The Hounds of Avalon

Hal had spent the day filing reports: waste-collection targets; guidelines for the establishment of a Primary Healthcare Trust; monitoring of food production targets and the local economy; a request for extra funding from the local police. At times he could pretend to himself that the Fall had never happened and that the world of mundane things continued as it always had: people’s lives ticking over, no lows, no highs, just maintenance of a steady state of production and consumption.

But occasionally some document would leap out at him to shatter the illusion. Perimeter-defence evaluation reports, for instance, itemising the steps being taken to ensure that no supernatural creature made it into the city to terrorise the population. And, of course, the ever-present energy-creation management report, detailing the current state of the local power grid. It was the single thing that underpinned the slow clawback from the Fall. In those early days when technology had failed in the face of the resurgent supernatural, they had all realised that electricity was the one thing that separated them as civilised beings from some relict man cowering in fear around a campfire. One light bulb was the difference between home comforts and the Dark Ages. So, with one eye on politics and one on survival, electricity had been the first thing the Government had restored when it transferred to Oxford after the Battle of London. The residents of the city had been almost pathetically grateful.

Prosperity certainly flowed to the power base. The Government had access to the national oil reserves stored in some top-secret reservoir in the south, plus experts in every field and a weight of employees to get the job done. Hal had heard how bad things were in other parts of the country; Oxford was a paradise in comparison. No wonder strict laws had been imposed to prevent inward migration from day one.

When the last file slid into place in the cabinet and the trolley was empty, Hal knew he should have felt a sense of achievement, but he didn’t. It was a job he’d done all his life and at one time he’d felt happy and secure in its mundaneness, but it no longer seemed important. That simple thought instigated a panic response — if he didn’t have his job, what did he have?

He jumped as the door swung open with a crash. Hunter darted in, wincing at his unintentionally noisy entrance, and closed the door quietly behind him.

‘What’s wrong?’ Hal said with irritation.

Hunter stared at him. ‘What’s got your goat?’

‘Nothing. It’s just… you’re stopping me working.’

Hunter glanced at the empty trolley. ‘Sorry to break your concentration,’ he said sarcastically, ‘but we need to talk.’

Wrapped in thick parkas, they made their way past the porter’s lodge and out into the High Street. Hunter led the way to the botanic gardens across the road where he knew they’d have privacy and took a seat next to the fountain. Snow blanketed everything and more flurries were blowing in as they sat. It was odd to see plants and trees in full summer greenery poking out of drifts. The tropical greenhouses rose above the red-brick garden wall, steaming in the cold.

Hunter pulled a bottle of Jack Daniel’s out of his parka and took a long slug before offering it to Hal. ‘It’s June, Hal. Look at it. What’s going on?’

‘The end of the world,’ Hal muttered, uninterested.

‘You know what — I reckon it is.’

Hal gagged on the JD as he checked to see whether Hunter was joking.

‘Back in the day, the Royals used to look out for portents, and if this weather isn’t one, then I don’t know what is.’ Before Hal could sneer, Hunter told him what he’d seen on the helicopter ride to Scotland. ‘We’re being invaded,’ he said finally, ‘and I’ve got this gut feeling that whatever it is is worse than any of those so-called gods and devils and little fucking fairies that came with the Fall. When I saw those things in Scotland, I got a feeling, Hal.’ He took the bottle back with undue haste, then held it tightly as though for comfort. ‘They’re here to wipe us out. Get rid of the infestation once for all. The balloon’s gone up. Apocalypse. Armageddon.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Poof!’

Hal thought for a moment and then said angrily, ‘Look at us.’

‘What?’

‘Look at us! Why are we friends? Answer me that. I’m a clerk. I file files. You kill people-’

‘Steady on, mate.’

‘A crisis in my day is if a document on “taxation levels” accidentally finds its way into “L” instead of “T”. Meanwhile, you’re slitting some poor bastard’s throat or shoving a screwdriver into his ear.’

‘That would be an unfortunate use of work tools.’

‘We’ve got nothing in common.’ Hal shivered in a gust of icy wind and huddled down further into his parka.

