World's end

Chapter Twenty

"I still say we should have dumped him." Veitch was squatting dangerously near the missing door, trying to tend to his neck wound with the van's depleted first aid kit.

"He had his flaws, but he was okay before those bastards stuck that parasite in his head." Church watched Tom surreptitiously as he sat quietly with his back to the driver's seat, bound with the tow rope. He looked about a hundred years old; his skin was sallow, his grey hair matted, and there was a crack across one of the lenses of his wire-rimmed spectacles.

"I tried to fight it," Tom said. "Every time it attempted to make me do something against my will, I tried."

Church recalled the blood that had been streaming from his nose, ears and eyes at the roadside before the Baobhan Sith attacked, and realised just how hard he had fought.

"It doesn't matter," Veitch continued. "He's still a liability. However much he wants to help us, that thing in his head means he could turn against us any time. If you don't want to just throw him out the back, we should at least leave him at the side of the road somewhere."

"If you leave me, you'll never discover what you have to do with the talismans to summon the Tuatha De Danann," Tom said pointedly.

Veitch bristled, and made to advance on him. "You trying to blackmail us now?"

"Leave it, Ryan." Church turned to Tom. "Is this another of your great deceits, or can we get a kernel of truth out of you this time?"

"I know," Tom stressed. "You need me."

"Perhaps that creature in his head could be removed," Shavi suggested.

"What? We should kidnap a brain surgeon next?" Veitch said sarcastically.

"There might be a way," Tom said.

Church eyed him suspiciously. "Who could do a thing like that?"

"No one on this earth." Tom gave a sickly cough. "Just take me home."

They debated the matter as they limped through the remaining hours of night towards the motorway. Veitch was adamant he didn't want to follow any advice from Tom in case they were led into another trap, but Church felt Tom was telling the truth. He finally extracted a promise from him that he would tell them everything if they helped him, and that was enough of a spur to convince the others; without his information they were lost anyway.

Home for Tom was near Melrose on the Scottish borders, not far in terms of distance, but it might as well have been a million miles. The engine's insistent whine told them the van wouldn't last much longer, and even if they managed to get it fixed, the damage to the body was so bad the police would pull them over the moment they got on to the motorway.

When dawn finally broke and the landscape was transformed into a place they all recognised, they stopped at a small farm not far from the M6. The farmer was pleasant enough to suggest the nightmares they had experienced at the heart of the Lake District hadn't yet touched his borders. Even at that time of day he was a canny negotiator though, and he offered to give up his own battered Transit-a second vehicle that was at least ten years old and looked like it barely moved-only for Laura's portable PC. But at least his Transit was whole, and although the exhaust rattled noisily, it allowed them to continue on their way.

The day was already turning fine, with just a few streaky clouds on the horizon to mar the blue sky, but the atmosphere in the van was depressive. Although they had regained the talismans, they had paid a huge price. Laura looked sicker than ever, and they were worried she had developed an infection in some of the wounds; Church was concerned that if they didn't get her to a doctor soon she could become fatally ill. Veitch, Shavi and Church himself were all weakened from their experience and bore numerous wounds inflicted by the Baobhan Sith, with Witch's neck the worst. Church was convinced the Baobhan Sith had wanted to kill them, but whatever control Calatin exerted had somehow restrained them at the last. Only Ruth seemed to have the strength to continue, and Church could sense she had changed in some way he couldn't quite understand; she seemed far removed from the woman he had first encountered under Albert Bridge.

The journey up the M6 was uneventful, but their vigilance didn't waver; they knew either Calatin or Mollecht would be on their trail soon enough; however, their own little difficulties had been resolved, and with the Fomorii's shapeshifting abilities, everyone they encountered would have to be studied carefully.

Tom began to speak more freely as soon as he saw the others were behind him, even though Veitch appeared to be unable to forgive him. As they dissected their experiences in the Lake District, Tom chipped in with occasional pieces of information, about the Baobhan Sith, and about the Redcaps, whom he claimed used to stalk the Border counties in the days when man was first beginning to get a foothold on the island. The battles between the two were bloody, but the Redcaps were eventually driven back into the wildernesses, their numbers dwindling until they eventually retreated to Otherworld. He declined to answer any questions about how he came by the information.

They took the M6 past Carlisle and then crossed the border into Scotland and headed up to Galashiels. Heavy traffic on the motorway and the arterial road suggested an unshakable normality, which jarred with what they had witnessed in the Lakes. Tom told them to make the most of the facade; it would soon all change.

Melrose was a compact town below the Eildon Hills on the south bank of the Tweed, dominated by a twelfth century Cistercian abbey. They parked the van near the golf course and wearily stretched their legs; it seemed like weeks since they had slept. Tom claimed his original home had been in the nearby village of Earlston, but after his wanderings began he found a new and unspecified home in the hills.

Church surveyed the three volcanic peaks which seemed to rise to at least a thousand feet. "You're expecting us to climb up there?" he said incredulously. "Look at us-we're on our last legs. Laura can barely stand."

"You could always carry me in your big, strong masculine arms, Churchdude," Laura said ironically.

