcement, Mallory had seen Stefan blanch for the first time. They all knew what it meant: starvation on a mass scale within days. They were already at a low ebb; there wasn't much chance of hanging on longer without any food at all.

The voices echoed dully through the office walls while Mallory thought of Sophie and whether all that potential would ever be achieved. He didn't fear death. For so long, it had almost felt as if he had been shuffling through life in a dream, simply waiting for the end to turn up. Now that it had, he wasn't surprised. But he was sad that he might not be there for Sophie, as she had hoped.

There were still options. He considered dropping over the cathedral walls and attempting to dodge the hellish creatures beyond; he guessed one or two would try that before long. Oddly, he still had hope; that surprised him. He thought hope had long since been excised from his system.

The council had been talking for a good hour. Mallory stretched his legs, then slid down the wall to sit for a while, no longer caring if Blaine emerged to castigate him for not standing tall and erect as a knight should. He knew they'd only brought him along because they didn't want him passing news of the crisis to anyone else.

Through the window he saw fire erupt against the eastern wall. Part of the masonry crumbled, and the regular crew of guards and knights who manned the defences every evening set about desperately trying to shore up what was left.

As he watched, two things struck him: firstly, that the enemy appeared to know of events within the cathedral — the attack had clearly coincided with the murder and the destruction of the supplies; and secondly, not only had the enemy grown stronger, but the defences had also grown weaker. It was this that intrigued him the most. On the surface there should be no rational reason why the cathedral's defences were starting to fail. But what he had learned over the previous weeks about the nature of the Blue Fire hinted at the reason.

The earth energy, whatever designation was chosen for it, was a power of the spirit, strengthened by belief. To the pagans it was the essence of nature. To Christians it was the spirit and power of God. The same force, different ways of approaching it. The same undeniable pathway to the numinous.

If belief gave it a charge, that explained why certain places became sacred — churches, stone circles, hilltops, springs — sites where the Blue

Fire was already strong and made more potent by worshipping humans, creating a spiritual atmosphere that was ripe for connection with the divine.

And as the Caretaker had told him, the cathedral had somehow become supercharged; that had kept the enemy at bay for a long time. But now the rejuvenating faith of the brothers was being knocked by successive blows — the murders, the siege, the diminishing supplies. The site was slowly losing its power. If things carried on the same way, if the brothers found out they had no more food, soon the walls would fall completely and the supernatural forces would sweep across them all.

Of course, we might have starved to death long before then, he thought wryly. But the Adversary had been very clever: it had all been linked.

He was disturbed from his deep thoughts by the door swinging open and heated conversation spilling out into the corridor. Wearily, he pushed himself back to his feet.

Stefan marched out, hands behind his back, his face dark with determination. 'Do what I say. This is the only way. We have the ultimate obligation. If we fail… if God's light goes out because we turned away… because we weren't strong enough… then we will be damned for all eternity.' He marched straight past Mallory as if he wasn't there.

Blaine followed him out, unusually angry. There had obviously been some disagreement. He paused by Mallory. 'If you do anything to destroy morale, anything at all, I will personally break your fucking neck,' he said, quietly and coldly. He turned to Roeser. 'Organise the teams. Everyone works through the night. We'll punch the tunnel through by tomorrow or someone's head will roll, and it'll probably be yours.'

Daniels, Gardener and Miller were gathered together in the dorm, clearly on edge. Miller jumped up anxiously when Mallory entered. 'What's going on?' he blurted.

Mallory wondered how much he could tell them without prompting Blaine to carry out his threat.

'There are all sorts of rumours flying around,' Miller said; he couldn't keep still.

Gardener sucked on a roll-up, on the surface the picture of calm, but Mallory could see from his eyes that he was troubled. 'They've cranked us up to the highest alert,' he said. 'Summat's up.'

'Are they sending us out to fight those things?' Daniels looked drained, his face puffy as if he had been crying. Mallory could see he had been crushed by what had happened to his boyfriend and what that had made him face within himself.

'Gibson's dead.' Mallory dropped wearily on to his bunk and closed his eyes.

'Oh, no!' Miller whined.

