World's end

Chapter Fourteen

Chutch, Veitch and Tom left Jamaica Inn after an early breakfast. The day was bright, with cloud shadows sweeping across the moor beneath the imposing background of Brown Willy, the highest point. But the light had that strained spring quality which threatened inclement weather at the drop of a hat. They could continue their trek, but there were no roads in the direction indicated by the lamp and they knew the going would be treacherous. Instead, they found a local woman who allowed them to cram into her carefully preserved Morris Minor on a shopping trip to Launceston, where they hoped they would be able to pick up another lift.

Although Tom and Veitch could both sense something was wrong, Church hadn't spoken about his encounter in the night. Marianne's revelation had tormented his sleep and on waking he wondered if he would ever sleep peacefully again. On the one hand he felt a great relief from the burden of responsibility in her death; yet the new mysteries that arose in its place were just as frightening in their implications. Who could possibly have killed her?

Despite Launceston buzzing with all the life of a healthy market town, they had to wait until midafternoon before they could find someone who could take them on the next leg of their journey. They bought some heavy Cornish pasties, which they ate in the back of a painter and decorator's van while they made their way slowly through North Cornwall villages which didn't seem to have changed since the fifties; the only sign of modernity was a huge battery of wind turbines, turning eerily in the sea breeze. "We like the old ways round here," the driver said between drags on a cigarette. The countryside was green and leafy after the desolation of Bodmin Moor and the closer they got to the coast the stronger the sun became, until it was beating down with all the force of a summer afternoon. Eventually they crested a ridge to see the deep blue sea ahead of them. The road wound down to the coast through an avenue of gnarled, ancient trees where the breeze smelled of salty, wet vegetation. They were dropped off in Boscastle outside the sun-drenched white walls of the Museum of Witchcraft, and although the lantern was still flickering towards the south-west, Church sensed they were near to their destination.

They set off walking along the road which clung precariously to the craggy coast, heavy with the history of smugglers and shipwreckers, and three miles later, as the sun slipped towards the horizon, they found themselves in Tintagel.

"I really should have guessed," Church said as they rested in the village at the top of the steep track that dropped down to the ancient monument. "Arthur again. All those references don't make sense."

Veitch stuffed the last of his bag of chips into his mouth. "What's this place got to do with King Arthur?"

"Just stupid legends. There was some writer in the twelfth century, Geoffrey of Monmouth, who made these outrageous claims that Tintagel was the birthplace of Arthur and that Merlin took him from here to be fostered in secret. Good for the local tourist trade, not much good for actual history."

"There are no such things as stupid legends," Tom interjected coldly.

"I know what you're saying, Tom, but when people believe this kind of stuff it makes an archaeologist's job so much harder."

"The Folie Tristan said the castle was built by giants and that it used to vanish twice a year, at midsummer and midwinter," Tom said with a strange smile.

"Exactly." But Church had the uncomfortable feeling that Tom's comments weren't in support of his own argument; the man continued to smile until Church looked away.

"So was he real or not?" Veitch said looking from one to the other. "Excalibur! Lancelot! Bleedin' great stories."

"I don't deny they're great stories," Church said, "but that's all they are. Archaeologists recently dug up a piece of slate or something here with part of the name Arthur scrawled on it, and suddenly all the thick bastards on the national papers were saying it was proof he lived here. But Arthur and all the derivations were common names, meaning bear-like-"

"Old stories do not always tell the truth in a literal sense," Tom said directly to Veitch, "but sometimes they tell the truth in their hidden meaning."

Veitch seemed quite satisfied by this, but, wearied by the travelling, Church had little patience for Tom's obfuscations. "So what are the hidden meanings?" he snapped. "I know this was an important place to the Celts, like all the other places we've trawled through, but I can't see what any of it has to do with a character who didn't exist, or at least not in the form everyone's talking about."

Tom glanced up at the darkening sky, then turned to the track down to the castle. "Come on. We must be there before nightfall."