"Two of us could accompany Tom," Shavi suggested, but Church instantly vetoed the idea.

"After what happened in the Lake District, nobody should be isolated. We ought to stay together, and carry the talismans with us at all times until we get a chance to use them."

Laura levered herself into a sitting position. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent and her hair was matted to her forehead. "There's a real stink of testosterone round here. Listen, don't wrap me in cotton wool-I'm not some fragile girlie. You might have to take baby steps, but I'll keep up with you." Church began to protest, but she pulled a tape measure from the tool box and threw it at his head. He ducked at the last moment, and when he saw her searching for more ammunition, he knew he would have to relent.

They took a path beside the golf course. Although the day was sunny, the air had a definite crispness. They passed slowly through gently inclining fields where cows grazed lazily before reaching the wooded lower slopes of the rounded hills. True to her word, Laura kept pace, but Church could see the effort and pain played out on her face; she never complained, nor asked for help. Yet the weakness that occasionally consumed her when they broke for rests gave him cause for concern; he could almost see her health deteriorating before his eyes.

As the afternoon drew on, grey clouds swept in from the northeast and the chill in the air took on a sharp edge. They became increasingly worried about being caught out in the hills in a storm, or not making it back before night fell.

"There's not a house in sight," Ruth said with breathless irritation as the steepness of the climb increased sharply. "If you're not having us on, where the hell do you expect to get any help?"

"Nearly there," Tom said without meeting her eye. He scanned the landscape before pointing to a hawthorn sapling thirty feet away. "The old tree died," he said cryptically, "but hawthorn always marks the spot."

When they got within ten feet, Tom broke into a run and dropped to his knees before the hawthorn, where he delicately bent forward and kissed the ground.

"It's eaten his brain," Veitch said.

"Wait, he's saying something under his breath," Ruth said anxiously. "He could be tricking us again."

Before they could move, there was a deep judder that reverberated deep within the hill and then the ground next to the hawthorn began to tear apart. They fell to their knees from the tremors and when next they looked there was a ragged slit in the earth big enough for them to walk through.

"Just like the tor!" Shavi said with wonder. "A passage to Otherworld!"

"I don't like this." Ruth plucked up the spear and held it ready for defence. "Who knows where that leads?"

"Wait. Look at Tom." Church ran to his side; he had fallen over backwards and was trying to crawl away from the doorway. Strain was etched on his face as he fought the urging of his body and there was blood once more around his nose and ears. "It's trying to stop him going in there!"

"Could be a double bluff," Veitch pointed out.

"Remember what happened at the tor," Ruth cautioned. "Time moves differently over there. We might come back and find we've missed the deadline."

Church ran back to the crate and took out the sword; it rang with inner vibrations as it touched his flesh. "I don't reckon we've got any choice. Let's get him inside."

Church grabbed one of Tom's arms while Veitch hooked the other and together they hauled him towards the rift. A wind howled out of it, carrying with it alien scents that made the hairs on their neck stand upright. For an instant they glanced at each other for support and then, without saying a word, they marched into the dark.

Church had expected a balmy summer landscape like the one they had encountered beneath the tor. Instead the passage brought them out on to a rocky mountainside shadowed by night, strewn with craggy boulders, thorny, windswept trees and bunches of gorse. A harsh wind howled around them and lightning flashed across the great arc of the sky, although there was no rain. They bunched together for security, searching for any sign of where they were supposed to be going.

"Blimey. This is a bit different," Veitch said unsurely.

"Otherworld has as many different aspects as there are views." Tom raised himself up to his full height and looked around, a faint smile on his lips. He seemed transformed, at ease. "It's fluid. A world behind every doorway."

"How are you?" Church asked.

"As well as can be expected. The Caraprix isn't comfortable in this particular part of Otherworld-that's why it attempted to prevent me entering. It will hibernate until we leave."

"Where do we go?" Ruth asked. The mountainside disappeared down into darkness and it was impossible to make out anything of the landscape beyond.

Tom searched the night, then pointed just above the edge of a massive boulder which was keeping the worst of the wind off them. In the distance they could make out a flickering light.

"I hoped there would be someone here who escaped the Wish-Hex," Tom said. "If it were to happen anywhere, it would have been in this place. Come." He set off down the mountainside, keeping a surefooted control as he slipped and slid on the pebbles and exposed rock.

Before they could follow, Laura suddenly keeled over; Church lunged for her before she hit the hard ground, swinging her round into his arms. Her breathing was shallow and he could see the whites of her rolled eyes beneath her halfclosed lids.

Shavi took Laura's pulse at her neck. "We need to get her to a doctor very quickly," he said grimly.

Church looked round frantically, wishing someone else could take responsibility, hating his own ineptitude at leadership. "We've got to get her back-find a doctor in Melrose!"

"It's a long way down that hill," Veitch said doubtfully.

Tom stepped forward with an expression of surprising concern. "Our only hope is to go on. Otherwise she'll die."

"No!" Church tried to get a grip on her to carry her back to the doorway.

Tom placed a gentle hand on his forearm. "Believe me, I know she'll die if you try to take her back." There was an unnervingly confident insistence in his voice.