'The same as before?' Daniels asked.

'The same.' In the dark behind his eyes, with their disembodied voices floating around him, Mallory made another connection; they were coming thick and fast, each prompting another. Everything had been planned from the beginning. They had been lured to Bratton Camp so they could bring that terrible creature back. A hidden assassin to strike from the inside while the hellish forces attacked from without. How very clever. How pathetically stupid they all seemed in comparison; a stupidity born of arrogance. Even after all that had happened, they still thought they were top of the pile, better than anything else in Existence. They weren't, not by a long way.

But it was the words of the Caretaker that struck him the most: Look to your hearts. And then he thought of the severed hand he had seen at Bratton Camp, seemingly belonging to one of them, yet apparently not. Now he could guess what it all meant: the thing was inside one of them, somehow, regenerating what was lost; or perhaps even it was one of them, putting on skin and bones and face like other people put on a suit of clothes.

That was how they had brought it back. That was how it survived on the sacred ground of the cathedral where no other supernatural creature could walk, the ultimate fifth columnist.

He looked at the faces surrounding him: Daniels, Gardener, Miller, and then thought of Hipgrave locked in his little room in the infirmary. He had spent hours with all of them since the return and they had all seemed perfectly human: flawed, wrapped up in their own little troubles. How well it hid. How could he ever tell which one of them it was?

'What's up with you, lad?' Gardener was watching him carefully. 'You're looking at us as if you've never seen us before.'

Desperately, he tried to recall where they all had been at the time of the murders. They had been with him on the walls when Cornelius's body had been discovered… but when he had been murdered? And Julian, where had any of them been when he died? Hipgrave had certainly been locked away when Gibson was killed. Or had he? Perhaps he was free, loose in the cathedral.

'I'm just tired,' he said, closing his eyes again.

Who could he trust? Gardener was hardened by life, but there was humanity burning inside him. Miller was bright and innocent, all his emotions on the surface. Daniels might have been temporarily broken by what he had seen earlier, but his love of life still shone beneath that. Even shattered, sad Hipgrave, unable to live up to his ambitions, was basically a good man. How could it be any of them?

'Are you all right?' Miller asked, concerned.

But what he did know was that if he gave any sign he suspected, he wouldn't stand a chance. 'Fine,' he said. 'You know they're punching the tunnel through tomorrow, hopefully? Putting a lot of steam behind it. Working through the night.'

'Why?' Gardener asked suspiciously. 'For the last few days they seemed quite happy letting us munch through spuds while they took their time.'

'Maybe they finally realised time's running out,' Daniels said.

The snow stopped falling some time during the night, but by then everywhere was blanketed by a covering almost two feet thick in parts. It was generally agreed by those who came from the area that there hadn't been a snowfall like it for a good few years, not even during the previous year's harsh winter.

The digging, however, had continued frantically throughout the night, with large teams working a strict rota system. They had partially demolished a wall surrounding the bishop's palace to provide stone to line the tunnel, and with wood torn from the rafters of another building, it looked as though they had beaten the numerous collapses that had held them up until that point.

'Amazing what you can do when a crisis focuses your mind,' Mallory muttered, forgetting Miller was with him.

'What crisis?' Miller asked. 'You're talking as if it's even worse than we think.'

'It's always worse than you think.' Mallory looked out over the crowd of brothers who had gathered to watch the digging. He saw suspicion and trepidation in their faces as they picked up on the powerful mood of anxiety hanging over those in charge. The brethren were increasingly loath to attend to their duties and some were even beginning to skip services. Although the Blues and the inquisitors were stamping out open dissent, they couldn't control the Chinese whispers rustling through the community. Respect for Stefan and his repressive rule appeared to be crumbling quickly. People had been prepared to tolerate him if he got them out of current difficulties and provided security, but things had rapidly gone from bad to worse.

The dissent, though, clearly had a profound effect on Stefan and his supporters. Mallory could see it in the hard lines of their faces: any jubilation they might have felt at their unexpected triumph had faded, but it was plain that now they had tasted power they were not going to let it go at any cost. Mallory saw them all over the place, though they were easy to miss. Seemingly faceless, they passed through rooms without any noticeable trace, like ghosts; the effects only became apparent later. They were particularly adept at using scripture to support their hardline views. Most didn't have the time, the energy or the intellectual rigour to argue against them; sometimes it was easier to allow oneself to be swayed. And again, only later were the results apparent.