‘Why are we friends?’ Hunter mused. ‘Well-’

‘Apart from the fact that no one else will put up with you.’

‘Oh.’ Hunter considered his response, then said, ‘Well, we’re friends because I know why you’re talking about this instead of what we should be talking about. We’re friends because in all the world you’re the only one I can tell about slitting some poor bastard’s throat and know you won’t judge me. And we’re friends because I’m the only one who will sit and listen to you drivelling on about filing Wanky Polemics under the Dewey Decimal System and Rat’s Arse Rates under A to Z. You’re a boring fucker, Hal, and no mistake. But I love you for it.’

Hal snatched the bottle back and drank more than he should have in a single draught. ‘So it’s all coming to an end,’ he snapped. ‘I’m inclined to say, so what?’

Hunter jumped to his feet and leaped on to the edge of the fountain, in danger of plunging backwards through the thin sheet of ice into the dark water beneath. ‘Because this is the worst time for it to end. We’ve got a chance to make a fresh start. Put everything right. Build the kind of world we should have. We’re newborns, Hal, and you don’t sacrifice infants.’

‘If it’s as bad as you say, what can be done about it? The PM, the General-’

‘You can’t trust people in power.’

‘How can you say that? You work for the Government. They pay your wages.’

‘They pay me to do a job. And I do it. But they don’t buy me. Those in power always think they’re doing things for the people. They’re not — they do things they think they would like done if they were the people. Do you get me? Old song: “The public wants what the public gets” — beats some old philosopher any day. And that’s how the ones in power think.’

‘What are you saying, Hunter?’ Hal asked wearily.

‘I’m saying, mate, that when push comes to shove, it might be up to us to do something.’

‘Us?’ Hal said incredulously.

‘Us. You and me. Against the world.’

‘Now I know you’ve gone mad.’

‘Desperate times bring out the best in everyone, pal. And disaster is necessary if you want to be resurrected.’

‘I don’t want to be resurrected.’

‘Everyone does. From the life they’re living to the life they should be living.’

‘So, what — you’re saying I should learn how to use a gun so we can go out like Butch and Sundance?’

‘I get to be Sundance. He was the good-looking one.’

‘Stop it, Hunter.’

‘We’re going to do something, Hal, and you don’t have a choice. I just haven’t decided what yet.’

Hal tossed Hunter the bottle, then set off down the path towards the High Street without a backward glance.

‘They said Nero was mad, too!’ Hunter roared after him before laughing as if he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world.

Hal made his way along the High Street in the face of the gusting wind. Night was falling, earlier than he had anticipated. It would have been much more sensible to go back to his warm room, so perhaps he was as crazy as Hunter after all. The snow drifted against the shops and restaurants, still closed from the days before the Fall but close to coming back into use. Hal could see the occasional swept floor and fresh lick of paint, and sense an almost painfully building anticipation. Human nature was intrinsically optimistic; no one would imagine an even greater Fall coming so hard on the heels of the last one.

Hal picked his route randomly, letting his subconscious drag him this way and that, lost to his thoughts. His mind turned naturally to Samantha, as if she was the only thing in the world that truly mattered; he guessed in his world she probably was. Basically, he was pathetic, he decided; when it came to any kind of emotional life he was paralysed, stuttering like some monastic fool whenever he met a woman. Except this wasn’t just any woman. Samantha made him feel special whenever he saw her. But why couldn’t he express it to her? It was his parents’ fault, obviously, or his teachers’; some trauma during his formative years. Or perhaps he really was pathetic.

The city looked magical under the coating of snow. The dreaming spires gleamed white against the night sky, the domes and ancient rooflines like frosted cakes. Hal stood at the crossroads where the High Street met St Aldate’s and turned slowly in the deserted street. Surveying the city, he realised how much he loved it. It represented so much more than the agglomeration of bricks and mortar that shaped its fabric; its history made it a living thing; its dedication to centuries of learning made it something greater; and he couldn’t help but think that in some way they were spoiling it, though he couldn’t quite grasp how, or why.