Church felt a sudden hopelessness sweep through him. "If you're lying and she dies, I'll kill you myself," he said quietly.

Veitch helped Church carry her, all of them hoping the light wasn't as far away as it looked, praying that Church had made the right decision; wondering whether Tom really was leading them into a trap. And all the while the strange electrical storm seemed to grow in intensity over their heads.

The light was coming from a torch in the front porch of an imposing building which resembled a mediaeval stone monastery, although one constructed into, and part of, the mountainside. Above the porch was a squat, three-storey tower topped by a weathervane in the shape of a dragon and a lightning rod. Behind it, the slate roof and the walls with the tall, arched, leaded windows went straight into the bedrock, almost as if the mountain had formed around it. Three steps led up to the porch, where they were confronted by a large oaken door, studded with black nails.

"Where is this place?" Church asked suspiciously.

Tom traced his fingers down one of the porch's stone columns. "Using the name you would understand, it is the Library of Ogma, wisest of all the Old Ones."

Church searched his memory for the dimly recollected reference. "In the myths he was supposed to have invented Ogham."

"That's the writing you thought was on the spear," Ruth said.

"A runic writing system. There's not much of it about, but it's the earliest form discovered in Ireland." Church looked at Tom, who was lost in thought. "One of the Danann?"

"His store of knowledge is vast. Chamber upon chamber, filling the entire mountain. If he were at the heart of it when the Wish-Hex struck, it should have afforded him some protection." Tom climbed the steps cautiously and hammered on the door.

"So he's good with words. How's he going to help us?" Veitch asked.

"Have respect," Tom cautioned; his tone suggested it was an imperative. "He bonded with Etain, daughter of the great healer Dian Cecht. In his constant search for great wisdom, he has archived all the knowledge they possess."

"That's not all." Church suddenly began to make connections. "He was also supposed to ferry the souls of the dead to Otherworld for a period of rest before they were reborn in our world." There was almost a prayer woven into his words. "Are there souls here?"

"So they say."

"Don't you know?" Church wanted to shake Tom, to stop his obfuscation; there was only one lost soul that mattered to him.

"I'm just human like you, Jack," Tom replied with some exasperation. "I'm not privy to the great scheme. I observe, I consider, but I'm not always correct in my assumptions. And the gods don't give up their wisdom freely, and certainly not any wisdom that matters."

"Typical bosses," Veitch muttered. "Keep the menials in the dark."

"Actually," Tom said tartly, "they presume, rightly, that we wouldn't be able to handle the truth."

"How very patrician of them," Ruth replied, just as acidly.

They were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the door. When it finally swung open silently, they all caught their breath at the figure revealed: for a second, different faces seemed to flicker across him, some almost too terrible to behold, before one settled that was kind and thoughtful. It reminded Church of Oscar Wilde; Ruth of Einstein; Veitch of the only teacher who ever tried to help him. He was wearing long flowing robes that were grey and almost metallic in the way they caught the light.

His gaze took them all in in a second, but a broad smile formed when it fell upon Tom. "Thomas!" he said warmly, in a voice that didn't seem to come from his mouth.

Tom bowed his head deferentially. "Wise One. We come to ask your help in these difficult times."

"Difficult times indeed. You have heard my brothers and sisters are scattered to the wind?" Tom nodded gravely. "The Night Walkers, you know." A rumble of what seemed like hate formed deep in his throat. "Only a few of us evaded the Wish-Hex. I have since heard murmurings of an attempt to locate my brethren and return them to me."

Tom motioned to the others. "And here are the searchers, Wise One. They need to be restored if they are to complete their task."

"And you, Thomas. I see you too need my ministrations."

Tom nodded, looked away uncomfortably.

Ogma turned to Laura, who was cold and still in Church's arms, her breathing barely noticeable. Gently, he ran his fingers over her face. His expression grew a little darker. "Her light is weak. I do not know if there is aught I can do for her."

"Please try," Church pleaded.

"It was always said Dian Cecht could bring even the dead to life," Tom interceded.

"But I am not Dian Cecht. And healing is not simply knowledge." There was a brief pause while Ogma seemed to consider the matter. Then: "Come, bring her. I will see what I can do."

The place smelled of candle wax and limes. They trailed behind Ogma as he led them through an endless maze of chambers filled from floor to ceiling with leatherbound books, some half as big as Church and as thick as his thigh, manuscripts and papyri tied with red ribbon as if they were legal briefs. But when Shavi held back to sneak a peek at one of the books, they appeared to contain only a brilliant white light.

Finally, after what seemed to them like an hour, they reached a series of chambers that were filled with rough wooden furniture, which Church guessed were Ogma's personal rooms. He laid Laura on a low bed and stroked the hair from her forehead.

As his fingers touched her flesh, her eyes flickered open and focused on him briefly. "I don't want to die," she said weakly. There was a sheen of panic in her eyes.

"Do something," Church implored Ogma.

If the god heeded, it didn't register on his face. He opened a large cabinet in one corner which was filled with jars and phials of powders, liquids and dried herbs. He selected a few, then began to mix them with a mortar and pestle on a heavy oak table. After a few moments of introspection, he seemed satisfied with a thick, reddish-brown salve, which he smeared on Laura's lips. It remained there for only a second before it was rapidly absorbed.