'You went to see Hipgrave this morning, didn't you?' Miller said curiously.

'Yes.' Mallory had known it was only a matter of time before Stefan did something to bolster his position, so he wasn't surprised to see him striding up to the dig with his fawning entourage.

'How is he?'

'Still locked in.'

Miller looked blank at this response, then said, 'Are you OK, Mallory? You seem a little distant today. Have I done something to offend you?'

'Nothing more than usual.'

They hushed as Stefan prepared to give an impromptu oration, only as he began to intone gravely, it was soon apparent that it wasn't impromptu at all: the words had been carefully crafted.

'I have an important announcement to make,' he said, after climbing atop a pile of masonry. 'We have had many hardships heaped upon us in recent times, and it would seem to me — and, I would think, to most people here — that we have been failing our Lord. We have not been devout enough… pure enough. We have not turned our hearts and minds to the teachings of the Lord God, our Father. We have not expunged the sins of our past lives. Rather, we have allowed them to grow fruitful on the vines of our souls, and to the Lord, that could only be an abomination. And so it is time for us to cleanse ourselves.'

Mallory tried to guess what tricks Stefan had planned, but the bishop was always cunning.

'Our sacred relic, which has made this cathedral so strong, is filled with God's power,' he continued. 'And through prayer, deep in the spirit, our Lord has illuminated me on its workings. It can, quite literally, see into the depths of a soul. It can find out your sins. We — the Chapter of Canons and myself — have decided to use that power to enable us all to cleanse ourselves… to make us closer to God in every way, so that we can overcome these trials presented to us. One by one, every brother shall be brought before the relic to have their sins divined. In the glorious light of true confession and personal revelation, we shall all find our earthly redemption.'

It took a while for the meaning of his words to filter through to the crowd's consciousness, and when it did it was not welcomed with the universal acclaim of the bishop's past orations. But that was clearly what he intended. It must have been in the planning for a while; Stefan had hinted at it on the previous evening. It was an undoubted masterstroke. In the eyes of the hardliners, everyone had sinned, and all the brothers knew it; somewhere in the deep recesses of the heart, everyone had a little unpleasantness tucked away. It might not be anything bad — a touch of jealousy, a wisp of pride, a hint of sloth, basic human flaws — but the Bible told them it was wrong and the programming of their religion made it impossible to shake that at the most basic level. Mallory had come to understand how the concept of sin was like a constant buzz in the background of everyday life for the devout.

And Stefan had pointedly failed to mention what he, or the inquisitors, or the other Church authorities would do once they knew everyone's dirty little secrets. Would they simply absolve everyone with a little prayer? Would they hold it in abeyance to gain leverage? Or would they pass judgment?

There was nothing so good for diverting peoples' attention from dissent as the contemplation of their own inner lives. Their security on earth and their chances of eternal reward — or eternal damnation — lay in the balance. How clever Stefan was.

'I wonder if the relic can actually do that, or if this is another of Stefan's little manipulations?' Mallory mused.

Miller appeared to have no views on the matter — he simply continued to watch the activity of the diggers — but Mallory guessed there would be very few others taking the news so calmly.

The digging continued at a frantic pace under the relentless insistence of Blaine and the Blues. No rest was allowed and when anyone flagged they were instantly replaced. Errors were pointed out harshly, so that work proceeded both quickly and with the utmost care. With the judicious use of the timber and masonry, they managed to avoid any further tunnel collapses, but the removal of the shale and gravel covering most of that area was backbreaking work. Even so, it appeared they would be through before the day was done.

However, the cancellation of lunch after the abandonment of breakfast caused a rising tide of concern, and when the evening mealtime approached with no sign of activity in the refectory, panic began to surface. Whatever denials were issued, everyone knew that the only explanation could be that supplies had finally been exhausted.