Church thought it was another attempt to divert his questions, but as they trudged down the steep incline, Tom said, "When the Celts ruled Britain was the last time the land was truly alive."

"You're talking about the Blue Fire-the earth energy?"

He nodded slowly, thoughtfully, his eyes fixed firmly on the sea in the distance. "When the gods departed, the people were freed from the yoke of terror, but they lost something too. The people and the land are linked; like a mother and the baby in the womb, the blood that flows through one nourishes the other. But more than that, what you call the Blue Fire is also a powerful force for offence-for the defence of the land and the people. But like any weapon it needs to be nurtured to prevent it falling into disrepair. With the gods gone, there was no longer the immediate need for the people to unite and stay strong, with the force of the land at their backs. The mundane, day-to-day struggle of survival in a difficult environment took over and they forgot the importance of caring for the land through ritual at its sacred sites. The power dimmed, then grew dormant, and the people continued happily in their ignorant belief that all they needed was what their hands could grasp. But the Blue Fire is the spirit of the land and the people, inextricably linked for all time."

The track grew less steep as a small valley opened beside them with a tiny stream winding among wildly overgrown nettles and brambles. To their left, the side of the valley soared up high above their heads where part of the ruined castle lay. No tourists ventured down at that time, and the only sound was that of the sea crashing against the crags.

"So now the Fomorii are back we need to awaken that power again? To help us get the strength to defend ourselves?" Church searched Tom's face for answers, but his features were unreadable.

"It's all talk with you two, isn't it." Veitch seemed uncomfortable. He was continually scanning the thick vegetation away to their left and the growing shadows behind them.

"And Arthur?" Church continued.

"The Celts used their stories to pass vital information down the generations. Nobody can be bothered to remember facts, but if they are stitched into the fabric of an exciting tale …" Now he was distracted by the landscape. Perhaps it was the way the valley's steep slopes made them feel insignificant and trapped, or perhaps Veitch's obvious uneasiness was catching, but Tom seemed to be growing increasingly wary.

"And?" Church said with frustration.

"And all myths and legends are the same. Arthur is not a man. He is the embodiment of the spirit of man and the spirit of the land."

Church suddenly saw what Tom was suggesting. "The legend of Arthur sleeping under a hill to be woken in Britain's darkest hour … That's a coded message to awaken the power in the land."

"Finally," Tom said wearily.

"And all the sites linked to Arthur are ones that are important to the earth energy! But I don't understand-"

"No more talk," Tom snapped. He stopped suddenly and glanced back up the sweeping track, as if he had heard something. Church listened intently, but the only sound was of the faint breeze rustling the bushes. "Let us get to our destination. At least we should be safe there."

"Safe from what?" Witch said. Church saw his hand go unconsciously to the gun hidden in his jacket.

They speeded their step along the gravel track, falling into an uncomfortable silence. Above, the sky had turned deep blue and they could make out the diamond stars; it made Church feel very alone. The English Heritage building was locked and dark at the point where the valley opened out at the coast. The stream plunged into an impressive white waterfall cascading down on to the pebbled beach. The tide was out, the sea dark and powerful, licked with creamy surf where the waves broke powerfully.

And high up on their left were the ruins of the twelfth century castle like jagged teeth on a broken jaw. "We go up there, I suppose," Church said hesitantly.

"No," Tom corrected. "Down. To the beach."

Church looked at him curiously, but he gave no hint of how he knew the direction.

They clambered across the culverted stream and along a path that ran over treacherous, slick rocks where signs warned of the dangers of the crumbling cliff face. In the growing gloom, it was difficult to haul their way over the jumbled boulders to the crunching pebbles, but they managed it with only a few knocked bones. The beach had the thick, fishy smell of seaweed and the thunder of the waves was almost deafening.

Tom led them across the stones to a gash of impenetrable black in the soaring cliffs beneath the castle. "Merlin's Cave," he noted.

