Always Forever (37 page)

At intermittent points, crumbling flint walls protruded like ghostly fingers
from the bank, while gnarled roots snaked out of the ground, threatening to trip
him. He kept his eyes down, his ears alert and walked slowly; the last thing he
needed was a broken ankle.

The first sign that something was wrong was a wall of cold wind that came
from nowhere, raising goosebumps on his arms before continuing along the
ditch behind him. It was starkly unnatural the way it clung to the bottom of the
trough; the vegetation on either side never moved and the trees that hung overhead were still. Even when he could hear its whispering disappearing far behind
him, the goosebumps remained. It felt like a sign delineating a change, as if
something profound had shifted in nature itself; the old time had gone, the new
time was near.

He found it disconcertingly eerie there in the darkness of the ditch, where
the banks were so steep his only way of escape was forward or back. The place
was intensely still and each footstep sounded like the crack of a whip. Perhaps
it was the odd acoustics of the place, but no sound came from outside the ditch,
not even the cries of owls. An unpleasant loneliness hung over all.

Veitch started having second thoughts about his choice of route, but it was
too late to go back. His bravery took a further knock when he heard a long, low
noise; he couldn't tell if it came from ahead or behind, nor what kind of animal
had made it. After the heavy silence, it was deeply unnerving. It rolled along the
bottom of the ditch as the wind had done, suggesting something akin to the whinnying snort of a horse, but different enough to raise the hairs on the back
of his neck.

He turned slowly, full circle, trying to pinpoint the location, while his mind
raced to plan a course of action.

Just a horse, he told himself. The place used to be famous for horse breeding
and racing; that was the rational explanation. But he couldn't forget the story
Tom had told him about the Night Rider.

It's coming. The words jumped into his mind unprompted.

Just ahead of him, the left bank was cut through with a path that ran down
the slope of the hill. Hurrying up it to get a better view, Witch saw only thick
vegetation and open fields ahead; nowhere to hide if he was pursued. His best
bet was still to get to the house and bar the door; suddenly Robertson's superstitions made a lot more sense.

Back on the floor of the ditch, the silence had returned, now weighted with
anticipation. The familiar pressure drop that always accompanied some unnatural event left his ears humming, and he could taste iron at the back of his
mouth. Almost loping, he moved forward, trying to avoid any twig or stone that
might give his location away.

A hard, clicking sound brought him up sharp: hoofbeats, slow and measured; just a few and then silence, as if whatever was out there was also advancing
and listening. It was still impossible to identify the location. The clack-clackclack appeared to circle him, loud and crystal clear in the stillness. Cautiously,
Veitch withdrew his crossbow and carefully fitted a bolt. The dark would make
it hard to get a clear shot, but he felt more comfortable being able to launch an
attack from afar.

Clack-clack-clack. This time he was sure it was behind him. Witch peered
into the gloom, waiting for the sound to stop. Only this time it didn't. The
horse was coming towards him at a measured but relentless pace. Now he was
convinced it was ahead of him. He turned back, raising the crossbow until it was
lined up for anything advancing along the ditch.

Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack.

He continued to wait for the dark to peel back, until, with a sudden frisson,
he realised the sound wasn't ahead of him at all. He spun round to see a creamy
cloud filled with sparkling stars twisting and turning as it hurtled along the
path right at him. A buzzing like a swarm of angry bees filled the air, setting
his teeth on edge.

Expecting a horse, the sight caught him unawares. The cloud rushed
towards him at great speed, then, just as he decided to loose a bolt, it winked
out; the disembodied hoofbeats continued thunderously.

Veitch paused for a split second before his instinct kicked in, then he was
sprinting along the bottom of the ditch, not sure if he could outrun it, knowing
there was no other way out.

Twisted roots threatened to trip him before retreating back into the
shadows, but his reactions were electric fast. Behind him the storm clatter of
hooves grew louder and louder, matching the beats of his heart. Twenty feet
away, then ten, then at his heels.