As he shuffled around in the snow, raising little fountains of white every time he turned, movement caught his eye. Something was heading along Blue Boar Street. It was near to the ground — measured, tiny sparks of light floating in the gloom.

Hal hesitated. Thoughts of the strange, dangerous creatures that now existed beyond the city boundaries dampened his curiosity. But then a soft, lilting song floated out across the drifts, so light and organic it could have been a breeze itself. It was hypnotic, and before he knew what he was doing he had advanced to the end of the darkened side street.

The sight was stranger than anything he could have imagined. A column of tiny figures was making its way along the gutter — men, women and children little more than eight inches high, dressed in clothes that appeared to come from a range of different eras: medieval, Elizabethan, Georgian, some in Victorian top hats and long coats. Hal even made out miniature horses and minuscule dogs in the sombre procession. Some of the figures carried tiny lanterns aloft on crooked sticks to light their path as they walked and sang. A strange atmosphere hovered around them, like an invisible mist into which Hal had wandered. It felt as if he was in a dream, watching himself watching them.

The little man at the head of the column had a long, curly beard and eyes that gleamed all black as if cast in negative. He noticed Hal and held up a hand. The others came to a sudden halt. All eyes fell upon Hal.

‘What are you doing here?’ Hal said. It sounded as though his voice was coming from somewhere else.

‘What are you doing here?’ The little man’s voice had a deep, echoing quality.

‘I live here,’ Hal replied. He realised that he felt drunk or drugged, for he was responding to something that was inherently absurd, yet it all made the clearest sense to him in a way that things only did when you were intoxicated.

‘These are not the Fixed Lands,’ the little man said, puzzled. ‘These are the Far Lands. You are in Faerie, Son of Adam. Take care.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Hal replied. The little man’s face darkened and Hal decided it would be best to change the subject. ‘Where are you going?’

‘From here to there. And probably back again.’

‘Your song is very… pleasant.’

This compliment pleased the little man immeasurably. ‘We sing the Winnowing as we walk the boundaries of our dreams,’ he said proudly. ‘It is a song that came from the days when the worlds were new and we have learned it so deeply that it sings in our hearts, even when we sleep.’

‘Why are you singing? Are you celebrating something?’

The little man grew horrified at this. ‘Celebrating? Celebrating?’ he roared so loudly that Hal took a step back. ‘We sing to save the worlds! We sing to bind the weft! To keep all Existence from unravelling! For if we did not, who would? I ask you that, Son of Adam! Who would, in these dark and desperate times when all is falling apart?’

‘Oh. I see,’ Hal said, not seeing at all.

The little man leaned forward to peer at Hal curiously. ‘Is it…? Do my eyes deceive me? A Brother of Dragons?’

Hal grew instantly tense. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said, edging backwards.

‘A Brother of Dragons!’ The little man turned to his fellows and clapped his hands excitedly before returning his attention to Hal. ‘Then you join us in the defence of the worlds. You stand on the edge of the Great Gulf to hold back the night.’

The words filled Hal with a terrible dread. ‘I can’t do any of that.’

The little man looked puzzled at first, and then increasingly disturbed. ‘But you are a Brother of Dragons.’

‘Stop saying that!’ Hal snapped. ‘I don’t know what any of this means!’

With his heart thumping so hard that his pulse filled his head and drove out all thoughts, Hal ran from the side street, slipping and sliding through the snow, desperately searching for the life he knew.

The General sat in his office in Magdalen’s president’s lodgings surrounded by books describing military victories in minute detail, and sketches and paintings by war artists from down the years: the Crimean, the heat and dust of the South African veldt in the Boer War, the swamping mud of Flanders, the march into Berlin, the Belgrano going down, Kuwait with the burning oil fields in the background, Baghdad broken by cruise missiles. And there, at the end of the room facing his desk so that he would always see it, a painting of the Battle of London, four Fabulous Beasts circling, belching fire at a black tower while the capital burned in the background. The greatest defeat in a campaign of many defeats. A whole platoon wiped out by shape-shifting creatures in Scotland. The retreat from the Lake District. The Battle of Newcastle, during which the city was razed to the ground and the entire RAF obliterated.