Veitch laughed. "Merlin! That's not you, is it? You've got that look about you."

"No, it is not," Tom said indignantly.

"We're going to do ourselves some damage in there," Church said, trying to pierce the darkness. "We won't be able to see our hands in front of our faces."

Tom marched past him into the shadows. Church cursed and glanced at Veitch, who circled his finger at the side of his head. But a second later they were slipping and sliding over seaweed and rocks, splashing into pools and stubbing their toes, while desperately trying to keep up with him; in the end they were gripping on to each other's jackets so they didn't become separated. They seemed to hang suspended in the dark where the echoing sound of the sea was almost unbearable until Church cursed, irritated with himself for not thinking, and pulled out the Wayfinder. In its shimmering blue light he could see the cave actually went right through the thin promontory that joined the mainland to the bulk of the island where the oldest part of the castle stood.

"What the hell are we looking for in here?" Veitch yelled above the roar.

"A door of some kind, I suppose." Church told him how the ground had opened magically at Avebury. Veitch shook his head in disbelief.

Tom's frustration was obvious as he stood on an enormous boulder and scanned the shadows that scurried across the walls away from the lamp's light. "Where is it?" he muttered.

Veitch glanced back to the cave entrance nervously. "There's something out there." He looked back at Church for some kind of comfort. "I must be going mad. I can't see anything, hear anything, but I feel like my heart's going to burst. I can't shake the feeling there's something bad coming for us."

Church nodded as supportively as he could muster, then returned his attention to washing the lantern's light across the rock. "We've all got to learn to trust our feelings," he said distractedly.

"Thanks a bunch," Veitch replied moodily.

And then Church did hear something, in the slight lull between the breaking of the waves. It sounded like a wild rustling or fluttering, but he couldn't think of anything that might have caused it. He looked to Tom, who was searching the walls with renewed, almost frantic energy. "Just keep looking," he said before Church could speak.

"There!" Witch exclaimed suddenly. He pointed to a part of the wall that was now in darkness. "Bring the lamp back!"

Church slowly swung the Wayfinder round until the section was illuminated. The shadows ebbed and flowed and then, for the briefest instant, a shape appeared. Church adjusted the lamp gently until the faint outline of a broadsword materialised out of a chaotic jumble of cracks that would not have been visible in any other light. Tom bounded from the boulder with a sprightliness that belied his age and slammed his palm against the symbol; blue sparks burst from his fingertips.

At that moment the pounding of the surf died again and the mysterious sound filled the cavern, throwing them all into a state of anxiety. Church looked back towards the entrance and saw some kind of whirling movement, darker even than the shadows. He thought he was going to be sick.

His attention was snapped back by a sudden rending sound from deep within the rock wall. A crevice mysteriously grew until it was wide enough for them to slip through. They hung back for just a second while the disturbing sound from the entrance seemed to rush towards them, then they dived in without a backward glance.

Although they weren't immediately aware of it, the wall closed behind them, trapping them in a tunnel in the rock barely big enough to stand upright. Their feet kicked up sand and seashells, and the deep, salty smell of the sea was everywhere.

"This place floods with the tide," Church noted ominously.

"How can rock open up like that?" Veitch asked.

"It didn't. It simply appeared as if it did," Tom replied obliquely.

"What was that outside, Tom?" Church asked.

"No point talking about that now. The tide is coming in. We do not have much time." He pushed past them and led the way along the tunnel which opened up into a cave the size of Church's now burnt-out lounge. In the wall opposite were three holes set out at intervals along a line at waist-height.

"What are we supposed to do?" Veitch asked.

Tom dropped down on his haunches to peer into the holes. "I can see something …" A shrug. "I would expect the objects of power wouldn't be lying around for just anyone to pick up."

Veitch inspected the rest of the chamber, but there were no other distinguishing marks. "So, what? We have to find the combination?"

"Something like that."

"Good job there's not a lot riding on it," Veitch noted bitterly.

