World's end

Chapter Eleven

The first thing Church sensed as he surfaced from a world of tormented images was a miasma of aches and pains that made him agonisingly aware of what seemed like every nerve in his body. He felt like he'd been thrown down a flight of concrete stairs. Then came the odours: dank air, stale and unpleasant, mildew, straw, the musky stink of animals, and beneath it all the sickening smell of an open sewer. Dully, he forced himself to open his eyes, then realised they were open; the place was so dark he seemed to be drifting in space. And then the sensations came thick and fast: the sound of dripping water creating echoes that testified to some kind of confined space with bare, hard walls; nausea; a burning sensation in his arms, which were hauled up above his head. He yanked at them and heard the clang of metal on rock. Chains. Manacles around his wrists, biting into the flesh. Panic swept through him as he desperately fought to recall where he was and what was happening to him. Slowly chunks of memory floated up like wreckage bobbing to the surface of a stormy sea. The Wild Hunt. The race across the moor. That awful awareness that his life was on the brink of being snuffed out. And then. . what? A brief sensation of falling.

The cotton wool that clogged his head gradually began to clear. He must have tumbled into some kind of shaft. He knew the moor was littered with all sorts of old mine workings, but he was sure a fall of that kind would have killed him. And then how did he end up wherever he was?

At least he was alive. With a twist of anxiety he prayed Ruth and Laura had got away too. Cautiously he stretched various muscles to try and ease some of the tension in his hanging body, but the stabbing pain that followed made him stop with a groan. The fall might not have killed him, but it felt like it had been close to it. He sucked in a deep breath and that was a mistake too; fire spread out across his ribcage. He prayed it was just bad bruising and not broken ribs.

When the agony subsided, he listened for any sign of his captors, but it was as still as the grave. Steeling himself for further pain, Church checked the chains, but they seemed solid; he wouldn't be able to pull them out of the wall, even if he were fit. Morosely he leaned back against the wall and desperately tried to think of a way out of his predicament.

The total darkness tricked his mind into hallucinating that he was floating, and in that strange state he lost all track of time as his thoughts constantly drifted in and out of daydreams. For a while he thought Marianne was there with him. He could smell her perfume, hear the soft whisper of her voice on the periphery of his senses; once he thought he saw her, pale and disturbing like the time she had come to him at Stonehenge.

"Don't worry," he muttered. "Soon I'm going to find out why you did it. And I'll make amends to you somehow for whatever I did. Then I can die in peace."

She didn't reply, if she was there at all, and then his thoughts tumbled back into darkness.

Sometime later he was startled out of his deeply drifting thoughts by the noise of heavy footsteps and a muffled, hectoring voice that sounded agitated. They drew closer until a door opened, and although the light without was only a lantern, it was so blinding after the dark that Church wrenched his head away. But in that briefest instant, he got a sense of his surroundings. He was in a place which seemed to have been cut from the bedrock. A low ceiling hung only a few inches above his head and straw had been scattered across the ground. A row of rusty bars lay a few feet away; beyond them was a small passageway, before more bars for another cell which was still swathed in shadows. He heard laboured breathing and smelled the animal stink of a Night Walker. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see it.

"Who's that?" The voice made him jump and for a second he did look, before screwing his eyes shut again. A man was being hauled into his cell. Church heard the jangle of the door opening and the man protesting before he was shackled to the wall. He spat noisily-obviously at his captor-and an instant later there was the sound of something heavy striking him, then silence. Church heard shuffling, sensed a disturbing presence hovering over him. It made a guttural noise deep in its throat and then moved off, pausing briefly to do something in the passageway. Church waited until he heard the main door close before looking round.

A lantern had been hung on the wall outside his cell, its flickering light casting bizarre, distorted shadows around the rough room. The man hanging from the wall nearby was around thirty, with straight, dark brown hair that fell around his slumped head. He was good-looking, with a square jaw and sharp cheekbones, but there was a granite hardness in his features that suggested a tough upbringing. The most striking thing about him was the mass of tattoos that covered his naked, muscular torso, a swirling, iridescent panorama of odd pictures, strange images and symbols which Church had never seen before, but which affected him deeply on some subterranean level. At that distance, and in the gloom, it was impossible to make out the detail, but the more he looked, the more he felt even the pictures were speaking to his subconscious, stimulating half-remembered memories, faded dreams. In the end, he had to force himself to look away.

Church was thankful for the light, but its illumination didn't provide him with much hope. Even if he could get out of the manacles, there was no chance he would be able to break through the iron bars, and even then he would have to face whatever lurked without. But he refused to give in to despair and he steeled himself until his fellow prisoner recovered from the blow.

On awakening, his companion shook his head a few times as if being buzzed by an angry wasp and then he cursed under his breath. Looking round sullenly, he spied Church, remembering him from before the blow. "Who the hell are you?" he asked a little suspiciously, in the hard tones of working class south-east London.

"Jack Churchill. Who the hell are you?"

Silence. Then: "Ryan Veitch." He continued to look around furtively. "They pick you up too?"

Church shrugged. "Can't remember. I was riding across the moor on a bike and fell down some kind of hole. Where is this place?"

"Some abandoned mine. The place is swarming with them." Veitch yanked at his chain angrily, but it held fast. "Bastards." He took a deep breath, then said, "What are they?"

"Our worst nightmares." Now it was Church's turn to be suspicious. "You seem to be taking this pretty well, being confronted by something that shouldn't exist."

"I've had plenty of time to get used to it, haven't I? About a bleedin' week since the bastards dragged me down here. I was hitchin' across the moor. The first time I saw them I threw up, then blacked out. I tell you, it was a stomachfull, projectile. The second time wasn't so bad. Half a stomach and three hours unconscious. Now I've just about got used to them, and that's a horrible bleedin' thought in itself."

"Even so," Church pressed, "you're pretty much on top of it."