A large crowd gathered at the bishop's palace as night fell. There was anger, and fear, and raised voices. Stefan came out, and for the first time Mallory saw a hint of anxiety that events were running out of his control, that his hard-fought position was slipping away from him. But he controlled himself, as he always did, and told them there would be fresh supplies that very evening. The tunnel would be completed and food would be brought through from the adjoining camp; and it wouldn't be a thin diet of vegetables. It would be a time of celebration after all their hardship. They had his word on that.

That made the bishop a hostage to fortune at a time when he had so much to lose, but Mallory knew Stefan would never allow himself to fail. He was a consummate politician who would have succeeded whether his chosen sphere had been business, Parliament or anywhere else where hard, driven people could rise to the top.

Mallory saw it reflected in Stefan's expression as he turned to go: the bishop knew that, while his words had eased the minds of some of the protestors, there were others present who had set their hearts against him. That expression said so many things to Mallory, but most of all it showed a frightening determination that transcended basic human boundaries. Mallory was worried by what he saw there.

For that reason, he feared the worst when he was summoned to the bishop's palace as twilight fell. The lack of food had left his stomach aching as if he'd eaten sour apples, and the raw cold was eating its way into his bones. The snow had started falling again in the late afternoon, slowly bringing a pristine covering to the churned-up slush where the mob had waited outside the official residence.

Stefan's personal assistant, a man in his late fifties with a troubling smile and an oily nature, showed Mallory into the drawing room where a fire blazed. The warmth was such a relief that Mallory's heart leaped. He was instantly struck by the glitter of Christmas decorations: tinsel and streamers were strung across the wall and ceilings, and several small candles illuminated a well-worn Nativity scene laid out on the antique sideboard. It was so incongruous in the bitter air of hardship that hung over the entire cathedral compound that he wondered if Stefan had gone crazy from the stress.

Stefan sat in a high-backed leather armchair next to the fire, his face placid but his eyes alive with a disturbing passion. 'We must never forget our Lord's birth,' he said quietly, noticing the direction of Mallory's gaze, 'even amid all this pain and suffering. Especially because of it.'

Amid everything, Mallory hadn't once considered that Christmas was approaching.

Stefan appeared to read his thoughts. 'Compared with everything else that has been happening, Christmas might not seem important. But it is, it is. It is the reason why we must overcome, why even in the darkest hours there is always hope. It is a shining symbol that allows us to put into perspective all the passing misery of this dark world.'

Mallory watched Stefan cautiously, trying to see if this was the start of some manipulation. If it was, the bishop had hidden it well.

'I don't truly know you, Mr Mallory, but I know many like you,' he continued. 'You have an individual nature. You do not suffer fools gladly, and you have a strong disregard for authority. Unlike Mr Blaine, I do not believe that marks you out as a troublemaker. I am not so unconfident in my abilities that I feel the need to control everybody. Indeed, it is often healthy in any environment to have voices prepared to point out that the king has no clothes. Of course, that kind of commentary can only be allowed to go so far. It must never undermine the cohesiveness of any community.'

Mallory listened patiently; he still couldn't tell if he was about to be punished or praised.

'I know what you think about me, Mr Mallory.' Stefan stared into the fire. 'You think me a carpetbagger, someone who has seen a source of power and who has moved in to take it. It is an easy accusation to level. I have no history of good works in the Church. I only came to God as a reaction to the Fall, though I would point out the very many others who fled Him at the same time. But you are wrong, you know. It is because I believe so passionately that I am not going to allow my religion to dribble away. I am prepared to have people hate me, if necessary, but I will not deviate from the path, however hard it may be, to save my God, as He attempted to save us all. These times demand hard choices, Mr Mallory. And while instincts may call on us to be liberal or gentle, if the result of that is the destruction of Christianity, then some of us must be prepared to make the unpleasant choices so that others do not have to. These times demand that we take a stand, Mr Mallory — on one side or the other. God or the Devil. There are no grey areas, for even the most basic choices lead along those two roads.