"You know," Church said, "there might be a switch in one of those holes." He tapped his fingers gently at the entrance to the middle one.

"That's not much of a security system."

"Here," Tom said sharply. Church and Veitch turned to where he was pointing. A trickle of frothy sea water had washed up the tunnel to the mouth of the chamber.

"The tide must sweep in quickly through the other entrance to the cave." Church handed Tom the Wayfinder, then turned back to the holes. "Bloody hell. We haven't got much time. What do we do?" Steeling himself, he rammed his hand into the middle hole. It went in up to the middle of his forearm and at the far end there were two loops of metal which his fingers slipped through easily. "I think there is a switch here!"

"Well, pull the bleedin' thing then and let's get the hell out." Veitch eyed the advancing water nervously; it was already another six inches into the chamber.

Tom and Veitch both realised something was wrong from the sudden, bloodless expression on Church's face. "Something's closed around my wrist. I can't get my hand out." He tugged frantically, but his arm wouldn't retract at all.

The sea water washed around their shoes, which were sinking into the sandy floor. Veitch leapt into action. He put his arms around Church's waist, braced himself with one foot against the chamber wall and heaved. Church yelled in pain. "You'll pull my bloody hand off!" Veitch released his grip with a curse.

"Relax your muscles," Tom ordered. "It might be like one of those oriental finger locks-the harder you pull, the more you are held tight."

"I don't feel in a particularly relaxed frame of mind," Church hissed. His socks and the bottoms of his Levis were already wet. He closed his eyes and attempted to calm himself with pleasant thoughts from his past, then felt a dismal wash of emotion when he realised they all contained Marianne. But it did the trick. Yet even when he let his hand go limp, the bond around his wrist remained as tight as ever. His shoulders slumped and he shook his head desolately.

"This water's flooding in!" Veitch barked. It was up to their calves, and when he paced anxiously it splashed dark stains up the legs of his trousers.

"That's not doing any good!" Church snapped.

"Calm down," Tom said. "It won't do any good to panic."

"That's easy for you to say." Church could feel his heart beating like a triphammer, his back and shoulder muscles knotting tightly. Although he tried not to think about it, images flashed through his mind of the water flooding into his mouth and nose, filling his throat, his lungs. "You two should get out of here while you still can," he said as calmly as he could muster.

"Don't be stupid! We can't leave you here-you're the important one!" Veitch's face was filled with the anger of frustration.

"Just get out!" Church shouted, his eyes blazing.

"He's right," Tom said, his voice almost lost beneath the echoes of lapping water. "Someone has to be left to try again, or everything-"

"Shut up, you coldhearted bastard," Veitch growled. "You're talking bollocks." He splashed around the cave like a trapped animal, his fists bunching, then opening. "I told you, he's the important one. We're just a couple of losers."

"Get out," Church repeated, gentler now he had seen the dismay in Witch's face.

"There's got to be an answer!" Veitch exploded. "Whoever did this wouldn't just leave it so everybody died!"

The water surged in, lapping up the walls, tugging at their legs. It appeared to be coming faster and faster. When it hit Church's waist, it seemed to flush the panic from him briefly. Suddenly, on a whim, he pushed his free hand into the left hole. There was a click and his trapped hand came free, but as he withdrew it jubilantly a bond snapped around his other wrist. He cursed loudly, waving the now-free hand to stimulate the blood supply.

"So triggering one switch frees the other one," Tom said.

"That's a lot of use!" Church said. "There's always got to be one hand in there."

"But still …" Tom mused, wiping the splashes of water off his glasses.

"How can you be so calm?" Veitch bellowed at him. Tom replaced his glasses as if he hadn't heard a sound, and for a second Church thought Veitch was going to punch him.

"Take it easy, Ryan," he said.

Church's calmness had an odd effect on Veitch. For a second his eyes ranged over Church's face, then he turned away as if he suddenly couldn't understand what was happening in the world.