Veitch hung his head so his hair obscured his face. Church thought he was being cold-shouldered, but his companion was obviously thinking, for a moment later he looked up and said bluntly, "I've been dreaming about these sorts of things all my life. It's like I knew they were out there. The biggest sur prise was that I wasn't surprised when I saw them. It was almost like I expected to meet them."

"Dreams?" Church felt a tingle of recognition.

"Yeah. You see these tattoos? They're my dreams. When I was a kid they used to make me miserable. I couldn't get them out of my head. I screwed up school, had trouble making friends, couldn't keep any bird on the go for too long-anti-social tendencies, they said. Attention deficit. Half a dozen other excuses. But it was the bastard dreams. I think I'd probably have topped myself by now if I hadn't found some way to get them out of my head." He nodded to the tattoos. "Every time one came into my head and wouldn't leave I went to this place in Greenwich and had a picture of it done somewhere or other. That night it'd be gone. I tell you, this body is a picture book of my screwed-up head."

Church peered hard through the gloom and saw what seemed to be a tower floating in space. "I had dreams too," he began. "Nothing like yours, but-"

Veitch flashed him a strange, intense look that stopped him dead. "Dragons?" Veitch said, his eyes searching Church's face. "Brother of Dragons?" Church nodded. "Those words've been doin' my head in for weeks now. Just floating there. In fire, on a black background. What do they mean?"

Church shrugged.

Veitch looked truly disconcerted. "I jacked in my job to come here. Didn't mind that too much. Renovating houses near the Dome for some tight landlord to make a mint on. I just thought I'd get some bleedin' answers-"

"But what made you come here?"

"A little bird told me." His crooked grin was engimatic but disarming.

"What do you mean?"

"I thought it was a dream at first, but now I'm not so sure. Some Judy turned up in my room one night and told me to head out west if I wanted to find what I'd spent all my life looking for." He laughed sourly.

A shiver ran through Church's body. Cautiously he described the woman he had met in the Watchtower. "Yeah, that's the one," Veitch said. "So she is real. How'd she get in my gaff then?"

Before Church could answer there came a sound like a tolling bell, echoing dully through the walls from somewhere distant. The reverberations continued for a full minute and then slowly died away, leaving a strange, tense atmosphere.

"What's that about?" Church asked.

Veitch looked uncomfortable. "Something's going on down here. I've seen things. There's a big cave full of oil drums. Some other place that looks like a church, only not one you've ever seen before. And those things … what do you call them?"

"The woman in the Watchtower called them Night Walkers. God knows what they really are."

"Right. Well, I don't know what they're eating, but I've seen bones …" His voice trailed off, Church didn't press him further.

They fell silent for a while, then Church asked, "So how did you see the place? They don't let you out for a walk, I presume."

"Every now and then they take me out for a good kicking. My exercise, I suppose. Beats walking round in circles." He winced, then masked it with a smile. "It's like they expect me to tell them something. They keep grunting at me in those gorilla-voices, but I can't understand a bleedin' word they're saying. Not very bloody smart, are they?" A shadow passed across his face and he added, "There's one of them who can speak English, though. He's scary. Doesn't look like the others. He's almost … beautiful." The word seemed to catch in his teeth. "Until you look in his eyes. The others make me feel like my head's bein' pulled inside out, but he's scary in a different way." Veitch glanced at Church curiously. "If he talks to you, just give him what he wants, all right?"

At that moment, the lantern flickered and died.

In the dark it seemed harder to talk. But the bond Church felt with Veitch was unmistakable, even though it was operating on some deeply subconscious level; they were both Brothers of Dragons, after all.

Their distracted, mumbled conversation turned to the past. Witch told of his childhood in south-east London, the youngest of six children struggling in a household where their mother had died when he was just a baby. His father had fallen to pieces in the aftermath and the boys had been left to keep the household running, cooking and cleaning, trying to scrape together a meagre living in any way possible. Now three of his brothers were in prison, one for drug dealing, the other two for a bungled armed raid on a building society in Kilburn. Veitch's life sounded harrowing, punctuated by brutal explosions of mindless violence, but he had a tremendous affection for his home and upbringing which Church found incongruous. The hardness of his environment had shaped his character into what seemed a mixture of knotted muscle and scar tissue, but beneath it Church sensed a basic decency with which he could connect. He could do worse than having someone like Veitch along for the rideif they ever got out of there.

For his part, he told Veitch very little about himself-even in those extreme circumstances he couldn't bypass his overwhelming need for privacy-but he did fill him in on everything that had happened to them since that night beneath Albert Bridge.

As they began to exchange theories about what was really going on, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed loudly once again and then the door was flung roughly open. Church snapped his eyelids shut as the silhouette appeared in the doorway, his gorge rising even at that brief glimpse. The beast's voice was guttural, vibrating on bass notes so low Church could sense them in the pit of his stomach rather than hear them; the tone was insistent and grew noticeably angrier as the cell was opened. Church felt the presence approach him like a cold shadow until he caught that deep, nauseating stench. Crushing, bony fingers snapped around his jaw, digging into the soft flesh of his cheeks until they burned like hot pokers and slowly Church's head was forced round. The pressure was so great he felt his face was on the verge of disintegrating; he had no choice but to open his eyes.

He looked into deep-set eyes with red slit pupils, something that could have been scales or a hideous skin deformity, monstrous bone formations, but the overwhelming terror he felt didn't come from the hellish appearance; in some uncanny way it was like he was looking deep within the creature, and what he saw there was too terrible to bear.

His mind screamed for an instant and then flickered out.

Church woke on the floor in the stinking straw, vomit splattered all around. His wrists ached as if they had been plugged with nails, but the sudden knowledge that he was no longer manacled came like a reviving draught. Although his head thundered, he sat bolt upright and glanced hastily around, ready to dart for any opening that presented itself.

"Save it." Veitch sat in the corner, spooning something grey and watery from a rough wooden bowl. "The cage is still locked-there's no way out." He slurped the soup and grimaced. "Now I know how those people in the plane crash in the Andes could eat their dead mates. You'll force down any old shit if you're hungry enough."

Church noticed another bowl nearby. "What is it?"