'I could tell you about my personal tragedies, my epiphany, the things that shaped me, but they aren't important. If the sacrifice I have to make is that I may not be seen as a good man, but I do good works, then so be it. Only God can be my judge. And I am not alone in that belief. Mr Blaine feels the same way, as do several others here. In private, I know Mr Blaine to be a good man, crushed by sadness at the loss of his family, yet who still keeps a warm, hopeful heart, who cares deeply for his men like a father for his own children, but who must at times use the rod. Every injury, every death amongst the knights he feels personally. But he would never allow you to see that side of him, for he has a job to do… the gravest job of all. We need villains in life, Mr Mallory, and if that is what is required of me, whatever the personal cost it is a cross I will bear for the sake of the Glory of God.'

Mallory was uneasy at this surprising declaration. He believed he had an unimpeachable radar for lies and manipulation, but Stefan rang clean of cynicism; the bishop truly felt he was striving to do good works. It jarred with the unpleasant picture of Stefan that Mallory had created. The thought that both the bishop and Blaine might be decent, if misguided, people made life more complex, and more troubling.

His confusion must have played on his face, for Stefan smiled. 'You are probably wondering why I called you here. It is a simple request in the spirit of everything that I have just told you. Later this evening, the tunnel will be completed and we will be able to surface in the camp of the pagans. Because of an unfortunate event that happened a while back — carried out by some members of the Blue team who have been severely punished — I fear there will not be a great deal of goodwill waiting for us. Quite understandable — my heart goes out to them. But we cannot afford to take the time to indulge in extensive negotiations to win them over. We stand to lose everything. There will soon be death here… many deaths… but it is for the very fabric of our community that I fear. Though we keep God in our hearts, many here will not be able to take much more suffering. So, time is of the essence.' He paused, pressed his fingertips together and stared into the space between them. 'It has come to my attention that you have a good relationship with the pagans.'

Mallory wondered who'd been talking out of class, though he was increasingly starting to have his suspicions. 'They know me.'

'What I ask is that you lead the initial delegation through the tunnel, that you plead our case. Perhaps your word carries weight with them. Perhaps you can convince them that our hearts are good, though we believe in different things — that we have commonality in our compassion for fellow human beings. I fear that because of the gulf between our two camps they may meet us with force… attempt to repel us as invaders when we come open-handed. Your involvement may prevent any strife.'

Mallory locked eyes with Stefan. Was there some underlying motive, some secret plan at work? If so, he couldn't see it.

'I'll do what I can,' he said. 'Though I don't think you'll find as much opposition as you anticipate.'

'Really? You've had contact with them recently?'

'No. Just an instinct.'

Stefan nodded thoughtfully. 'Then we can count on you. That is good. With God, together, we shall overcome.'

A gale was blowing up a blizzard as they prepared to complete the final section of the tunnel, the flurrying snow shimmering like fireflies in the light of the many lanterns. Mallory stamped his feet to keep out the cold; even through his thick boots and socks he could feel it gnawing at his toes.

There was a heady sense of anticipation amongst the diggers. Indeed, even though it was midnight, many brothers had ventured out into the frozen night to see their escape route finally made real. Stefan had ordered the knights to keep them back behind makeshift barriers; he didn't want anything hindering the work, or the delicate task of the first meeting with the pagans.

Stefan and Blaine approached him together as the last preparations were being made. 'We don't want any mix-up when we go through,' Blaine said gruffly, by way of greeting. 'If they're waiting for us with weapons-'

'They're a peace-loving bunch of old hippies,' Mallory said.

'Try telling that to the lads who were on the receiving end of some of their stones and sticks a few months back.'

'Now, now, Mr Blaine,' Stefan interjected. 'We're approaching this in an atmosphere where bygones are bygones and we can all develop a new relationship. Let's start as we mean to carry on.'

Blaine grunted noncommittally. 'Just make sure they're not going to attack us the moment we pop up,' he said directly to Mallory.

'At least so we have a chance to speak,' Stefan said. 'I cannot stress how much rests on the success of this. It will be the defining moment of this community, of the future of our religion.'