"Will that work?" Church asked anxiously.

Ogma fixed his curious eyes on Church, like an adult looking at a child. "We wait. If she has it within her, her light will shine again."

Church had to turn away from her then, barely able to cope with the painful emotions flooding him after so many months of numbness.

Ogma seemed to comprehend what was going through his head, and after cursorily examining Veitch and Shavi from a distance, he said, "Your own light wavers. You must all rest. Use my chambers as your own. There is food and drink-" Tom started, but said nothing. Ogma noted his concern and added, "It is given freely, without obligation."

This seemed to satisfy Tom. After Ogma left them to explore his rooms, Veitch asked, "What was that all about?"

"Never take food or drink in Otherworld, from anyone, unless you have their promise that it is given freely and without obligation. Otherwise, when the first drop or crumb touches your lips, you fall under the control of whomever has given it."

Veitch looked to the other three, puzzled. "Is that right? Or is he bullshitting again?"

"In the old tales," Shavi began, "anyone who crossed over to Faeryland had to avoid eating the faery food or they'd fall under the spell of the Faerie Queen."

"So is that where we are? Faeryland?" Veitch said incredulously.

"Get a grip, Ryan," Church replied wearily. "Let's find somewhere to crash."

In a nearby chamber, they found a room filled with sumptuous cushions, the harsh stone walls disguised by intricate tapestries. On a low table in the centre was an array of bowls filled with apples and oranges, some berries, tomatoes, and a selection of dried, spiced meats. A jug of wine and four goblets stood nearby.

Relishing the chance to rest their exhausted bodies, they fell on to the cushions, which were so soft and warm it was like they were floating on air. It was a difficult choice between sleeping or assuaging their pangs of hunger, but in the end the subtle aromas of the food won out. Yet as they ate and drank, they discovered their tiredness sloughing off them, and by the time they had finished their meal they felt as fully rested as if they had slept for hours. It provoked an animated conversation for a while, but Church had other things on his mind.

"We got you here," he said to Tom. "Now you owe us some answers."

"What do you want to know?"

"For a start, how you know everything you do. Why you called this place home. Why Ogma seems to know you so well."

"And no lies," Veitch said.

Tom turned to him, eyes ablaze. "I have never lied. I may not have given all the facts, but no untruths have ever passed my lips. I cannot lie."

"What do you mean?" Church asked.

"What I say, as always. It is physically impossible for me to lie. One of the gifts bestowed upon me for my time in Otherworld." There was a note of bitterness in his voice.

Church's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

"I told you my name. Thomas Learmont. But you may also know me as Thomas the Rhymer."

Veitch looked from the confusion on Church's face to the others. "You bastards better keep me in the loop."

"Thomas the Rhymer," Church began cautiously, "was a real person who managed to cross over into mythology. He was a Scottish Nationalist during the war with England. In a way, he's like Scotland's answer to King Arthur-a mythical hero who was supposed to sleep under a hill-"

"Under this hill," Tom interrupted.

11 — until there was a time of great need, when he would return. That's what the old prophecies said. But he lived in the thirteenth century."

Witch looked at Tom. "Blimey, you've aged well."

"I lived at Earlston, a short ride from Melrose," Tom said. "We were an old family, quite wealthy, with land hereabouts, although my estate was eventually gifted to the Church by my son." The faint sadness in his face at the memory was amplified by the shadows cast by the flickering torches. "Unlike my father, who worked hard, I was always too much of a dreamer. I was an elegant singer and I spent many an hour lazing in the countryside composing new works, usually just ditties about the people I knew and the women I loved. There was one girl in particular. To seek true inspiration for a song about her I rode up into the Hills of Eildon, where I settled myself beneath a hawthorn tree with a view of what seemed like, at that time, the entire world. I chose to ignore the old wives' tales linked to the hawthorn, that it signified death, that its blossom represented rebirth." He sighed. "That it was the chosen tree of the Faerie Queen. But I had no idea that an entire world existed under the hill, like all the fools used to say about the faery mounds. But I was the true fool, wasn't I? They were simply misremembering old wisdom. I was ignoring it."

He took off his cracked glasses to clean them. Church searched his face for any sign that this was more dissembling, but he could only see honesty there.

"So the Faerie Queen got you?" Veitch asked; he was still having trouble grasping the truth of everything they had experienced. In numerous conversations he had exasperated Shavi with his apparent inability to see beneath the surface of the myths and legends.

"The Faerie Queen. The Great Goddess. Just names we give to attempt to understand something unknowable. She was terrible to behold. Terrible. When I looked at her I swore I was looking into the face of God. I loved her and hated her, couldn't begin to understand her. I let her take me apart and put me back together, let her put me through the most unimaginable torments, to sample the wonder that came off her. It was a time of the most incredible experiences, of pain and pleasure, of being given a vista deep into the mystery of existence." He blinked away tears and, for a second, Church thought he saw in his eyes something that looked disturbingly like madness. "I was like a dog looking up at his mistress," he added wistfully. "And I was a hostage who came to depend upon his captor."