"Don't know. Don't want to know. Don't even want to think about it, so don't mention it again."

Church slid over and picked up the spoon and bowl, his stomach contracting with hunger. Circles of translucent grease floated on the top of the grey liquid; the smell was like sour milk. Dunking the spoon in, he swirled it around, but there was no substance in it at all. He half-raised the spoon to his mouth, thought for a moment, then let it drop. "Obviously I'm not hungry enough."

"You will be, mate," Veitch said ominously. He drained the bowl and threw it to one side in the straw.

"I don't intend being in here that long."

"What's your plan?"

"I'll know it when I see it."

Veitch laughed. "Bleedin' hell! An optimist!"

Church hauled himself to his feet and tested the cell door. The bars were iron, solid and unshakable, the lock enormous, looking impossible to pick, even if he had the faintest idea how to go about it.

"I haven't worked out yet if this is the larder," Veitch said darkly.

Church followed the bars along to where they were held fast in the slick, living rock. "That might be the end of the line, but right now we're too important to be an appetiser. We're the key to stopping them and they know that. I think they're a little scared of us. Well, not of us exactly, but of what we represent, what we can do."

"And what's that exactly?" Veitch tried to mask his incredulity, but it broke through nonetheless. Church wasn't offended; he knew exactly how Veitch felt. He lived a normal life, thought normal thoughts; there was nothing that set him apart from the ordinary. The suggestion that he was destined to become some kind of hero of mythic proportions, foretold in prophecies millennia ago, diverged from his own reality so much that it seemed laughable. But all the evidence seemed to be guiding him in that direction: the magical coincidences, the dreams, the talk of Brothers of Dragons which suggested some aspect of him that he hadn't seen.

"Brothers of Dragons," he muttered.

"What is it? Like the Masons?"

"I think it's a catch-all for five of us who are supposed to come together in Britain's darkest hour. Or, more rightly, something that binds us together." He cast his mind back to the carnage on the M4 and told Veitch about their encounter with the Fabulous Beast.

"Maybe it means we can talk to them, like Doctor bleedin' Doolittle."

Church rested his back against the hard bars and slid to the ground. "I think it's something more symbolic. The dragons are linked to the earth energy, the magic that we were shown at Stonehenge. They feed off it, swim in it, follow it. I can't explain it, but the energy seemed to be a part of nature. Almost a living part."

"Its blood."

"In a way. And dragons have always been used to represent the power in the earth, going back to the ancient Chinese. Maybe it means we're supposed to be defenders of that energy. No, of the planet itself. We're the brothers of the dragon-energy, the blood of the world." Church surprised himself by his logical progression; even in that environment he was still capable of it.

"That's a big job," Veitch said dismissively. "Don't you think they'd have chosen somebody up to it?"

"I don't think choice came into it," Church replied. "I think this was something laid out years ago, long before any of us were born. The onus is on us to live up to that responsibility."

"And here we are stuck in a bleedin' hole in the ground, waiting to die. I can't stand it in here!" he yelled as the repressed anger at his captivity finally bubbled to the surface. "You bastards!"

Church was shocked to see the rage transform his face; there was so much of it within him, so close to the surface, that Church knew he was dangerous. "Calm down," he said. "You don't want to bring them in here."

But it was too late. The noise coming towards the door suggested several beasts were on their way. Church moved to a corner, bowing his head so he wouldn't have to look into their faces. When the door burst open with a crash, Veitch cursed quietly under his breath. There was something almost terrified in that small sound and Church couldn't help a brief glance up. Several of the creatures hung back in the shadows, but Church was shocked to see the one at the front was not monstrous. He presumed it was the one Veitch had mentioned before, for his face would have been beautiful if it had not been spoiled by a veneer of cruelty. Church forced himself to focus on the strange creature so he did not have to look into the terrible faces of the others: his skin was faintly golden, his face oval and delicate. The eyes were almost like a cat's, with purple irises, and his silver hair was long and lustrous; there was something about him which reminded Church vaguely of the woman in the Watchtower. And where the other beasts had bodies which were huge, misshapen and filled with an inhuman power, his was almost weak and effeminate, slim-hipped, small-waisted, with thin legs and arms that hung loosely from his joints. But although he didn't resemble them, the foul animal stink that came off him still marked him out as one of them. He wore what appeared to be a silk blouson and strange, heavily stained breeches, like some pastiche of a human. For the briefest instant, Church thought he was no threat, but then his eyes came back to the creature's face and he felt a chill run through him.

Slowly the visitor turned towards Veitch and said softly and with a faint sibilance, "You are making too much noise again, little dear." Church expected Veitch to unleash some of his pent-up fury, but instead he simply looked away.

The creature turned his attention back to Church. "My name is Calatin. Among the tribes so many tales had been told about you, Brother of Dragons, or, as you are known to us, Arith Urkolim."

Church felt a sudden frisson. That was the same phrase the creature at Heston Services had used when it had tried to abduct Ruth.

"So many prophecies and portents delivered by our fathers' fathers' fathers, but here before me you are diminished. I see you are as weak and frail as all your kind." He stroked his chin elegantly with a long, slim finger that ended in a dirty, broken nail. "A cautionary tale about the validity of myths."

Church couldn't understand the disparity in appearance nor his grasp of English when the others had only ever spoken in that incomprehensible mix of shrieks and roars.

Calatin moved forward until the reek of him was almost overpowering. "All that energy expended in clearing you from the board. The Fabulous Beast, I must admit, was draining in the extreme to bridle. They are so independent, it takes an exhaustive ritual to direct the will necessary to control them. And the Wild Hunt demanded a price that was almost too high to pay. But pay it we did. And then you deliver yourself to our door." He shook his head in mock disbelief. "I still cannot decide which would have been the best outcome for you. To be cut down by the Hunt, brutal but mercifully swift. Or to end up here, with us." He smiled coldly.