And now this latest assault. He would defend his country with every whit at his disposal, but he couldn’t help thinking that he would be the one in the long, unbroken line of British military leaders who would preside over the complete destruction of the island nation.

On his desk were photographs of his wife and daughter taken before the Fall. These days they barely knew him, their presences passing like ghosts at irregular meals, or during the occasional function when he never even got time to speak to them. Would his sacrifice ever be recognised?

There was a knock at the door and the Ministry of Defence ministerial advisor admitted Manning, Reid and the few other members of the Cabinet who were not dealing with the immediate crisis. The General didn’t trust Manning — he had always been convinced that she didn’t have the backbone to go the extra mile. Sooner or later she would let them all down, most likely at the worst possible time. Reid was a thoroughly dislikeable human being, but at least he was a perfect security officer. The other Cabinet members he could take or leave; weak men and women not up to the job, desperate to be somewhere else, knowing no one else would do the job if they departed. They gathered in the assembled chairs and waited silently.

‘I wanted to give you the opportunity to see the available intelligence before we go into the full Cabinet meeting to brief the PM,’ the General said. ‘There is a lot to take in.’

‘It’s all gone pear-shaped,’ the foreign secretary intoned.

The General set his jaw; there was a man without a job as a result of their inability to contact any other country since the Fall, and he was already preaching defeat.

‘We have a situation,’ the General corrected. ‘An attack has been launched in the Scottish Borders. The enemy is establishing a beachhead, with the intention, we can only assume, of preparing for a full-scale invasion of the country.’

The ministerial advisor drew the curtains and took up a position at a digital projector. The General nodded and the screen hanging on the opposite wall came to life.

‘This film was taken by a reconnaissance unit and transmitted back shortly before the men were wiped out.’

It was difficult to make out what was going on. Smoke billowed back and forth across the screen. It was night and there were trees all around. Occasional bursts of fire flashed here and there, and to all intents and purposes, the image looked like a vision of hell. Sharp blasts of static blared out intermittently, making some of the Cabinet members clutch their ears, and every now and then the picture was disrupted by jagged rips of white.

‘What’s up with the sound?’ Reid asked.

‘The digital signal is repeatedly interrupted whenever the main enemy is near,’ the General replied. ‘The research team suggests that their physical make-up may interfere in some way with technology.’

Every person in the room jumped as a figure lurched into view. Its shiny black skin looked like polished latex, flecked here and there with red, but as it approached the camera the skin ran away like oil to reveal a form constructed out of bone. But this was not its skeleton in any traditional sense. There were cow bones, a pig’s jaw, human tibiae, fibulae and a rib cage, tiny bones that might have come from mice and birds, plus more indistinguishable items of animal and human origin, all topped by a horse’s skull. It looked like a human figure built by a conceptual artist, but it moved swiftly and with a reptilian vitality, a purple light glowing in its empty eye sockets.

‘Jesus Christ,’ the chancellor said in a hushed, sickened tone.

The bone-creature moved like a rattlesnake to grab a soldier standing off-camera. There was a roar like rocks falling on metal and the soldier was whisked aloft as though he weighed nothing. Bony protuberances rose mysteriously from the creature’s body before shooting out rapidly to impale the soldier. The screams were worse than the deafening bouts of static. The camera wavered, but the operator remained true to his mission.

Once the soldier was dead, the creature pulled his body close. It looked like a hug for a departed but respected enemy, yet within seconds it was clear what was really happening. The soldier’s bones gradually burst through his skin to be absorbed into the body of the thing that had killed him, drawn, almost magnetically, into the depths of the form. What remained was tossed aside with a soft, squishing sound that the camera picked up with sickening detail.

The audience was rooted in horror. The General, who had viewed the footage twenty-seven times, searched their faces, seeing the same emotions he had felt himself with each subsequent viewing.

A hand with long, unnaturally thin fingers appeared in the middle of the screen. It was apparent to everyone that it was made of insects and other small, wriggling creatures. A honey bee crawled near the wrist. Beetles and flies, brown and amber centipedes, wasps and midges, all together in one seething morass.