The sea water continued to rush in, splashing up high, throwing them around. It had reached their chests in just a couple of minutes; desperation gripped them all. Tom held the Wayfinder up high, its light painting the water azure, but even when the tide splashed over the flame it didn't extinguish it. Church wondered if it would still be burning away beneath the water at the side of his drowned, bloated body.

Tom placed one hand on Veitch's shoulder. "We need to leave," he said quietly.

The water whooshed in, the current almost too much to bear. Church thought it was going to tear his hand off at the wrist. He had to fight to keep his head above the swell. Now he could feel the panic surging.

There were tears in Veitch's eyes as he looked from Tom to Church, then he ducked his face in the water. When he threw his head back, the shock of the cold had sluiced off his emotion and he seemed to have a renewed purpose.

Church took a mouthful of salty water. He choked, tried to kick upwards, sucked in a huge gulp of air.

Veitch half-swam over to the holes and paused while he looked deeply into Church's eyes. Through his panic, Church could see Veitch weighing something up. Then the Londoner moved, suddenly forcing both his hands into the remaining holes.

"No!" Church yelled, but it was too late. He felt the bond around his wrist release and his hand shot free.

Before Church could vent his anger at Veitch for his sacrifice, there came a rumble from deep within the cavern wall and gradually a dark space appeared at head height above the holes. Within it Church could see blue sparks flashing, and an aged iron sword lying on a stone shelf. At the same time, Veitch's hands came free and another space opened-a doorway this time-on the other side of the chamber. Veitch whooped triumphantly as Church grabbed the sword and then they were all swimming frantically to the doorway. On the other side was a tight spiral of stairs rising steeply. They scrambled up high above the water level and crashed down on to the steps in exhaustion.

"I don't believe it," Church gasped. "I don't bloody believe it!"

Tom removed his glasses and rubbed a hand over his weary eyes. "There was another dimension to the puzzle," he said. "The key was sacrifice. It would not give up the sword until we showed we understood sacrifice."

"You're talking like it knew what we were doing." Veitch had a satisfied, slightly amazed smile on his face. He closed his eyes and lay back on the steps until his breathing returned to normal. Then he sat up and said, "Let's have a look at it, then."

Church laid the sword on the steps and held the Wayfinder over it so they could examine it. Few would have given it a second glance. It was of a bare, basic design and appeared to be made of iron which had corroded badly; there were no distinguishing marks or aesthetic elements at all.

But it was obvious from Witch's face that he was seeing something different. "Excalibur?" he asked reverentially.

"The Sword of Nuada Airgetlamh," Church corrected. He glanced at Tom, who had a flicker of a knowing smile on his lips. "Or perhaps they're different names for the same thing, for something that can't be defined."

"That is the problem with legends," Tom said wryly. "They are imprecise ways of defining the indefinable."

"You two bastards should never be allowed to talk to each other," Veitch grumbled, pulling himself to his feet. "Let's get out of here before the water finds us."

As Church rose, he turned to Veitch and said awkwardly, "Thanks. You know, for what you did-"

Veitch shifted uncomfortably. "No problem." Then, "You're not going to bloody hug me, are you?"

"No, I'm not!" Church said indignantly. "Come on. Let's climb."

The steps ascended steeply in a spiral so tight it made them dizzy; they had to rest at regular intervals. Yet their success had left them with a strange euphoria, as if they had started living only at that moment; the sharp, salty tang in the air, the touch of the hard, cold rock, the echoes of their feet, the shimmering blue light reflected off the wet walls, all seemed heightened to such a degree they almost seemed like new experiences. The sword was strangely warm against Church's back as they scrambled up the rough-hewn steps; if he allowed himself to think about it, he would have noted it almost felt alive, like some unseen friend was resting an arm against him.

The steps ended suddenly at a stone ceiling on which was carved a stylised image of a dragon with a serpent-like body. There was another brief flurry of blue sparks when Church placed both hands on it and heaved, and then, with a loud creak, a square trapdoor eased open, revealing a patch of star-sprinkled sky. Church hauled himself out on to clipped grass and then offered a hand to Veitch and Tom.