Church's head buzzed; Calatin seemed to be radiating some kind of energy field that made him uncomfortable. "And now you have me the Hunt can go back to wherever it came from?" He hoped Calatin didn't recognise his concern for Ruth and Laura.

"Oh, there is no way to call off the Hunt until they have been sated," Calatin replied with obvious cruelty. "Wild magic, once unleashed, cannot be controlled."

"But-"

"And now we have to decide what to do with you," Calatin continued. "There are those who feel your head will provide powerful magic if it is built into the walls of our citadel once all our plans have been achieved. Others believe a choice meal of your brains would allow your prowess, however well hidden it might be, to be passed on to the Cadrii, our greatest warriors. We can afford to take our time in deciding. In the meanwhile, there are certain matters which need to be resolved."

He nodded, and the others moved out of the shadows to grasp Church's arms. He tried to hide from their faces, but it was impossible and within a second or two he plunged into unconsciousness once more.

The smell of some indescribable meat cooking to the point of burning filled his nose. Wherever he was, the suffocating heat was so overpowering Church almost blacked out again the moment he regained consciousness. Leather straps held him fast to some rough wooden bench, but he could lift his head enough to look around, and instantly wished he hadn't. The room had been hacked out of the bedrock like his cell, and was lit by a red glow that emanated from a furnace roaring away in one corner. One of the hideous creatures tended it with his back to Church, moving what looked like blacksmith's tools around in the blazing scarlet heart of the fire. In another corner a large black cauldron boiled away over an open fire. It was stained by thick, brown juice which slopped over the side with each viscous, bursting bubble and it was from here the heavy meat smell emanated. Next to it was a heavily discoloured bench with a variety of cleavers embedded in it, obviously where whatever food was in the cauldron had been prepared. His eyes were drawn back to the cauldron by something he hadn't first noticed. Church squinted, then looked away in disgust from the torso and head hooked over one side by a trailing arm.

Fighting back the nausea, he continued to scan the room as best he could. It quickly became apparent what its use was. Various torture instruments he had only ever seen on display in mediaeval castles hung in the half-light between the outer shadows and the furnace's ruddy glow: an iron cage, a large studded wheel, a rack of cruelly tipped tools whose uses he could only guess at, a curtain of hooked chains that hung from the ceiling, and more that he couldn't bring himself to examine.

Before his terror had chance to take root, a heavy door in front of him ground open, framing Calatin and two other beasts in the outer light. Although Church couldn't bear to look at them, he didn't feel so close to blacking out; he could only imagine he was growing numb to their horrors which upset him more than he could have believed.

Calatin glanced at him in a manner that suggested Church was almost beneath his notice before turning his attention to the creature at the furnace. They spoke briefly in that yelping, bizarre language, and from the body language and tone Church guessed Calatin was in some position of power. But as he advanced, Church saw he was shaking as if he had an ague and his face had the drawn, wearied expression of someone battling against illness. When he reached the table where Church was strapped, Calatin allowed himself one brief look which was filled with such contempt it was as if all the sourness brought on by that inner struggle had been flushed out in Church's direction.

"What now?" Church said. The two words were all he could manage without the knot of fear in his stomach breaking his voice and cracking the mask he had drawn on to protect his dignity; he had to fight to prevent his eyes being drawn to the cruel tools hanging on the wall, to prevent the images of blood and suffering flooding his mind. But deep inside him there was a place that the fear couldn't reach, where he was calmly aware of his responsibilities and of keeping his humanity intact in the face of an evil that wanted to see it broken and debased. The essence of the hero he had denied was in there too, and it startled him to recognize it, as if someone had shone a searchlight to reveal a new, pristine room in his flat.

Calatin ignored his question. He turned sharply and summoned one of the creatures who had accompanied him. The beast was carrying one of the tools he had selected from the rack, a long, sharp spike like a knitting needle which ended with a short corkscrew. Compared with the other implements on show, it was one of the mildest, but Church knew it was only the start.

"We have the Wayfinder," Calatin began in a whining, reedy voice. "I am astonished you would allow such a valuable and powerful tool to slip so easily from your grasp. And now you have frittered it away as if it meant no more to you than a passing fancy."

Church stared him in the eye, but said nothing. Calatin's words were too close to the bone.

"We cannot use it, nor bear too long to be in its presence, but with it secured here your feeble compatriots should be blind to the locations of the Quadrillax," Calatin continued. He sucked in a deep breath and said, "We know you have the stone. Where is it?"

Church looked at him, straight through him, preparing his mind for what lay ahead.

The pain that lanced through his leg was excrutiating, and although he had hoped he could survive a while without calling out, it was impossible; his yell burned his throat. The beast removed the bloodstained corkscrew from Church's thigh and held it up so the scarlet droplets splattered his shirt. Church could feel his jeans growing wet around his wound.

"I know you're going to kill me," he gasped, "so there's no point me telling you anything."

"It will be many days before we kill you, and plenty of roads of pain to explore before then." Calatin leaned over until Church could smell the foul reek of his breath. "But this is the beginning and all roads lead from here. I will ask you again: where is the stone?"

Church closed his eyes, muttered a prayer, and then screamed and screamed.

Calatin's voice floated to him through the waves of pain, fading in and out with the susurration of the tides.

"… citadels are hidden in the dark places beneath the earth. We are scattered to the four winds. No point on this island is free from us. And we wait and we wait, for we have waited for so long, until the stars are aligned, the seasons are ready, until the gates fall open forever and we can see to eternity. The end…"

Fading in and fading out. Calatin standing nearby, talking as if to himself, his eyes fixed firmly on some inner horizon, painting a picture of future terror.