The hand moved forward rapidly towards the camera lens; a jagged flash of white, then black.

Silence fell on the room for a long moment, then Manning asked, ‘What kind of a defence can you mount against something like that?’ Her question was followed by supportive mutterings.

‘A robust defence, the best we have,’ the General replied without revealing the anger he felt at her defeatism.

‘What are you planning, General?’ Reid was thoughtful, unruffled, his expensive pinstripe suit an echo of another time.

‘We’ve mapped the terrain and the location of the enemy’s force. They’ve made no attempt to hold a defensible position-’

‘They don’t care,’ Manning interrupted.

The General ignored her. ‘A direct assault could decimate them.’

‘Conventional weapons?’ Reid asked.

‘For the time being. I’ve made no secret of my disdain for the so-called supernatural artefacts that you’ve been amassing since the Fall. If Mister Kirkham — or anyone, for that matter — can convince me firstly that they work and secondly of their reliability in a battlefield scenario, then I will obviously put them to good use. Until then, we utilise the tried-and-tested methods.’

‘They didn’t work at the Fall, so why should they work now?’ The foreign secretary looked as if he was about to cry.

The General tried to keep his rising anger in check, but it was becoming difficult. ‘It’s a matter of application and strategy-’

‘You tried a tactical nuke at Newcastle,’ Reid noted.

The General gritted his teeth. ‘As I said, if any of the so-called experts at our disposal can find an unorthodox weapon that works, I will use it. The onus remains, as it has done since the Fall, with the Ministry of New Technology.’ Or the Ministry of Magic as the squaddies contemptuously called it, the General thought. It had proved a useless distraction from the outset; nobody could get any of the artefacts to work effectively, and it was unlikely they ever would. If they were still functional, there was a mechanics behind them that no one could grasp.

‘What about the local population?’ Manning asked. ‘Do we need to arrange evacuation?’

‘Intelligence suggests that the enemy has already wiped out all civilians in the immediate vicinity. There’s a portion of Scotland to the north-west under the control of an organisation called Clan McTaff. They used to be a group who dressed up in medieval garb and the like for battle re-enactments of the fantasy kind.’ The General shook his head wearily. ‘Obviously they were extremely well equipped for life after the Fall.’

‘What are you saying? That fantasy gamers shall inherit the earth?’ Manning noted with sarcasm.

The General ignored her. ‘They’ve established a small, sustainable community but they don’t appear to be under any immediate threat. The enemy seems to be directing its attention towards the south-’

‘Towards us,’ Reid noted.

‘A decapitation exercise would be standard practice,’ the General said. ‘Destroy the Government, all resistance falls apart.’

‘You’re ascribing them human motivations,’ Manning said. ‘How can you even begin to guess what they’re planning?’ Her eyes were cold, hard and distrustful.

The General remained calm. ‘Leave the military planning to me, Ms Manning. You concentrate on doing whatever it is you do best.’ He checked his watch. ‘Now, I think the PM is waiting for my assessment. I hope I can count on your full support.’

‘What else can we do?’ the foreign secretary said resignedly. ‘Bang the drums loudly. And off we go to war.’

Mallory’s whole body ached from the wounds he had sustained on Cadbury Hill and then from his rough treatment at the hands of his captors. But he had experienced worse, particularly in the grim days during his training as a Knight Templar at Salisbury Cathedral when the Church authorities had decided he was a troublemaker who couldn’t be trusted to keep the Faith. He’d survived then and he’d do so now. Life had hardened him since his younger days, the times to which his subconscious would never allow him to return. Before, the death of the woman he loved would have left him broken and pathetic; now his grief was an icy foundation deep inside him. On it he piled cold hatred and bitter thoughts of revenge, building a temple through which he would find an exit.

But even there, in his bleak cell, the miserable, haunting image wouldn’t leave him alone. A burst of fire in the darkness, like the breath of a Fabulous Beast. It would break into his mind unbidden, stirring the deepest recesses of his memory where all the nasty things lay hidden. A notification of his death, now tied inextricably to the death of Sophie. Death was all around him, all the time.