From out of the dark, an obstacle rushed at him: a pile of hard earth forming
a bridge path between the two banks piled as high as his head. He went up it
with what felt like snorts of fire burning the back of his neck, threw himself
down the other side and rolled into a ball. A large form tore over his head and
landed with a heavy crash before pounding on for several yards. Looking up, he
saw a shimmering in the air like malleable glass rein itself to a halt, then whirl
round, catching the light with pools and glints. The limning of moonlight
indeed suggested a horse with a bulky figure on its back before it was lost to the
dark. The hooves began to pound once more, building up speed.

Veitch waited until the last moment before throwing himself back over the
bridge path to perform the same manoeuvre. Again his pursuer passed overhead.
This time he launched himself to gain a few vital yards before the Night Rider
could round.

As the horse rattled down on him, he whirled and rolled, loosing a bolt in
the same motion. A second later a tear of fire appeared in thin air, followed by a
cry like a metal crate being dragged on a concrete floor.

He had no time to discover how much damage he had wrought, for the
sound continued to bear down on him. He threw himself to one side at the last
moment, but it was not quite far enough. His jacket and shirt tore open, his
flesh mysteriously burst as a raw red line rushed up towards his neck. He just
had time to jerk his head before the invisible blade could rip through his
jugular, and then he was rolling backwards against the bank, his shirt growing
hot and wet.

The pain sharpened his thoughts. When he moved, the rest of the world felt
like it was frozen; he was scrambling to one side, rolling, ignoring the pain,
reloading the crossbow, readjusting the balance of his body like a machine.

He landed on the balls of his feet, poised to attack, but though his eyes and
ears were charged to pick up even the slightest sound of his attacker, there was
nothing. The bottom of the ditch was still; even the faintest hoofbeat would have
sounded out loud. Not even a hint of movement, the barest shift in air currents.

His blood thundered in his head. Where had it gone? He turned slowly, but
the thing really had disappeared. Perhaps the bolt had caused some damage.

He waited for a few seconds longer, just to be sure, and then set off at a slow
lope around the ditch. He was under no illusion that the Night Rider had gone
for good, but its absence might just provide him with the time to find a route
to the house.

His feet padded on the hard-packed mud as he ran, his breath ragged; the
night air was chill and fragrant. Every sensation was heightened. The enveloping
trees that made the ditch feel like a tunnel instilled an oppressive claustrophobia
in him; he was trapped, like an animal. The thought brought a burst of adrenalin
and he threw himself up the side of the ditch, feeling the thorns of the brambles
tear at his flesh, the nettles stabbing with their poison needles. Somehow he made
it to the top, but the trees there were impenetrable, and beyond them the brick
garden wall was too tall to climb. He still tried to force his way through, but the
trees acted as if they were alive, forcing him back until he was slipping down the
slope to land on his back at the bottom of the ditch once more.

As he lay there while his breath subsided, tremors ran through the ground
into his bones: rhythmic, powerful. He was up in an instant, running once more.
This time, when he actually heard the hoofbeats, it was almost hallucinogenic;
they faded in and out of his hearing, the rider here, then not here. And then they
disappeared completely again, leaving only silence.

A moment of clarity overwhelmed him. Tom had spoken of liminal zones
where the boundaries between this world and T'ir n'a n'Og were blurred. The
camp must be such a place, he realised, and the Rider was shifting in and out of
the worlds as it pursued him.

Veitch whirled, crossbow at the ready. His nerve endings prickled as he
slowly surveyed the scene. His pursuer could be anywhere. How did it make
itself invisible? Or was that its natural state? Yet he knew now what he had to
do: attack at the moment it was fully in this world, when-he hoped-it would
be most vulnerable.

Another low whinny drifted along the ditch. It sounded unimaginably distant, but it brought back the gooseflesh. And then, as it wound its way through
the undergrowth on the ditch banks, it began to change; slowly at first, but definitely, losing its equine characteristics. The sound became shorter, broke up into
linked sounds; became words.

That eerie noise made the snake around Veitch's spine pull the coils in
tighter. "What the hell is that?" he hissed.