"… your land will be transformed. The eternal night will be drawn across the fields and hills, the moors and rivers, and not even the brightest light will pierce the gloom. Blood will flow through the streets of your cities like rivers and we will have fresh meat on our plates at every meal. Madness will strike you down when you look upon the face of the returned ones and know no prayer will deter them, no god will be listening. Your voice will have no authority in the face of powers you thought impossible. Your people will be herded, screaming, desperate, alone …"

Darkness and pain. Hiding in the hole of his head, digging down deep until he could find that spot where the hero lay sleeping, waiting to be wakened to defend the island once more. But the road to the cave was long and filled with unquiet spirits. Marianne was there, repeatedly. She blew him a kiss as she jumped off the tube on her way to her interview in Wardour Street. She paddled in the warm waters of Ganavan, splashing him with her feet before they rushed to the dunes to make love. And she stood on the deck of a boat as the rising sun painted the Thames red, offering a kiss that transformed his life. Then she was speaking the words of the young Marianne, about life and death, the two of them merging into one. Here there was meaning and that gave him the strength to continue.

He awoke on the straw of the cell once more, his body afire with agony, his clothes soaked with blood.

"I thought you were dead," Witch's voice floated over him. He tried to speak, but the words were strangled in his throat. Rough hands grabbed his head and levered it up so he could take some stagnant water on his tongue from a wooden bowl. Witch's face fell in and out of focus, concerned, yet also filled with the fear of his own memories. "You look like shit. And I thought I had it bad when that bastard got me in his little playpen." He heaped some straw with one hand, then lowered Church's head gently on to it. "If it's any consolation, I don't think you told them anything. He was in a foul mood when they threw you in here. You're a better man than me. I'd have given up my nan if they'd asked me."

Church closed his eyes and felt a wave of relief settle through him like mist. He feared he might have said something and forgotten it in his pain-induced delirium, but he had come through. Ironically, the suffering had driven him so far inside himself he had found what he had been looking for all along: the sleeping hero. And now he did feel different: stronger, more confident, less concerned by the petty fears and mundane terrors which had been undermining him for so long. Not even the thought of more torture could bring him down. He felt reborn.

"We find strength in hardship," he croaked deliriously. Veitch saw the smile on his face and asked him if he were going mad from the pain, but Church was already drifting off into a recuperative sleep.

He didn't know how long he had been out, but he felt much better when the sound of the door disturbed him. He managed to lever himself on to his side to see two shadowy forms dragging what appeared to be a shapeless sack before throwing it into the other cell. When they had left he watched it closer. After a while it moved, then groaned.

"Are you okay?" His voice still sounded tissue-paper thin.

There was silence for a minute, and then the new arrival pulled himself weakly across the floor and used the bars to haul himself into a half-sitting, halfleaning position. In the flickering torchlight, Church saw an old man, his face haggard from suffering, his grey hair dirty and matted. He looked about a hundred. But then, gradually, Church saw through the mask crafted by pain and a wave of horror swept over him.

"Tom?" he hissed. Nearby, Veitch stirred and looked up.

The man looked across at Church, his piercing grey eyes now dull and flat. "I never thought they would do it." His voice was frailer than Church's, rustling on the edge of hearing, so weak it seemed he was only a step away from death. "The old ways do not matter to them any more. They are so sure of their power, of victory, they feel able to ignore everything that has been established. I never thought..

Veitch knelt down next to Church. "Who's that?"

Church explained briefly, then said to Tom, "Did Calatin do this to you?"

"He wanted to know if the others still had the power without you." Tom's Scottish brogue was stronger in his weakness. He sucked in a deep, juddering breath and seemed to find a little strength from somewhere. "They don't want to divert their attention from whatever it is they are doing, but they know you are all a threat."

"What are they doing?"

Tom shook his head. "Waiting. Making preparations."

"Can the others stop them without me?" He glanced at Veitch. "And Ryan?"

Tom seemed to see Church's cellmate for the first time. "I don't know. I know some things, enough to help, but not everything. The legends of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons have always talked about them as a unit, greater than the sum of its parts. The power you represent is heightened and focused when you are all brought together. Individually, you have some particular strengths, but-"

"Not enough," Church finished bleakly.

Somewhere far off through the rock the tolling bell started once again, striking its long dismal notes that seemed to mark the end of them all.

The blast in Salisbury had left Tom weak and disoriented. As he staggered around attempting to find Ruth, the few remaining creatures had attacked him mercilessly. And when he came around, he was in the dark and in the hands of Calatin. The tortures inflicted on him had been intense. It seemed the Night Walkers' plan was in effect, but many elements were finely balanced and the timing was crucial; they could not afford any disruption. Although their infiltration of society was overwhelming, it appeared they feared Church and the others intensely; or rather, feared what Church and the others could do if they were allowed to reach their potential.

"But did you find out anything we could use?" Church said hopelessly.

"I do not know. It is so hard to remember." Tom seemed disoriented, older than his years. Tenderly he touched the side of his head, where Church could make out the dark smear of encrusted blood.

"Are you okay?" Church enquired; it seemed a serious wound. Tom didn't seem to want to talk about it so Church pressed him again for information. "At Stonehenge it was obvious you knew more than you were saying. You've got to tell me everything, Tom."

"Sometimes there's so much in my head," he said deliriously. "All those years of thoughts piling up …" Suddenly he seemed to lock on to a random memory. "Do you want to know how it started?"

"Yes, I'd like that."

"No, not how it really started. No one knows that. But how it started here. I can tell you that."

"Go on."

Tom shifted awkwardly until he found himself a relatively comfortable position. "You're an educated man. You know about the Celtic myth cycle?"

"A little. Some reading at university-"

"That's where it began. The secret history, locked in a few stories and passed down the years so mankind would never forget the suffering and the terror."

Church struggled to remember, but it had seemed such an insignificant part of his studies that the details had not remained. "There was the Tuatha De Danann," he began hesitantly.

"The name the Celts gave to them. The people of the Goddess liana, the last generation of gods to rule before mankind's ascendence. When they arrived in our world, they brought with them great knowledge and magic from four marvellous cities-Falias, Gorias, Finias and Murias-as well as four talismans: the Stone of Fal, which screamed aloud when touched by the rightful king; the Sword of Nuada, their High King, which inflicted only fatal blows; the Spear of Lugh, the sun god; and above all else, the Cauldron of Dagda, the Allfather of the gods, source of life and death and healing."

