Always Forever (38 page)

Another hoof came down in punctuation, this time clipping Witch's
shoulder; a bolt of pain shot down his arm.

"No one but the Machan may ride here betwixt sunset and sunrise. That is
the law." The horse had human features, but the Night Rider's face was now
wholly that of a demonic horse with blazing red eyes, an alien conqueror who
would brook no trespass on his domain. Veitch felt swallowed up by that scarlet
glow, forced to accept his place in the scheme of things. You are nothing, it said.
Insignificant in the face of a higher power. You will obey, and you will die.

It meant nothing to Veitch. As the Night Rider rose up high, its hooves
tearing at the air ready for the killing blow, Veitch brought the crossbow up and
loosed a bolt directly into the creature's belly. That unmistakable metal-onconcrete roar erupted from its wildly shifting face as it threw itself into a furious
downward drive at Veitch's head.

But the bolt had unbalanced it. In a sinuous movement, Veitch pulled out
the short sword from his belt and drove it upwards at the same time as he kicked himself backwards. The sword ripped into the belly and tore upwards. "Nothing
scares me any more," Veitch growled defiantly.

He was too busy doing a backward roll to see the results of his attack, but
he could hear the Night Rider's hideous cries. And then he was sprinting for the
bridge, scrambling up the bank at the side of it, his feet slipping on the weeds,
but gaining enough purchase to propel himself to the top.

Only when he was on the bridge did he allow himself a glance back. There
was neither blood nor intestines, but the Rider was lurching from side to side
in obvious discomfort, his head held back, roaring his pain to the night. Once
his gaze fell on Veitch, the face changed once more to the demonic horse's head
and, with the eyes shining like red lanterns, the Rider overcame his agony to
spur himself into pursuit.

Veitch paused to give him the finger, then flipped over the wall of the
bridge and landed on the Tarmac path that curved around the trees into the flat
summit of the hill. Nearly there, he thought breathlessly, energised by his escape
and his defiance. For a moment he felt indestructible, until he heard the Night
Rider thunder effortlessly up the side of the ditch and the hooves clatter on the
Tarmac surface.

Veitch weighed up the prospects of loosing some more bolts, but he estimated the effect would be negligible. It was now all down to his fitness and his
energy reserves. He followed the curve of the path until he saw the lawns laid
out before him, silver-grey in the moonlight with the dry dew pond at the
centre. Before him the dark bulk of the house loomed up. The comforting
golden glow of candlelight illuminated a square on the courtyard from the
window of Robertson's quarters.

Behind, the rumble of hooves came on like a runaway train.

I can make it, Veitch told himself.

He ran as if caught by the north wind, hurdling the small fence and
pounding across the courtyard. The hooves grew closer, only yards now. He
couldn't outrun a horse, but the house was close enough to reach before it got to
him. Past the stable block with its silent ghosts of horses past. Their energy was
everywhere, he thought.

Now he could hear the beast's breath, explosive bursts punctuated by the
gnashing of its teeth. He waited for the hot bloom of it on the back of his neck.

He slammed into the door, sending the panes ringing in their frames. Fumbling around, he caught the handle and yanked. Locked.

"Robertson!" His throat was torn by the yell.

Robertson appeared at the window, his face pale and desperate. Veitch was
already reading the signs, recalling the man's nature. "Come on, you bastard," he said under his breath. The sound of hooves was deafening; Veitch forced himself
not to look. As Robertson took in the situation in a glance, an expression of revelation crossed his face; and the revelation was that the world was the hell he had
always imagined, where reason didn't exist and superstition crushed lives at
random. He backed away rapidly, waving his hands in front of him.

From behind, there was a hiss like escaping steam, loaded with a note of
triumph.

Veitch cursed under his breath and turned, the house heavy at his back, the
enclosing walls of the courtyard too oppressive; nowhere to run.

The Night Rider had slowed his speed, revelling in the cornering of his
prey. In the candlelight, Veitch could make out more details of his pursuer. The
rider's legs went directly into the body of the horse, not just fused there, but
utilising the same muscular and vascular system. The rider's arms disappeared
into the mane, the horse hair wrapping round, becoming part of the human
flesh; and still the features on both the heads were hideously changing places.

Nowhere to run.

The rider came to a halt. Slowly one hoof dragged along the ground, raising
sparks. The head at the front lowered, the rider leaned forward.

Still a chance to move, Veitch told himself optimistically. Don't give up. Never
give up.

Before he could break away from the door, a voice boomed across the courtyard. The tone and volume made Veitch jump in shock. It was in a language he
didn't comprehend, but the words-if that was what they were-made his ears
hurt just by hearing them.

It had an effect on the Rider too; he paused as he prepared for the charge,
cantered round, backed off. Veitch noted the mutating appearance had speeded
up; the features were now just a blur, suggesting uneasiness.

For a time the whole of the world hung in abeyance. With his heart in his
mouth, Veitch saw movement in the shadows surrounding the stable block.
Whatever had spoken was there. Veitch wanted to flee to a secure hiding place
immediately, but the figure was now emerging from the gloom. The Night
Rider, too, appeared to be waiting with something like apprehension.