"It sounds awful." Ruth placed a sympathetic hand on the back of his. "Is that how they see us-as playthings?"

Tom nodded. "In the main. Some are close to us and have grown closer through contact down the ages. Others could strip the meat from our bones and leave the remains in a pile without giving it a second thought. They see themselves as fluid, as a true part of the universe. We are just some kind of bacteria, with no significant abilities, no wisdom."

"Then how did you get out?" Ruth said.

He smiled coldly. "She took a liking to her pet. At times I felt like I was in Otherworld for just a night, at other times all that I experienced made it feel like centuries. In truth, seven years had passed when I was allowed to return. I wandered down from the hill, crazed and gibbering, and was eventually returned to my home to recuperate. It was only later I discovered how much she had changed me."

"What did she do?" Ruth's voice was hushed; the others watched Tom intently.

"During one of my torments I was given the power of prophecy and The Tongue That Cannot Lie." His laugh made them all uncomfortable. "In a world built on lies, that was bad enough. But being able to see into the future …" He shook his head, looked away.

"You know everything that's going to happen?" Church asked.

"Not at all. I see glimpses, images frozen as if they were seen from the window of a speeding car. That's how they see it. They know time isn't fixed."

"It must have been impossible for you to adjust," Ruth said.

He smiled sadly at her insight. "After all I'd been through, how could I begin to associate with my old friends and neighbours, my family? I tried. I married, and my wife bore me my son, Thomas. But I no longer felt a part of humanity. No one could begin to understand the thoughts in my head. I looked around me and saw simple people living simple lives, people ignorant of the universe. Savages. I'd moved beyond them, but I could never be a part of Otherworld. I'd lost everything. And I knew, in one terrible moment, that I was always meant to be alone."

There was power in the emotion of Tom's words. Church had never truly liked the man, certainly had never trusted him, but now he was overcome with respect; how many people could have survived all he had experienced?

"True Thomas, they called me!" Tom laughed; the others could barely look at him. "Still, I did my best. I became involved in politics, as an agent for the Scots against the English, but politics isn't a place for a man who cannot lie. I wasn't successful, to say the least, and as my failures mounted I discovered the Earl Of March was plotting to have me murdered."

Tom rummaged in his haversack for the tin containing his hash and made a joint with such laborious attention to detail that Church could tell it was merely to distract him from the full force of his memories. The others waited patiently until he had sucked in the fragrant smoke, then he continued.

"I fled into the Highlands briefly, eventually ending up at Callanish, and it was there I met one of the guardians of the old places and the old wisdom that stretched back to the days of the Celts."

"The people of the Bone Inspector?" Church asked.

Tom nodded. "It seemed we had much in common. He knew the true meaning of the hawthorn. After much pleading, and due in the main to my particular circumstances, he agreed to initiate me in the ancient natural knowledge that his people had practised in the sacred groves until the Romans had driven them out to become wanderers, hidden from the eyes of those who needed them."

He sighed and took another long, deep drag. "But it still didn't give me that sense of belonging which I so desperately needed. I was adrift in this world and eventually, as I knew in my heart I would, I wandered back to Otherworld. By then, of course, my patron had lost interest in me, but I was accorded some respect for my shaping at her hands, and for my singing voice and poetry, by many of the others in this place."

"But you still couldn't feel a part of it," Ruth said.

He nodded. "For nearly four hundred years in the world's time I attempted to find a place for myself, although it only seemed a handful of years here. But eventually I grew homesick and I realised that all my suffering had brought me one thing-my freedom. I could come and go as I pleased. Every now and then I would spend some time in our world, and when I got bored I would wander back."

"The best of all possible worlds," Church said.

"No. The worst."

"Is that how you got stuck in all that sixties stuff?" Witch nodded disrespectfully at Tom's hair and clothes.

"That period marked my longest time away from Otherworld. It was closest in thought and deed to how I felt inside me and I thoroughly enjoyed every moment of it."

Ruth put an arm around his shoulders. "Tom, you really are an old hippie. Peace, love and self-indulgence!"

"You could have told us all this before," Church said.

"I had to be sure I could trust you implicitly before I told you anything of significance. If I learned anything from my time as a spy, it was that knowledge is power, and I didn't want to have my true nature exposed and used against me too early in the game."

"And you're sure now?" Veitch said tartly. "That's a relief."

"What about the Fomorii and Balor?" Church asked. "Did they let you in on what was happening?"

Tom shook his head; a spasm of pain crossed his face. "It still will not let me talk about that." He rubbed at his nose furiously. "After Ogma has done what he can, perhaps."

With the final barrier of deceit removed, they felt they had been brought closer together. Perhaps it was the special qualities of the food and drink, or the sense of security offered by Ogma's library, but despite the pressures and secrets amongst them, they felt ready to face up to what lay ahead; their failures didn't seem so bad, their successes great in the face of monstrous odds. Church even ventured to say they had a chance.