"Yes! Those are the things we're searching for-"

"People have always been searching for them. No one ever finds them."

"But we have to. To free the … the Golden Ones." He told Tom about the woman in the Watchtower.

Tom snorted. "She is of the Danann. Of course she wants her people freed. But to find the talismans … They are more than they appear to be to human eyes, powerful symbols that …" His voice trailed off. "Listen to me. These gods and everything they deal with are so alien they are unknowable. Their appearances, their motivations … the best our minds can do is give them some shape that's recognisable to us. Some are closer to us, like the woman you encountered between the worlds. Some are so incomprehensible we cannot even begin to give them form."

"The creatures here-?"

Tom nodded. "Too terrible for your mind to bear, but it can be taught to give them shape. The Celts called them the Fomorii. Misshapen, violent, they were supposed to have come from the waters to invade this world. They were, to all intents and purposes, the manifestation of evil, a corruption, perhaps, or an infestation. The embodiment of negativity, constantly striving to drag the cosmos into chaos and darkness. And they were led by the most devastating, destructive force of all-the Celts called him Balor, the one-eyed god of death. The legends claimed he was so dreadful that whoever he turned his eye upon was destroyed."

Tom's description was so desolate Church felt a blanket of hopelessness descend on him. He couldn't tell if Veitch felt it too; his head was lowered, his expression hidden by his hair.

"The Fomorii came like a tidal wave," Tom continued. "The Tuatha D6 Danann were unprepared. They were enslaved and the Fomorii established a reign of terror that became known as the Eternal Night."

"But the Danann struck back." Church recalled the woman in the Watchtower's account. "They had the power to defeat the Fomorii."

Tom nodded. "The war leader Nuada led the Danann in a counterstrike, but he seemed doomed to defeat until he was joined by Lugh, the sun god, who was part Fomorii. In the stories, his grandfather was Balor. At the second battle of Magh Tuireadh, Lugh plunged his spear into Balor's eye, killing him instantly. The Fomorii were demoralised; the Danann easily regained power. But there had been too much destruction and suffering-even for gods-for things to return to the way they had been before. To preserve some kind of order, a truce was reached-the Covenant. Both the Danann and the Fomorii would leave earth to man and return forever to the Danann homeland which the Celts called Otherworld. And they took with them almost every magical creature, everything which couldn't abide by the strict laws that would remain in their passing. That exodus was known as the Sundering and it was the end of the Age of Wonders, known also as the Age of Terror."

"You're just talking about bleedin' stories!" Veitch said with exasperation.

Tom closed his eyes and laid his head back wearily. "The stories can only begin to hint at the truths of those days-they are coded messages from the distant past. There have been other legends in other cultures attempting to make sense of what happened, but the Celts came the closest in their descriptions, which is why they have been the most enduring. The stories are confused-the gods were given different names by the different Celtic tribes across Europebut in essence they were all talking about the same thing."

"So they left us behind for good-"

"Not wholly. The boundaries between Otherworld and here were supposed to be sealed, but there were weak spots, the mounds, the lakes and rivers-the liminal zones." Tom's voice continually faded away, then grew stronger, so Church had to strain to hear what he was saying. "Some of the gods crossed back over for brief excursions or exerted their influence from Otherworld. Some of the magical creatures too. And sometimes people from here found their way over there."

"I remember now," Church interjected. "The Celtic gods slowly metamorphosed into our faery myths and Otherworld became Faeryland. The keepers of treasure and secrets, mischiefmakers-"

"Mischief?" Church was taken aback by the venom in Tom's voice. "They interfered with us down the years, tormenting people, tricking people. Yes, sometimes it was just lights in the sky, strange sightings of lake monsters, nocturnal manifestations. And sometimes it was slaughter."

"That's all very interesting," Veitch said sarcastically, "but it doesn't exactly help us, does it?"

"Any information helps you," Tom replied.

"It tells us the Danann have defeated the Fomorii before and they can do it again," Church said. "It tells us there's hope."

"It doesn't tell us how to get out of this bleedin' cage!"

"You could have mentioned all this before," Church said sharply.

"I could have."

"How do you know all this? Did the Bone Inspector tell you?"

"Some of it." There was a long silence in which he seemed to be wrestling with his thoughts, and then he said, "I have been to Otherworld."

Church at first wondered if it were some kind of stupid attempt at humour, but he had never heard Tom joke before. "You're lying."

He sighed. "I never lie."

"Then how?"

"Through one of those weak spots I mentioned. In Scotland, on a hillside."

Witch seemed excited by this turn in the conversation. He crawled to the front of the cage and gripped the bars. "What was it like?"

"So many wonders." Tom's voice was oddly strained. "I was changed, immeasurably. I learned things there, wisdom, certain skills, the ability to manipulate subtle energies-"

"Magic," Church said.

"If you like. Though I'm not adept, I achieve some little things."

"Like getting us out of here?" Veitch said hopefully.

Tom shook his head and they all fell silent for a long minute.

"You're not lying to us?" Church stressed.

"I said, I never lie."

Veitch hammered a fist against the bars angrily, then crawled back to the corner of the cage.

"Then you know at first hand what all these so-called gods can do," Church continued. "Is there hope?"

"There's always hope."

"What about Calatin and the Fomorii?"

"The Fomorii are a race made up of tribes, some large, some small, all vying for power. Since Balor died they have been on the verge of civil war. Although Calatin is the nominal leader, his halfbreed status has not endeared him to the others. But that's by the by. Their return to our world has reunited them to a degree, but the power struggle has simply moved into the background." He coughed fitfully, then spat through the bars. "You and the others are a fine trophy, the symbol of everything the Fomorii wish to eradicate. Whomsoever holds you captive, or eliminates you, is advanced in the eyes of all the tribes."

"What are you saying?" Church gripped the bars to lever himself up; although the pain had receded a little, he felt like nails were being driven into his flesh.