'I'll do my part.' Despite Stefan's urgings, the only thing on Mallory's mind was that he would soon be seeing Sophie again. He had spent much of the afternoon considering his options. Although he wanted to bolt with her the moment they were through, she had made it plain she wouldn't abandon the people who relied on her, but he could abscond and creep back to her at a later date. Or should he return with the knights and sneak back through the tunnel when there was no one else around? With much of the pressure eased by the tunnel and a new supply of food through the travellers' camp, he supposed the atmosphere would become a little lighter in the cathedral, allowing him to choose a time that suited him… if he could bear to spend another night there. The thought of freedom made his heart start to pound.

As Blaine and Stefan departed, Miller came running up. 'I hear you're going through with the Blues. That's a great honour, Mallory.'

'It's a great honour if you have no kind of life, Miller.'

'Thinking of meeting Sophie again?' He winked.

'I'm thinking of using you as a human shield when we break through.'

Miller threw his hood back and looked up into the gusting snow. 'You are going to come back, aren't you, Mallory?' he said after a while. 'You're not going to run off and leave us here?'

Mallory eyed him suspiciously. 'What's it to you?'

'It's everything to me,' Miller said plaintively. 'We need you here, Mallory. I need you here.'

The innocence in Miller's face almost swayed him. 'Of course I'm coming back,' he lied.

Roeser stood at Mallory's side with the rest of his elite squad at his back as the diggers worked on the last few feet of the tunnel. Overhead lay no- man's-land that separated the cathedral and the few straggling tents that had been sited across the river from the sprawling bulk of the travellers' camp. The air was dank, the silence potent with uneasy anticipation. The gravity of what was at stake was at work behind all their faces, turned grim with dancing shadows from the handful of lanterns.

Five minutes later there was a joyful exclamation from one of the diggers followed by a shower of earth rattling into the tunnel. Mallory felt a blast of cold air. Suddenly he could see a square of night sky and one twinkling star.

Before the diggers could clean up the hole, the Blues surged forwards, taking Mallory with them. They pushed the diggers to one side, then forced them back towards the cathedral unceremoniously. Obviously civilians were not allowed at the front.

Mallory was eased out of the hole first. After so long staring at the grey walls of the cathedral, the sight of distant horizons was both stirring and a little unnerving. He could see the floodplain extending flat and reedy through the swirling snow, while the river gushed noisily just a few feet away. Across the water, which at that point was narrow enough for him to cross with three bounds, the travellers' camp blazed with light from what seemed to be a thousand lanterns. The sound of fiddles, guitars and drums was carried by the wind. About twenty tents stood nearby, joined to the camp proper by a makeshift pontoon bridge across the water.

A piercing whistle rose up close to hand, startling him. One of the travellers, a young man with a mass of ginger hair and a beard, was hanging out of his tent, signalling to the other side. Within an instant, the whistle was taken up and transmitted across the camp, and seconds after that people were running towards the other side of the river. Mallory could see them picking up sticks and stones, which must have been stockpiled for easy access as a defence when the tunnel was finally opened.

'Stay calm,' Mallory said to Roeser, who had joined him. 'They're ready for us.'

'I am calm,' Roeser said.

The travellers massed on the far bank, clearly waiting. There was some hooting and jeering, but no real threat of violence. Within a minute, the crowd parted and Mallory saw Sophie striding towards him, grinning broadly. She waved and he waved back; he couldn't help returning her grin.

'See?' he said. 'I told you there'd be no trouble.'

'Early days yet,' Roeser cautioned.

Sophie was accompanied by Rick, the white dreadlocks of her right- hand man glowing in the dark. They gingerly crossed the rickety bridge over the rushing water, a small band of travellers close behind.

'Who's she?' Roeser asked uncertainly.

'Her name's Sophie Tallent,' Mallory said. 'She's their leader.'

As she reached their side, she only had eyes for Mallory. Her gaze sparkled as it locked on his; her hair blew wildly in the wind.

'Hello, Mallory. It's been a long time,' she said as she stood before him. It was what remained unsaid that struck him the most: her affection for him was clear and untainted, backed by both respect and trust, two qualities he hadn't seen directed at him for a long time. There was such a purity to her emotional response that he felt deeply moved.

'Hello, Sophie,' he said. 'We need to talk.'

'Is this cool?' she asked.

'There's not going to be any trouble. They need help.'