While Tom smoked another joint and Veitch finished off the wine, Shavi decided to investigate the bookshelves again, although he seemed disturbed at what he had discovered before. Church slipped out quietly, and though he didn't say where he was going, they all knew he was checking on Laura. Ruth was sure in her heart she had more in common with him than Laura; that, if they allowed themselves, they could have the kind of relationship about which they both had dreamed.

These thoughts were preying on her as she wandered disconsolately through the chambers until, by chance, she entered a room where Ogma sat at a table, hunched over an enormous book. She was so deep inside herself she was halfway across the room before she saw him and by then it was too late to retreat. He raised his head and levelled his undecipherable gaze at her.

"You have the mark of one of the Golden Ones upon you," he said, although she was sure he hadn't glimpsed the design scorched into her palm.

She described her experiences with Cernunnos and he nodded thoughtfully as he listened. "The Wish-Hex caused great hardship for us all."

"Do you hate them?" she asked. "The Fomorii, I mean."

He raised his eyebrows curiously, as if he couldn't grasp her question. "The Fomorii are an infection to be eradicated." He seemed to think it was answer enough.

"If you don't mind me saying," Ruth continued, "you seem very different to Cernunnos or whatever his true name is. More approachable." But not much, she thought.

He thought about this for a moment, then said, "We are not of a kind. Some of us are very close to you, barely a shimmer of difference. Others are so far removed that they are like distant suns burning in the vast reaches of space. We have our own mythologies, our own codes, our own hierarchies. There are those we look up to and those we look down upon."

"You have a structured society like ours? But you're supposed to be gods, at least that's what the ancient people of my world thought."

He smiled. "Even the gods have gods. There is always something higher."

"Are you gods?"

He raised his open hands, but gave nothing away.

Church watched Laura for a while, but could tell nothing from her face. The only relief he felt was that at last he had some time alone to deal with the mess he felt inside. It was as if the moment he had reached out to touch Laura's back at Manorbier, his emotions had split open like a ripe peach. He didn't know how to deal with any of them; every single thought and sensation was almost unbearable. He fumbled anxiously with Marianne's locket, but it seemed to have lost its magic; nothing could calm him.

Worse, he still couldn't shake off the sensation of cold which seemed to be eating into his marrow. There was a thin coating of frost on the Black Rose which he constantly dusted away, only to see it replaced every time he secretly inspected it. He wondered if the rose itself were actually the cause of the iciness, but he didn't seem able to let himself consider that too deeply. He certainly couldn't bring himself to throw the flower away,

About an hour later, Ogma was ready to deal with Tom. They gathered in a room that was bare, apart from a sturdy oaken table and a small desk on which lay a range of shining silver instruments of indefinable use; Church was instantly reminded of Calatin's torture rack. While Tom climbed on to the table, apparently unafraid of what lay ahead, the others gathered in one corner to watch the proceedings.

"How's Laura?" Ruth whispered to Church.

His weary head shake told her all she needed to know. She didn't probe further, but deep down she wondered how the five Brothers and Sisters of Dragons would fare if one of them were missing.

Ogma applied some thick, white salve to Tom's lips and while it didn't knock him out, it must have anaesthetised his nerve endings, for a second later the god began to slice into Tom's temple with a long, cruel knife; Tom didn't flinch at all, but Ruth closed her eyes.

The salve must have done something to the blood flow too, for despite the depth of the incision, there was little bleeding. Ogma followed in with a handpowered drill which ground slowly into Tom's skull as the god rotated the handle; all the time Tom's eyes flickered as he stared implacably at the vaulted ceiling.

But then, as the judder of Ogma's hand showed the drill had broken through, a transformation came over Tom: his eyes appeared to fill with blood and his face contorted into an expression of such primal rage it made him unrecognisable. The salve had worked its power on his body too, for it was obvious he couldn't move his arms and legs, but he opened his mouth to yell and scream in the hideous Fomorii language. Ogma ignored him, but it was so disturbing to see that the others had to look away and even Veitch blanched.

Then, as they looked back, they saw the strangest thing. The drill hole must only have been a pencil-width, but somehow Ogma seemed to work the tips of two fingers in there, then three, then four, and then his entire hand was sliding into the side of Tom's forehead. Tom shrieked and raged impotently, but Ogma simply laid his other hand on his head to hold it still. Finally his hand was immersed right up to his forearm before he began to withdraw it.

Church winced; Ruth gagged and covered her mouth with her hand; Veitch and Shavi were transfixed.

And then, with a twist of his wrist, Ogma's hand came free. Clutched in his now-stained fingers was a wriggling thing which looked like a human organ, slick with blood and pulsating. But worst of all was that the shriek that had been coming from Tom's mouth was now emanating from the Caraprix. The cry soared higher and higher and they had to cover their ears to protect themselves. When it reached its climax, the thing began to mutate. At first it started taking on the hard form of a weapon, then something furry with needle teeth, but before it could fix its shape, Ogma dropped it on to the table and brought his enormous fist down on it hard. It burst like a balloon filled with blood.

In the silence that followed the insane shrieking, the room seemed to hang still; then Ruth turned away, coughing, and the others muttered various epithets of disgust.