"Were you to escape," Tom continued weakly, "there would be others at your back apart from Calatin. He is dangerous …" He paused, moistened his lips. "But there is one much worse. He controls dark power to a degree which Calatin can only dream of, but it has consumed him physically. Now his presence can only be contained by a murder of crows, swirling tightly together in a proscribed pattern that prevents his life energy seeping out. His name is Mollecht."

Church remembered the description the Bone Inspector had given of their pursuers at Avebury. "So Calatin set the Fabulous Beast and the Wild Hunt after us, but this Mollecht is hunting us too?"

"Christ, it sounds like we're wasting our time," Veitch groaned.

"No," Church said adamantly. "If we can get out of here and find the four talismans by Beltane then we can free the Danann-"

"Beltane?" Veitch looked at Church in bafflement.

"May Day."

"Shit." He slumped down in the straw, his head in his hands.

11 — and they can do all the dirty work for us," Church finished, ignoring Veitch's despondency.

"Best be careful what you wish for," Tom croaked. His head was nodding; he was on the verge of either sleeping or blacking out.

"Tom!" Church called. "Stay focused. We need some answers. You've been out of this cell a lot. Did you see any chance of a way out of here?"

There was a long pause, then: "No. No way out."

Occasionally noises would filter through the walls, their source impossible to discern, but disturbing nonetheless; Church tried his best to ignore them. Instead, he turned his thoughts to Tom and his outrageous assertion that he had visited the home of the gods. Church had noticed a single expression that had convinced him; it was so fleeting, it had probably only been there for an instant, but it had been so stark and filled with terror Church had almost flinched.

He and Veitch spent what seemed like hours turning over every possibility that might lead to escape, but their talk only increased their sense of hopelessness. Yet as they crawled off to their separate corners to sleep, Church's mind was still turning, refusing to give up. Whatever had been released from deep within during his agonies on the torture table still fired him, refusing to allow him to drift into despair.

He awoke suddenly, aware that there was someone standing near him. With a start, he threw himself up and back against the cold, slick stone wall, ready to defend himself. But instead of a threat, there was a moment of shock while he struggled to comprehend what he was actually seeing. Before him, wrapped in a thick, dark green cloak with a hood thrown over her head, was the woman from the Watchtower. She raised a hand quickly to silence him before he could cry out. Quickly he glanced around to get his bearings; both Veitch and Tom appeared to be sleeping.

"How did you get in here?" he hissed.

Her face peered from the dark depths of her hood, pale and beautiful like the moon. "I am here to help," she said in that soft, musical voice that had so entranced him before. "I am your patron, Jack. I am guiding you to a greater destiny. In the current climate, it is dangerous for me to leave the Watchtower, but you need my aid to leave this foul place. Do you know what the Night Walkers plan to do with you?"

"I can guess."

"No," she said darkly, "you cannot. It was foolish of you to allow yourself to fall into their hands." There was an edge to her voice he hadn't heard before; it suggested darker emotions lying just beneath the surface. "It was even more foolish to let them take hold of the Wayfinder. You must not leave here without it. Should they ever utilise the secrets it represents, it would be the end of everything. Do you understand?"

Church nodded dumbly.

Gold flecks flickered in the depths of her eyes. "When next you try the cell door, it will be open. And all the doors before you this night will be open. That is my help, the rest you must do yourself. You are a Brother of Dragons, and perhaps you need to earn that title for yourself."

"Deus ex machina," he muttered.

She held up a hand sharply. "Do not disappoint my faith in you again." Her cloak seemed to shimmer and then fold in on itself. There was the strange sucking noise he had first heard outside the Salisbury depot as the air collapsed, and then she was gone.

Church stared blankly into the vacated space, trying to come to terms with what he had heard, and then he launched himself across the cell. His rough shaking woke Veitch, but Church didn't wait to explain. He was already at the cell door, almost afraid to try it, but it swung open with a loud creak at just the touch of a finger.

"How'd you manage that?" Veitch said incredulously.

"I'll tell you later." Church propelled himself across the gap to Tom's cell; the door opened just as easily. It was a little harder to stir the exhausted man, who was mumbling and twitching in the throes of nightmare. Up close Church could see the bloody scar on Tom's temple; he wondered how much damage had been done to him.

Veitch helped Church get him to his feet, but it didn't take Tom long to fight through his daze. He seemed sharper than the last time they had spoken. "Stop manhandling me!" he snapped. They let him go, and although he wavered slightly, he seemed able to walk unaccompanied. Cautiously they pulled open the main door.

The corridor without was shored up by rough timbers in parts. It was lit intermittently by torches, but the gloom was pervasive. As they moved out, anxiously glancing around, they became aware of vile smells awash in the air, the foetid stink of the Fomorii, the dampness of the underground atmosphere, and beneath it all the stench of cooking that Church had experienced in the torture chamber.

Their bodies were clenched, their eyes darting anxiously; Church didn't think he had ever felt so much fearful apprehension. It seemed it would only be a matter of time before they stumbled across one of the dark creatures, but the winding corridors were as silent as the grave, almost as if the Fomorii had deserted the mine.

When they reached a junction in the tunnels, Tom paused to lean against the wall. Church thought he was fading again, but Tom waved him away furiously when he went to help. Eventually he pointed along the tunnel which sloped deeper into the ground. "That way."

Veitch glanced in the opposite direction. "You sure? It looks-"

"That way," Tom snapped. "We cannot leave until we have the Wayfinder."

Church concurred, then led the way along the tunnel which grew steeper and steeper with each step. Soon they were almost slipping and sliding down an incline, desperately trying not to make any noise, but the sound of their shoes on the rough surface echoed crazily. The tunnel came to an abrupt halt in a cavern so large the roof was lost in shadows. After the grey and black of the corridors, Church was shocked to see the gleaming, manmade yellow of the drums he had first come across at the depot in Salisbury; they were piled across the expanse of the cavern.

Alarm bells started ringing in Church's mind. "What's going on?" he whispered. "I thought this chemical delivery was just a front for whatever the Fomorii were doing in Salisbury."

"They are not chemicals," Tom said darkly. "Not in any sense you mean."