They were on the windswept top of the island where the oldest part of the castle stood. All around, Church could see the broken foundations and rough outlines of buildings that dated back to the Celts.

"We did it!" Veitch said with a broad grin. Even Tom allowed himself a tight smile of triumph.

"If Laura and Ruth got away, we're two artefacts down and only two to go," Church noted with a grin. "You know, I think we're going to do it."

"That was a buzz and a half!" Veitch continued exuberantly. "Better than drugs. This is what life's about!"

The small island was just a high mound of rock covered by scrubby grass and the ruins. From their vantage point they could look down on the surrounding coastline where the sea crashed in eruptions of white foam, and in the distance the lights of the village of Tintagel blazed like a beacon.

"You reckon we can get a room for the night? I don't fancy kipping in a ditch," Veitch asked as they headed in the direction of the bridge over the thin neck of rock that joined the island to the mainland.

Before Church could answer, the wind died briefly and they heard the unnerving fluttering sound that had pursued them into the cave earlier. Tom's face grew taut; in the excitement he had obviously forgotten about it too.

"What is that?" Veitch asked anxiously. They stood stock-still, listening intently; it seemed to be coming from the direction of the bridge. As it grew louder it sounded like a sheet flapping in the wind, but there were other disturbing notes which they couldn't place.

Church looked behind him. The land fell away sharply into treacherously steep, crumbling cliffs. "There's no other way out, is there?"

"I said, what is it?" This time Veitch gripped Tom's arm, who shook it off roughly, then started to cast around for some place to turn.

While the others held back, Church ran to the ruins of a chapel and peered down the bank to the Inner Ward, fifty yards away from where the noise seemed to be emanating. He saw several dark shapes moving cautiously through the castle and, at the head of them, a strange disturbance in the air; he could see movement, but the shadows prevented him picking out any detail. Two of the shapes waited at the top of the steps which were the only exit from the island.

"Fomorii?" Tom asked him when he ran back to them.

"I think. And something else too, but I can't make it out. There's no way past them."

"Then we fight the bastards here." Veitch's bravado belied the fear in his eyes. He pulled out his gun and examined it-they all knew it would do no good-before returning it to his pocket and removing a long hunting knife from a sheath he had hidden under his jacket.

"I got it while you two were buying the food in Launceston," he said.

"I didn't think you had any cash," Church noted.

"I don't." He looked away uncomfortably, then pointed to a small jumble of foundations near where the land fell away on to the cliffs. "If we make a stand there, they won't be able to come up behind us."

As they hurried towards the spot, Church pulled out the sword; Tom shied away from it instantly. It seemed to shift slightly in Church's hand, as if it were settling into his grip. The warmth he had noted earlier flowed up his tendons into his forearm.

"That thing looks like it'll fall apart if you clout anything with it," Veitch said.

"It's got power inside it, I can feel it. I reckon I can do a bit of damage."

They were aware of the Fomorii approaching before the dark shapes had separated from the shadows; the attackers were preceded by an unpleasant feeling that operated beyond the five senses, churning the stomach and making their throats constrict. Tom brushed Church's and Veitch's temple briefly. "You will keep your senses when you see them," he said quietly.

"Magic?" Veitch grunted. "You bloody well are Merlin."

"Shut up," Tom snapped.

The fluttering sound grew much louder as the hideously misshapen figures gradually took form. They crested the summit of the island and began to move forward, powerfully and relentlessly. In the centre of the approaching force was an intense, tightly constrained mass of whirling shapes.

As it drew nearer, Church picked details out of the gloom, until he said querulously, "Birds?"

"Crows," Tom corrected.

"Mollecht." Church winced at the memory of Tom's description.

The crows were swirling around, wings flapping madly yet seeming never to collide with each other. Their incredibly complex pattern suggested the shape of a man at their core, but it was impossible to see any sign of him.