Ogma turned to them. "It is done," he said redundantly. "True Thomas will recover apace. The Caraprix is a parasite, but it causes no permanent damage to its victim."

"They're hideous!" Ruth said, still refusing to look at the splattered mess on the table.

Ogma seemed uncomfortable at this. "The Danann have their own Caraprix," Tom interjected. He levered himself up from the table with remarkable sprightliness after what he had just been through; the hole in his head had already healed.

Ogma removed a clasp from his robes, which transformed itself into a shape like an egg with tendrils, glowing bright white. "Tools, weapons, faithful companions," he said.

Church eyed it suspiciously for a second, then helped Tom to his feet, although he didn't appear to need it. "We have much to do," Tom said with a vigour Church recognised from the first time they had met. "A brief rest, a talk about what lies ahead, and then we must be away, for Beltane is now too close for any more delays."

After the operation, Ogma had lost himself among the chambers, leaving them free to talk and plan. They gathered in a dark, echoing room which resembled a baronial hall. At one end a log fire blazed in a fireplace so big Church could easily have walked into it, and collected before it were several sturdy wooden chairs with studded leather seats and backs. For some reason, no torches burnt in that room so they pulled the chairs up closer to the fire.

Tom had centre stage, his newly repaired glasses glinting in the firelight, his eyes merely pits of shadow. "I'll answer all your questions as best I can," he said, "but I caution you that I don't know all." He took a sip of wine from a goblet rescued from the dining room.

"Tell us what you know about the Bastards," Veitch said; it was how he had taken to describing the Fomorii.

Tom nodded. "Some said their forefather was Ham, who was cursed by Noah, and that curse transformed every descendant into a misshapen monster. Others claimed they were born in the all-encompassing darkness before the universe began." The fire cracked, spurting a shower of sparks up the chimney, and they all jumped. The shadows at their backs seemed uncomfortable and claustrophobic. "They were led by Balor, the one-eyed god of death," Tom continued, and for a second his voice wavered. Church looked round suddenly; he had the unnerving feeling someone was standing just behind his chair.

"Balor." Shavi shifted uncomfortably. "That is the name I heard in my trance."

"The embodiment of evil," Tom continued. "Born of filth and corruption. So terrible that whoever he turned his one eye upon was destroyed."

The room grew still; even the crackling of the fire seemed to retreat.

"In the first times, Balor led the Night Walkers across the land and all fell before them. After that we have only the myths to enable us to understand what happened. Before the Fomorii invasion, the Tuatha De Danann were led by Nuada, known as Nudd, known as Nuada Airgetlamh-Nuada of the Silver Arm-for the replacement created by Dian Cecht he wore for the hand he lost in the first battle of Magh Tuireadh. But because of his disability, the Danann deemed him not fit to lead them against the Fomorii and he was replaced by Breas, who was renowned for his great beauty.

"Except Breas was half-Fomorian and he allowed the Night Walkers to terrorise the land and enslave the Danann. Dian Cecht grew Nuada a new hand and he regained his position, but by then it was too late-he couldn't break the grip of the Fomorii.

"All seemed lost until Lugh presented himself to Nuada at Tara. Lugh, the god of the Sun, known as Lleu, or Lug, or Lugos, was a young, handsome warrior, but he, too, was part-Fomorii. Indeed, his grandfather was Bator. Lugh rallied the Danann and they rose against the Fomorii. All hung in the balance until the two sides faced each other at the second battle of Magh Tuireadh. It seemed that once again the battle would go the way of the Fomorii. But then Lugh, with the spear you recovered in Wales, fought his way through the lines and plunged it into Bator's eye. The Dark God was slain instantly and the Fomorii fell apart." He sipped at the wine thoughtfully. "Yes, Bator is a terrible threat. But the Danann who helped defeat him still exist, locked in the place where the Wish-Hex banished them."

"Then there is hope," Church said.

"Is that how their original war really happened?" Ruth asked.

Tom shrugged. "The Danann will no longer discuss that time. It was a period of great upheaval for them. At least now we know what the Fomorii are trying to do." Veitch looked at him blankly. "The truth was there in Shavi's vision, and Calatin confirmed it. They are attempting to bring back Balor."

"How can they do that if he was destroyed?" Ruth asked apprehensively.

"The yellow drums you saw at the depot in Salisbury and which we found in vast quantities in the mine in Cornwall are the key."

Ruth cast her mind back. "That black gunge inside them-"

"A foul concoction distilled at one of the Fomorii warrens like the tower you saw being constructed in the Lake District. It will be the medium for the Dark God's rebirth."

"Then that's why they haven't moved on the cities yet. They're waiting for Bator to lead them," Veitch said.

The logs cracked and sputtered, but their thoughts were so leaden they barely registered it.

"Only the Tuatha De Danann could stand up to something like Balor," Church said eventually.

"But take heed too. The Danann are not overtly predatory, nor do they act with malice unless provoked. But they have their own agenda and if we get in their way we will be destroyed without a second thought," Tom warned.

"I thought they were angels," Ruth said sadly.

"At times they look like angels. Perhaps they were responsible for our myths of angels. But they are so complex in thought and deed, so unknowable in every aspect, good is too simplistic a concept."