Sophie's eyes turned cold as they flickered over the other knights. 'Sure?'

'Sure.'

She turned around to face her people and said in a loud voice filled with authority, 'It's going to be OK. Throw down the weapons. Don't bother manning the defences.' Mallory guessed more weapons were secreted in the camp.

The travellers obeyed her instantly. Some looked relieved, others eyed the knights suspiciously. Mallory realised how frightening they must look to other eyes, with their mass of black uniforms and medieval weaponry.

His thoughts had already turned to planning his escape when he realised that Roeser was no longer at his side. He cast a half-glance behind him only to see the captain moving through the Blues, whispering. 'They can't help their little soldier-games,' he said quietly to Sophie. His ironic tone made her laugh.

'Now!'

The sharpness of the order startled him. Suddenly there were Blues surging past him, jostiing him to one side.

'It's OK!' he shouted. 'They're not planning anything!'

Two of the Blues grabbed Sophie's arms and began to haul her forwards. Her shock quickly gave way to annoyance. She struggled, ordering them to leave her alone. Some of the other travellers overcame their surprise to rush to her aid.

The second they moved, the Blues whipped out their swords. The travellers' eyes widened in fear. Mallory could see their faces, white in the lantern light as they struggled to make sense of what was happening.

In Mallory's head the scene suddenly became silent as his own confused thoughts drowned everything out. His gaze skimmed back and forth, taking everything in. Had Roeser seen something he hadn't? Some secret plan the travellers were hatching to get their own back for Melanie's death?

And then his gaze fell on Sophie. She was staring at him and her eyes were saying, What is happening here? He watched her expression change from incomprehension to fear to anger. Then there was one instant of steely accusation that made his heart ache.

'Trap!' she yelled. 'Go back!'

Suddenly the tableau exploded in sound and movement. One of the Blues punched Sophie in the face. Her head snapped back and she slumped forwards, unconscious. Mallory yelled her name, launching himself to help her, still not truly understanding but feeling a terrible acceptance begin to creep over him. Two Blues turned on him and knocked him back forcefully. He crashed into a tent, bringing it down around him.

When he managed to scramble to his feet, he was transfixed by the terrible sight of a knight ripping his sword up into Rick's gut. The dreadlocked teen's eyes bulged, but the sword kept ripping. A gush of blood shot out, staining the virgin snow. In one swift movement, the Blue removed his sword, flung the lifeless body to one side and moved on to the next. Rick's corpse hit the ground, then slid into the rushing river and was carried away.

Mallory spun around, trying to take in the chaos erupting on every side, made impotent by the horror of what he was seeing. The knights were in full flow. They rushed across the bridge and spread out into the camp, swords swinging. Tents were crushed; lanterns burst, setting fire to canvas, the flames leaping from home to home. Blood sprayed as the swords moved back and forth. People fell. The hellish conflagration moved with frightening speed until it seemed as though the entire camp had been set ablaze within a minute.

Mallory yelled out something, though his rushing emotions had shredded his consciousness and he didn't know what it was. It didn't matter. He heard a noise behind him, looked around in time to see Roeser swinging his fist. It hit him firmly on the jaw and snapped him into darkness.

He awoke on the snow, his body a mass of aches. He was back in the cathedral compound. Nearby, boots were tramping as the Blues carried provisions looted from the travellers' camp in through the tunnel. His dismay was so acute, hot tears stung the corners of his eyes.

'No,' he croaked.

'We do this in the name of our God, to save our God's work.' He looked up to see Stefan standing over him. The bishop's face was silhouetted against a lantern that hung overhead, so it was impossible to tell his emotions.

'You didn't need to do this,' Mallory said through swollen lips. 'They were harmless. They would have helped.' He swallowed, tasted blood. 'Where's Sophie?'

'We have taken her prisoner. The inquisitors will wish to question her before deciding on a form of punishment.'

Panic rushed through Mallory, giving him the strength to crawl to his knees. 'Punishment?' he gasped.

'The Bible states it clearly. Exodus chapter twenty-two, verse eighteen,' Stefan said coldly. ' Thou shah not suffer a witch to live.'