Witch gasped as the birds swept across the grass towards them with an eerie, unnatural speed; it was such a terrifying sight that the other Fomorii seemed insignificant.

Tom was muttering something under his breath, prayers or protective incantations, Church couldn't tell which. Veitch kept glancing down at the hunting knife in his hand, now made pathetic and useless. He went to throw it away, then clutched it tight for security.

Church took a deep breath and cleared all thoughts from his head. Ignoring the fear, he stepped in front of the other two and held the sword up with both hands. He moved it awkwardly, but somehow it seemed to correct its balance itself. From the corner of his eye, he thought he glimpsed a crackle of blue fire along its edge.

It had an immediate effect. The crows came to a sudden halt about twenty feet away and began to shift back and forth along a wide arc. The night was suddenly torn by the monkey screeches and guttural roars of the Fomorii. Church moved the sword around, hoping it would be enough to frighten them off, but the attackers held their ground.

Before he could make another move, the crows emitted a fierce cawing and their swirling became even more frenzied. A second later a hole opened up in the heart of them. Church glimpsed an entity inside that made his eyes sting and his gorge rise, and then something dark and translucent erupted out of it and burst over their heads. The shockwave threw them to their knees and an awful sulphurous smell filled the air. Church felt his skin crawling, as if insects were swarming all over him. He glanced down to see pinpricks of blood bursting from his pores. Tom was screaming something, but Church's ears were still ringing from the explosion, and when he glanced to one side Veitch was yelling too. His face was covered with blood.

In that instant the other Fomorii surged forward. Tom grabbed Church's shirt and yanked, a signal to retreat. The three of them backed away hurriedly, but within seconds the ground was falling away beneath their feet and they were desperately trying to right themselves on the steep incline towards the cliffs. Church brandished the sword before him, but the Fomorii seemed quite content to herd the three of them where there was nowhere else to go. The buffeting wind at his back and the roaring of the sea as it crashed against the cliffs told him when they had run out of land, and time. He glanced back briefly. They were a foot away from the precipice; far beneath, the white water sucked and thrashed menacingly against the rocks. There was no way they could survive a plunge.

His skin was slick with blood from head to toe, but the only thought that dominated his mind was that he had wasted too long worrying about the Watchtower's untrue premonition of his death.

The first of the Fomorii moved forward with a roar and, despite Tom's spell, Church could still not look it full in the face. He closed his eyes and lashed out blindly with the sword. The impact made his bones ache, forcing his eyes open. He was shocked to see the sword had sliced through whatever the creature had instead of a collar bone and had imbedded itself in its skeleton. It was howling wildly and flailing its limbs as it died; Church almost vomited from the foul stench that was emanating from the wound. With an immense effort, he wrenched out the sword and swung it in an arc, cleaving off the beast's head.

He didn't have time to celebrate, for at that moment the screeching of the remaining Fomorii reached a crescendo and they moved forward as one. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Tom hunched over, muttering to himself, his hands and arms twitching as if he had an ague. Then Veitch was at his side, shouting obscenities as he waved the hunting knife so violently it no longer seemed as feeble as it had before.

The Fomorii bore down on them in a wave of deformed bodies, radiating a dark, terrifying power that made him sick to his stomach. Feeling the fear and despair surge through him, Church swung the sword back and closed his eyes. He thought, This is-

Something grasped the collar of his jacket and hauled him backwards. His heels kicked grass, rock and then nothing, and he was falling so fast the wind tore his breath from his mouth. There was no time to think of anything before he hit the waves hard. An instant later he blacked out as the water surged into his mouth and nose and pulled him far beneath the swell.

Shavi, Ruth and Laura sat on the cold stone bench in the tiny tower that was all that remained of St. Michael's Church, perched high on top of the tor. Through the open arch where the wind blew mercilessly they could see the lights of Glastonbury spread out comfortingly in the intense dark just before dawn. On the cracked stone floor before them stood the plastic bottle which contained the water they had brought from the Chalice Well.