They were suddenly disturbed by a movement in the dark behind them. Veitch jumped to his feet, bristling alert, but the others watched cautiously as two figures emerged from the shadows.

"You never get treatment like this on the NHS." Laura was walking with only the faintest sign of weakness, smiling apprehensively; everything about her body language suggested defensiveness, and the reason was plain to see. The patch of bandages had been removed from her face, revealing the mess Callow had made. Although the wounds appeared to have miraculously healed, the pink scars were still evident against her pale skin.

Ogma laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. "She is strong of spirit. My attempts at healing merely gave her respite to fight back herself."

She raised a hand to her face. "Just let me know when you're opening the cosmetic surgery ward."

She seemed afraid to come into the circle of light, so the others went to her. Shavi hugged her warmly and Veitch attempted to do the same, but she kept his show of emotion at arm's length. Tom's nod of support was restrained, but left her in no doubt of his feelings, while Ruth circled her before she gave in to her feelings as much as she could and clapped her on the arm.

And then Laura turned to Church, searching his face for any response to her scarring. She seemed pleased by what she saw.

"We were worried you might not be along for the last leg of this great road trip," Church said, smiling.

"Somebody's got to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don't slip back into your moody, maudlin ways."

They held each other's eyes for a moment, then shifted uncomfortably and moved away without any physical contact.

Ogma led them to a series of interconnecting chambers where he offered them beds for the night. After their conversation with Tom, they were all convinced they wouldn't sleep a wink, but within ten minutes most of them were resting peacefully.

For Church the thoughts and emotions were crashing around his head too turbulently and he lay with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, trying to put them in order. When he heard Laura's whisper at the open door soon after, everything else was swept away in an instant.

"I couldn't sleep." She snorted contemptuously. "I'm getting good with the cliches. It's like some cheap romance novel." The analogy seemed to surprise her, and then made her feel uneasy, but she sat on the edge of his bed nonetheless. She thought for a moment, then put a hand on his chest. He slid his own on the top of hers and she instantly folded against him, nestling into the undulations of his body, resting her face against his neck. "Don't worry," she said. "I'm not going to say anything pathetic."

"Then that's up to me." His words seemed to float in the dark. "I'm glad you're here."

They held each other for a moment longer and then they turned to each other and kissed; there were so many complex emotions tied up in that simple act-affection and passion, guilt and loss, loneliness and fear-that they were both afraid it would swallow them up. Then the desperation that knotted them up faded for the first time in years, leaving a sense of simple contentment they had both convinced themselves they would never feel again.

They awoke wrapped together several hours later, although in Ogma's library it was almost impossible to mark any passage of time. Laura hurried back to her room before the others discovered them, but the glance she gave him at the door was enough to show a bond had been forged.

They gathered for a breakfast of bread, fruit and milk in the dining chamber where they were all, once more, astonished by how rested they felt.

"You promised to tell us what we need to do next," Church said to Tom as they finished up the last of the food.

Tom wiped the milk from his mouth and replied, "The power of the talismans will act as a beacon for the Danann once they have been brought into contact with another sacred item which has been used as an article of communication with the gods for generations."

"What, there's a big searchlight somewhere that shines the shape of a sword on the clouds?" Laura sniggered. "Or is there a god-phone with a direct link-"

"In Dunvegan Castle on the Isle of Skye is the Fairy Flag, the Bratach Sith," Tom said. "It has the power we need."

"If we drive hard we could reach it in a day," Shavi said.

Witch clapped his hands. "Then we can wrap it up and be down the boozer for last orders!"

"You think the Fomorii aren't going to try to stop us?" Ruth asked caustically. "It would be a big mistake to think it's all going to be plain sailing from here. They'll probably throw everything but the kitchen sink at us to stop us."

"Ruth's right," Church said. "It's been tough so far, but this could be the worst part."

They gathered up their things and Ogma led them through the maze of chambers to the entrance. They thanked him profusely for his hospitality and his aid for Tom and Laura, but it was so hard to read his emotions they felt uneasy and headed hastily back to the path up the mountainside.

Tom hung back on the steps of the porch to offer his private thanks to Ogma. Together they watched the others walking away, chatting and bickering.

Ruth's owl appeared suddenly from somewhere above their heads and swooped down until it was hovering a few feet away. Ogma spoke to it in a strange, keening voice.

"What is that?" Tom asked.

"A friend. An aide on your mission."

The bird soared once over their heads, then shot up into the sky. Ogma watched it disappear into the clouds, then turned his attention back to the others as they made their way up the mountainside.

"You see clearly, True Thomas?" Ogma asked.

Tom nodded, his face suddenly dark and sad. "We're going to hell and we won't all be coming back. How do I tell them that?"

"You offer the truth selectively, Thomas, as you always have." For a second his eyes seemed to burn with fire, then he turned and went back to his books without another word.

Tom stood on the steps a moment longer, struggling to damp down the simmering emotions that threatened to consume him. Once he had regained his equilibrium, he hurried after the others, fervently wishing he had died the day before he had fallen asleep under that hawthorn tree.