He was already moving when the words rattled around him like pebbles on
a frozen lake, devoid of emotion, but threatening. "Run fast, run fast, at your
back."

They were barely audible, could almost have been the distant echoes of hoofbeats, but the chill they brought to his blood drove him on. Faster and
faster still, with the rumble of pursuit building behind him. He glanced over
his shoulder as he hurdled a twisted mass of root: nothing yet. The words were
all around him, some indecipherable, hidden in the snort of a horse, others
barely registering on his consciousness, but disturbing him nonetheless.

As he rounded the curve of the ditch, running faster than he ever had in his
life, an arching shape loomed up out of the night. The mass of trees had thinned
out and the light of the moon revealed a brick bridge across the ditch. He was
sure he would be able to scramble up the side to get to it and then it would be
only a short sprint to the house. With the thunder of hooves almost at his heels,
the sight gave him enough of a filip to drive himself that little bit harder.

But just as he thought he would make it, his foot caught one of the roots
that had threatened to trip him ever since he had ventured down there. He hit
the ground so hard all the air was driven out of his lungs; the pain in his chest
felt like someone had swung a hammer there. At first he was stunned, but then
his mind scrambled in panic. It was too late.

He looked back and was briefly hypnotised by the strangest thing: little
flames, like will o' the wisps, alighted at ground level, drawing towards him. It
took him a second to realise what it was: invisible hooves striking the flints that
were scattered across the ditch.

The moment locked. He wondered what it would be like to be trampled to
death; wondered if anyone would mourn him.

And then he was transfixed by something else. As the little flames closed on
him, the air above shimmered and began to peel back. It looked to him like the
Night Rider was shedding his skin: at first there was nothing, then the translucent glassy substance, until that slipped away to reveal the true form of his pursuer, or as true a form as his perceptions would allow. The first shock was that
the picture he had created in his head was so wrong: this was no mediaeval
knight with a broadsword or a lance on a black charger. There wasn't even a man
and a horse. What bore down on him in a rage of clattering hooves was both
man and horse, the two forms constantly flowing together, never staying the
same for too long. A head that had the flowing hair of an Iron Age warrior,
becoming a wild mane, the face growing longer, nostrils flaring, blasting clouds
of steam in the chill night; two legs, then four, then two again. It wasn't like a
classical centaur, but was half formed, or still forming, or never quite forming;
continually halfway between the two in the same way that the sounds had
appeared to be coming halfway between here and there.

The intoxicating shock was riven out by a burst of blood in Veitch's brain.
Suddenly he was ready to move. He tried to fling himself to one side, but even as he was moving, the futility of it was strangling his thoughts. The Night
Rider was on him, rising up, iron-shod hooves glinting in the moonlight. One
of them caught Veitch on the temple, knocking him back to the ground where
stars flew briefly.

When they cleared, all he could see was the creature's terrible face framed
against the night sky. It was filled with all the fury of the animal kingdom, wild
and unfocused, the eyes ruddy and smoky as they branded him. Its musk was
thick and choking, blanking out all his senses, yet behind it all Witch sensed
something resolutely human; once a man, and now greater than a man.

"I ride the courses between the worlds." Those stony words again; Veitch
wanted to cover his ears at the unbearable force of them. Everything about the
thing was so vital. "I am the power and the fecundity of the stallion, the speed
and the strength. Worlds are dashed beneath my feet."

Veitch snatched his head away as the Night Rider brought a hoof down
sharply. It slammed the ground an inch from his ear, jolting his head upwards
so powerfully he knew his skull would have been crushed if contact had been
made. With the next blow, sparks burned his cheek. He was trapped beneath the
body of the creature, with no way of wriggling free.

"This sacred place belongs to the Machan who made me. Totem of Rig
Antona, our Great High Queen, who made the sky and the stars and the green
grass on which we run." The words reminded Veitch of a recorded announcement programmed to be delivered to intruders in the earliest of days. "In this
place, where the barrier is thin, the wild, untamed spirits of the horse gallop to
the Grey Lands and back."