"I don't feel ready for this," Ruth said. It would have been a little easier if Jim hadn't gone on at length about all the dangers."

"That's God people for you," Laura noted. "They're never happy unless someone's worried or scared."

Ruth watched the stars for a long moment, remembering a similar night in Stonehenge, and then said almost to herself, "I wish Church was here." She realised what she had said and glanced at Laura. "I don't mean because I'm not up to it myself-"

Laura didn't look at her. "I know what you mean."

Shavi rose and went through a series of yoga movements to stretch the ache of the night chill from his muscles. It felt like they had been sitting in the tower for hours, although it had only been about forty-five minutes.

"So what do we do now? Do you think Mister Dog Collar could have been any more vague?" Laura asked gloomily.

"It is all about ritual," Shavi explained, "and part of the ritual is finding the path ourselves. He gave us some guidance-the time of the ritual-and I think the rest of it is pretty obvious."

"To you, maybe, but then you're some big shaman-type." Laura stood up and leaned in the arch, looking down at the town.

Shavi moved in beside her and pointed to the faint terraces cut into the hill centuries ago, visible by their moon-shadows even in the dark. "You see those? What use are they? They are patently not fields, nor could they be the kind of defences thrown up on some earthworks from neolithic times. Yet it would take a tremendous amount of effort to level out those terraces, so they must be of some significance to whatever culture invested all that manpower and time hundreds or thousands of years ago."

Ruth joined them in the archway, tracing the path of the terraces with her fingertip. "They're like steps."

"Exactly," Shavi nodded. "A path to the top, but not in the manner you suggest. A labyrinth, a three-dimensional one. You can walk a route back and forth around the tor to the summit."

"Why do that when it's easier to go in a straight line?" Laura said.

"The labyrinth is a classical design found in rock carvings, coins, turf mazes around the world. It has more than one meaning, like everything else we have encountered, but at its heart it represents a journey to and from the land of the dead. Birth, death and rebirth."

"I really don't like all this talk of death," Ruth murmured.

"And what happens when we get to the end?" Laura stamped her feet to boost the blood circulation.

Shavi shrugged.

"And the water?"

"An oblation to be offered at the point where we find ourselves."

"You call it ritual, but it sounds like magic to me," Ruth noted.

"Perhaps." Shavi put an arm around both their shoulders, an act that would have seemed too familiar from any other man they had just met, yet from him it simply suggested friendship and security. "We think of magic as something from children's stories, but it may simply be a word for describing that activa tion of the earth force you have seen. New knowledge which we have no frame of reference to understand. Magic is as good a word as any."

"Sometimes you sound just like that old hippie," Laura said with an acidity that was transparent to both Shavi and Ruth.

They continued to discuss the tor and the mysteries they had uncovered for the next half hour, yet none of them touched on the matter that was most important in all their hearts; the sense that they were on the verge of something profound, a turning point which would finally reveal the truth about the events that were shaping the world, about the forgotten past and the hidden future, and, above all, about themselves.

The closer the sunrise drew, the more they seemed to feel an electric quality in the air which resonated deep within them. Barely able to contain their anticipation, they sat against a wall and watched the eastern sky for its lightening. It was a magical moment that stilled conversation, of stars, and wind and the sound of the trees at the foot of the tor, and for a while they seemed to feel the axis of the heavens turning, as they knew their ancestors would have done millennia ago.

It was during one such lull in the conversation that they were startled by the noise of something heavy hitting the ground and a strange liquid, flopping sound. It was incongruous enough to set their hearts racing, and they hurried around the tower to search for its origin.

But as they rounded the western flank of the tower, they were brought up sharp by a bizarre sight that sent their heads spinning: three figures floundered like fish on the slopes of the tor, soaked to the skin and retching up sea water.

"Oh great," Laura said sourly. "The old git's back."