Veitch prised off the lid of one of the drums and peered inside, snatching his head back suddenly as the foul stink of the contents hit him. "Shit! That's bleedin' disgusting!" he hissed. Inside a viscous black solution like crude oil reflected their faces.

"What is it then?" Church searched Tom's face for any sign.

"A ritual potion of some kind."

Church looked around dumbly at the stacked drums. "What could they use all this for? And why are they transporting it?"

Veitch cocked his head and listened carefully. "We can't hang around here gassing all day. Let's sort this out later. Where do we find that Wayfinder thing?"

Tom pointed across the cavern. "Over there somewhere."

Witch shook his head. "If you say so, mate. Lead the way."

Their footsteps echoed hollowly off the stacks of drums as they wove their way among them; it almost seemed like they were in a maze. At any moment he expected the Fomorii to fall upon them from all directions. But though he strained to hear a sound, there was nothing, and that was just as unnerving.

It took them fifteen minutes to reach the other side, tension growing with every step. Tom led them to an upward-sloping tunnel, and five minutes later they came upon a rough-hewn door. There was a large padlock on it, but when Church touched it, it fell open in his hands and the door swung in. It led on to a small room cast in blue from the flickering flame of the Wayfinder, which stood on a bench against the far wall. Next to it, on a velvet cloth, was the Black Rose, and beside that was a handgun and some boxes of ammunition. Church stepped in ahead of the others, snatched up the rose and slipped it into his pocket.

"What was that?" Tom asked.

"Just something they took from me when I got here," Church said dismissively. He examined the Wayfinder carefully and then hid it under his jacket.

"Is that what everybody's so worked up about?" Veitch said. "A bleedin' lantern?" He picked up the gun and slugs.

Church eyed him suspiciously. "Are those yours?"

Veitch shrugged. "For self-defence."

They hurried back into the tunnel, but Church felt increasingly uncomfortable. "This doesn't make any sense. Surely they wouldn't leave the Wayfinder here without any guards if it's supposed to be so important to them."

"Perhaps they didn't expect us to be wandering freely out of our cells," Tom said sarcastically.

"Even so-" Before he could finish his sentence, the mine reverberated with the chilling sound of the tolling bell they had heard before. It seemed close at hand, but still muffled, as if behind thick walls of stone.

"Shit," Veitch muttered. His face looked drained of blood in the flickering torchlight.

"Which way?" Church prompted. Tom was expressionless; Veitch merely shrugged. On a hunch, Church left them and sprinted back down the tunnel to the cavern. Through the gloom on the other side, he could see movement. It was hard to make out at first, just oddly shifting patterns of shadows like running water in the dark, but as his eyes focused he had the disturbing impression of insects swarming from a nest, an impossible multitude sweeping out amongst the yellow drums. The image was almost hypnotic, but it filled him with dread. He sprinted back up the tunnel, not even pausing as he reached the other two. "This way," he yelled as he passed.

The tunnels were low, dark and slick, and numerous times they slipped or cracked their heads against low roofs, but they were driven on by the noise growing behind them; it sounded at first like the low, deep rasp of an enormous beast, then it began to fragment into a mix of individual sounds, of rumbling, bestial voices and thundering feet.

Their breath burned in their throats and sweat stung their eyes, but they knew they couldn't slow for a moment. The tunnel rose upwards relentlessly, but Church couldn't shake the terrible feeling that it would suddenly start dipping down again, leaving them nowhere to run but round in circles. As they passed another junction, Church felt a blast of chill air. Scrambling to a halt, he herded the others up the branch tunnel. A minute later they hit a dead end.

"Shit!" Witch's eyes blazed like a cornered animal.

The thunderous sound of pursuit was growing louder; the Fomorii couldn't be far off the tunnel junction.

"Up," Church gasped; it was all he could force out.

Veitch and Tom raised their heads, but all they could see was darkness. Then another gust of fresh air hit them in their faces and they realised what he meant. Fastened to one wall was a rusty iron ladder. Although Church wasn't convinced it would hold, he forced Tom up first and then Veitch made him follow before taking up the rear. Tom was starting to fade, but Church egged him on insistently. The ladder was cold and wet to the touch and once or twice Church's foot slipped off it, almost hitting Veitch in the face; a flurry of cursing followed. Their muscles ached almost too much to hold on, but the threat of what lay below was enough to free any last reserves of strength they had. It wasn't long until they felt the vibrations in the ladder that signalled the Fomorii were behind them.

Church was just beginning to fear that the climb was too high for them when Tom suddenly hauled himself over the top. Church launched himself out, rolling on to scrubby grass and Dartmoor granite. It was night, cold but clear, the sky sprinkled with stars. Veitch landed on top of him, winding him.

"They're right behind," Church gasped unnecessarily. "We'll never get away-

"Give me a hand." Veitch was at the shaft entrance. For a second, Church couldn't understand what he was doing, but then it clicked. Together they gripped the top of the ladder and strained. Church thought he could see movement in the dark just below and wondered briefly if they had made the right decision. But then there was a deep rending noise as the rusty supports pulled free from the wall of the shaft. The weight of whatever was ascending continued the movement and with a loud crash the ladder tore away and plummeted into the depths.

Witch clapped Church on the shoulder jubilantly. "Bloody hell. We did it!"

But Tom was insisting there was no time for celebration, and soon they were stumbling across the moorland in the moonlight.

The land rose and fell, but they kept to the hollows, crawling on their bellies when they had to mount a ridge, and eventually they made their way to a windswept copse which allowed them some shelter. Church leaned against a tree and looked back, but he could see no indication of pursuit. Suddenly Church was filled with all the pain and exhaustion inflicted upon him by Calatin's torture. It had somehow been suppressed by the urgency of their flight. As he began to pitch forward, Veitch caught him and supported him to the ground.

They allowed themselves only ten minutes to rest, just in case, then Church pulled out the Wayfinder and, with Witch's help, he wearily began to follow its flame westwards across the moor.