The emotions around the memory had grown even more intense, as if Sophie had helped him to keep them in check, and now that she was gone the door had been thrown open wide. Sometimes he would pummel the side of his head to try to drive the desperate thoughts away, or bite his lip until the blood ran.

And sometimes in his weaker moments he felt as though he was falling apart. A hard focus on revenge for Sophie’s murder was all he had to cling to.

The room was spartan: a chair, a chemical toilet, a cheap collapsible bed. He guessed it had been an office once, before the powers that be had turned it into a holding cell. There were others nearby; every morning and night he could hear his jailers moving along the corridor, silently distributing food. Yet the sounds that came from the other cells disturbed him immensely: inhuman shrieks and cries, an alien cacophony. He was in prison with beasts. Was that how his captors perceived him?

The chains on his wrists suggested so, though they’d only been put on after he’d attempted to kick the door down and then head-butted a guard. Some people had no sense of humour.

Mallory’s face hardened at the sound of drawing bolts. The door swung open to reveal the man who had led the team that had captured him, the most unlikely leader of a security force that Mallory could imagine. He’d heard the guards mention his name — Hunter — but they all spoke of him with a respect bordering on fear, despite his dandyish appearance.

‘Here for the torture?’ Mallory said.

‘We don’t do torture as a rule, but keep asking — you might convince me to make an exception.’ Hunter closed the door with a surreptitious glance into the corridor. ‘Unofficial visit. Stand at ease.’

Mallory clanked the manacles attached to his ankles. ‘Quite the comedian.’

‘I like to keep the prisoners entertained. Raises morale.’ Hunter spun the chair around and sat on it backwards.

‘You know I’m not going to answer any questions — with or without torture.’

‘Fair enough. Then you die with us.’

Mallory eyed Hunter obliquely, but couldn’t read the truth — or otherwise — of the statement.

Hunter stared at his boots for a second or two, then said, ‘I’m sorry about your girlfriend. I mean that. She shouldn’t have died. The wanker who did it has been punished. Severely. I know that won’t make it right, but I reckon that to the kind of bloke you seem to be, it will mean something.’

‘And how are you getting punished? You were his leader. I thought that’s where the buck’s supposed to stop.’ The cold anger in Mallory’s voice made Hunter look up sharply.

The two of them stared at each other, measuring, judging. Mallory saw some of himself in Hunter, but that didn’t lessen his feelings.

‘Don’t come here talking about Sophie,’ Mallory said eventually. ‘It’ll only make me want to kill you quicker.’

‘All right, I won’t talk about her. But I meant what I said.’

‘You know what, I’m sick of authorities messing with my life. Back in Salisbury it was the Church. Here it’s little boy soldiers who still think the rule of Government means something. Have a look at the world out there: it’s chaos, everywhere. You’re just playing at this, pretending it’s still like it was before the Fall, while reality passes you by.’ Mallory felt his repressed emotions about Sophie fighting for release. He forced himself to remain calm. ‘Why have you gone to all this trouble to bring me here? I’m a nobody. You’re just wasting resources-’

‘You’re not a nobody. You’re one of the most important people in Britain at the moment.’

Mallory grew still; he could see the seriousness in Hunter’s eyes.

‘Do you know what I mean?’ Hunter pressed.

When Mallory said nothing, Hunter stood up to face Mallory on his level, cracked his knuckles, then proceeded to pace while he spoke. ‘I’ve just come back from Scotland. We’ve been invaded. I don’t know what they are, but they’re worse than all the things that came with the Fall. A friend of mine, he was warned by some kind of Higher Power. It told him we’d been noticed.’

Mallory flinched. Hunter saw it from the corner of his eye and struck like a rattlesnake. ‘You’ve heard it, too.’

Mallory considered not replying, but it was pointless. ‘I met one of the gods on my travels. She said the very same words. We’ve been noticed. Something is rising up from the edge of the universe to destroy us.’

‘Well, it’s here. Or at least the advance guard are. I saw them. Things don’t look too good.’

‘You want the honest truth? Now that Sophie’s gone I don’t really care. Maybe it would be better if the whole human race was wiped out. Even after we’ve been taught a nasty lesson by nature, we’re still venal, malicious, hypocritical, back-stabbing, selfish killers.’

‘That’s just me. Don’t judge everybody by the same yardstick.’ Hunter quickly realised that his feeble attempts at humour weren’t working and changed tack. ‘OK, you say that now, but I reckon that deep down you don’t believe it. I’m a good judge of character, have to be in my job — life or death decisions, see? Not like meeting someone in a pub. And I say you’re decent. Someone who’d do the right thing in any situation. And what proves me correct is that you’re a Brother of Dragons. Whatever power put you in that exclusive club is going to go for good men and women. Not a little bit good. The best. Heroes. That’s quite a pedigree, and I’d say it’s a huge burden to shoulder, but you’ll live up to it or you wouldn’t have been chosen in the first place. See — circular logic when you say it like that.’

Mallory lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. Suddenly he felt weary. Obligation. Responsibility. That’s all it had been for so long. He wanted a rest.

‘Another thing,’ Hunter continued. ‘This thing that’s noticed us… I reckon it’s the reason you exist. The Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, defenders of humanity, were created to stop this thing that wants to eradicate us. Make sense?’

‘Here’s a little irony,’ Mallory said. ‘There are rules of Existence you don’t even know about. Patterns. Things have to be in place for everything to work, like some big magic ritual. And for the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons to do their business, there has to be five of us. And you’ve killed one. So congratulations. When they take stock of who doomed the human race, your name will be at the top of the list.’

‘So what are you saying? If there aren’t five of you, it’s all over?’ Mallory could see Hunter’s mind whirring. ‘What about the last five? The ones who fought at the Fall?’

‘You know the stories — two of them are dead-’

‘But three of them are still around somewhere.’

‘I don’t think it works like that.’ Mallory was going to say more, but he could see that Hunter was no longer listening to him. After a moment, Mallory continued, ‘So all this, Sophie’s death, it’s all about the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons. Because you short-sighted, meat-headed, pig-ignorant politicians and soldiers think you need to control us to get us to do the job charged to us by some authority much higher than you.’

Mallory had clearly struck a nerve. ‘There’s been a lot of stupidity done in the name of politics. Don’t expect any better of this regime,’ Hunter said.

As Hunter stood up to leave, something struck Mallory forcibly. ‘What’s going on here?’ he asked. ‘This chat wasn’t sanctioned, was it? If you’d been sent here by your superiors, you wouldn’t have come alone. There’d at least have been someone taking notes.’

‘You’re not as dumb as you look.’ Hunter smiled, giving nothing away, and slipped quietly out of the door.

Hunter raced through the empty halls. He found Hal drinking whisky alone in his room, staring out through the frosted panes at the snow-swept college grounds.

‘Everyone’s looking for you,’ Hal said, his words slurred. ‘The troops are shipping out tonight.’

‘Never mind about that.’ Hunter snatched the whisky bottle from Hal and took a long draught. ‘I’ve got a job for you while I’m gone.’

‘What? Refile your CD collection?’

‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not the one going to his death.’

‘Don’t say that!’

Hunter was taken aback by Hal’s unusual passion. ‘I want you to use all the many — and I’m sure there are many — skills at your disposal to find out what you can about the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons-’

‘What?’ Hal’s face looked unnaturally white in the candlelight.

‘Old members, new members. There’s supposed to be five of them. We’ve identified two. See if you can dig up any secret files-’

Hal shook his head. ‘I’ll never be able to do it.’ It was a lie: Samantha had already offered to help.

‘Don’t be so defeatist. I know I love drama, but this is for real: it’s life or death. I’m counting on you, Hal.’ Hunter’s eyes narrowed; he could see something in his friend’s face. ‘What is it you’re not telling me?’

‘Nothing.’ Hal looked back out of the window.

‘If you know anything about these people, now’s not the time to keep it from me-’

‘I don’t know anything,’ Hal replied firmly. ‘I just don’t think you’re going to have much luck finding the other three. Needles in a very big haystack.’

For the first time, Hunter felt a barrier between himself and the man who had been his only real friend for the last few years. He was surprised how sad it made him feel.

‘Come on, you’d better see me off,’ Hunter said. ‘I don’t want you developing a Wilfred Owen complex later, so best get all the tears out of your system now.’

They made their way out of the college buildings in silence. The troops were preparing for dust-off in the Deer Park behind Magdalen, the stink of oil and gasoline on the night wind powerfully evocative in a way they would never have imagined a few years ago, when it was commonplace. There were twenty troop choppers lined up on the makeshift airfield, the snowy perimeter marked by flares and burning oil drums.

‘Not much of an army,’ Hal said.

‘This is just the top brass and intelligence.’ Hunter mentally checked off his ammunition and felt the weight of the pistol at his hip. ‘We had troops stationed in Rochdale and Barnsley and they’ve already been mobilised. Should have made camp by now.’

‘You think you’ve got enough men?’ They both knew the fatality figures during the Fall and there’d been numerous problems with recruitment since.

‘We have what we have. They’re well armed.’

‘I don’t know how you can be so optimistic, Hunter.’

‘Nobody ever achieved anything by aiming low.’

The General marched past with his coterie, heading towards the nearest chopper, then paused and came back to Hunter. ‘We’re counting on you.’

‘I know.’

The General met his eyes for a moment, and Hunter was pleased at the degree of defiance the General saw there.

‘What was that all about?’ Hal asked when the General had disappeared into the chopper.

‘I’m going to be leading a small team behind enemy lines once they start the frontal assault. Cut a few hamstrings, that kind of thing.’

‘You’re mad. That’s suicide.’

‘It’s my job. I can’t start moaning about it when it gets tough.’ He shrugged. ‘Actually, it’s the job of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, but in their absence it looks like it comes down to me. Chief substitute for the saviours of the universe. I suppose that’s something.’ Hunter thought Hal was going to cry.

Before Hunter could ask what was wrong, he heard the crunch of footsteps in the snow behind him. He turned to see Samantha, buried in a massive fur-trimmed parka, her arms wrapped across her chest. She paused uncomfortably before him.

‘You look even more gorgeous than usual in that,’ Hunter said. It wasn’t a line: the oversize parka made her features more fragile and beautiful and emphasised the intelligence in her pale eyes.

Hunter expected to feel the sharpness of her tongue, but all she said was, ‘I heard what was happening.’

‘You can’t keep anything a secret around here.’

Samantha visibly steeled herself, then grabbed Hunter’s head and planted her lips on his. They felt full and hot, and he was suddenly aware of a depth of emotion coming up through her skin like the heat from a fire. When she broke off, she stared deeply into his eyes for the briefest moment, but it was enough to underline everything he had sensed in her kiss.

‘You’d better come back, Hunter.’ She spun round and marched away towards the buildings.

For the first time in his life, Hunter was lost for words.

‘She didn’t even know I was here,’ Hal said, but Hunter was distracted by the jumbled thoughts rolling through his mind as he watched Samantha’s form become obscured by the swirling snow.

‘Bloody hell. I think she likes me,’ he said, amazed.

The choppers’ engines fired up one after another, the whirling blades raising a snowstorm around them. Hunter ducked down, covering his face with one arm, and clapped Hal on the shoulder; his friend appeared dazed.

‘Don’t worry, mate. How can I not come back after that?’ Hal stared at him, troubled and distracted. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to hug you.’

‘Take care, Hunter.’ Hal forced a smile, then ran for the cover of the college buildings.

Hunter hurried, keeping low, to climb into the second chopper, his heart racing. He felt strangely out of sorts, excited yet unsettled by the discovery of some so far unconsidered part of himself. As the chopper rose on the unsteady currents, he stared down at the snow-swept field, then at Magdalen as it dropped away below him and finally at the disappearing city. He could still taste her on his lips.