When the figure stepped into the moonlight, Veitch was shocked to see it
was Tom. He was staggering a little, as if exhausted, but the most curious detail
was that he was smoking, as if he had been singed by a blaze. The Rider focused
all his attention on the slight figure. When Tom was ten feet away he made a
strange hand movement which appeared to involve another set of joints in the
wrist. It was followed by another word; Tom whispered it, but it crashed like
the peal of cathedral bells.

The Rider responded as if chastened by a whip. The front of the horse
bowed down, bending its front legs until its head was almost on the ground.
The Rider followed suit with a similar act of deference. Then it rose back up
and, without a second glance at Veitch, calmly cantered off.

Veitch remained tense for a few seconds, barely believing what he was
seeing, but then his shoulders relaxed and he turned to Tom with a broad grin.
"You old bastard! Like the bleedin' cavalry!"

Tom marched over and stabbed a finger into Veitch's face. "I thought I told
you to get off the hill at nightfall!"

Veitch's expression soured. "Since when did I do what you say, you senile old
bastard?" The adrenalin still pumped deliriously around his system. "Hang on
a minute." He turned and launched a hefty kick at the door, which burst off its
hinges, shattering all the panes at once.

Tom recognised the expression on Veitch's face, the consuming rage that he
carried with him at all times. "Now, steady on-"

Veitch had already marched inside. There was a loud crashing within and a
moment later he emerged, dragging a writhing Robertson behind him. The
squatter was almost insane with fear, his eyes rolling, his jaw sagging.

"Ryan! He's scared!"

"Yeah? Well, here's something to be scared of." He thumped Robertson so
hard on the side of the head, Tom was afraid his neck had snapped. He slumped
to the ground in a stupor.

It took fifteen minutes before Veitch had calmed enough to have a reasonable
conversation with Tom. Robertson had scurried back indoors, barricading the
doorway with furniture. Even then Veitch couldn't sit and spent the time pacing
in circles around Tom, who sat cross-legged, drawing on a joint, unable to hide
the shake in his hands.

"What was that thing?" Veitch asked.

"This place has been linked to horses much longer than the racing fraternity
realised. Back in the earliest times, it was dedicated to Epona. Her name derives
from the Celtic word for horse and she was one of the greatest goddesses of the
Celts. All riders-warriors, travellers, whoever-bowed their head to Epona. In
Wales, she was known as Rhiannon, in Ireland Etain or Macha." Tom let the
smoke drift into the wind. "She was the patron of journeys, particularly the most
important journey of all: from this life to the next. She was usually pictured carrying a key that unlocked the door to Otherworld."

"Yeah? Then it ties into this place. The doorway to the Land of the Dead,
and all that."

"Yes. Amazing how it all fits together." Veitch didn't appear to notice the
sarcasm in Tom's voice; he was lost in his own childlike amazement. "The Night
Rider was her avatar. Once he was probably a man like you or me, perhaps a man
who even lived at this site. But at some point he became infused with the essence
of Epona, became, in a way, the totem he worshipped. And so he eternally guards
this sacred spot were she canters back and forth between the worlds."

"Horses." Veitch kicked a stray stone across the yard. "Don't see the bleedin'
attraction. Smelly animals."

"Horse worship persisted from the earliest times of the nomadic people in
this land. To them, the horse was a symbol of fertility, energy and power."
Dreamily, Tom nodded his head to some inner soundtrack. "Worshipping is
wishing by any other name, and if you wish hard enough you can create something from nothing." Words from another world came back to him.

"What's that, then? You're saying all those folk gave her the powers. Made
her. She's one of the Danann bastards, right?"

"Yes and yes and yes, and no and no and no."

"Oh, shut the fuck up. I'm not going to talk to you any more when you're
smoking." He marched irritatedly into Robertson's apartment.

The chill before dawn brought a deep ache to their bones. They sat on a bench,
watching the moon scud across the heavens, the sky slowly turn from midnight
blue to pink and gold, the grass growing from grey to green. An affecting peace
lay over everything. When the birds came alive in the trees that ringed the
lawned area, Veitch turned to Tom and smiled. "It'll be all right, you know."

Tom nodded noncommittally.

"What happened? You know, when you met the giant?"

Tom considered how to put the experience into words, then simply shook
his head. "That's a story for another time. All you need to know now is you've
got the necessary permission to bring Shavi back."

The sun came up soon after. The diffuse golden light glimmered through
the branches, eventually making its way across the lawn until it reached the dew
pond. At first nothing happened, but when the light was just right they could
make out a shimmering image of Shavi's body lying in a flower-bedecked bower.
It was insubstantial, fading in and out like a poor hologram. He appeared to be
sleeping; only the stark paleness of his skin gave a clue to his true state.

Tom thought he saw the glint of tears in Veitch's eyes, but the Londoner
looked away before he could be sure.

"We better do it," Veitch said solemnly.

"Are you sure? This is your last chance to back out."

"Yes."

"You understand where you're going? What lies ahead? What it could do to
your mind? You know you might not be coming back?"

Veitch fixed a cold eye on him. "Just get on with it."

A pang of guilt clutched at Tom's heart. He knew what lay ahead, and he
knew Veitch could not even begin to guess the extent of the horrors that lurked
in the Grim Lands. How could he send the man to face that? But even as he
thought it, he knew he had no choice; only Veitch stood a chance of bringing
Shavi back. And therein lay the tragedy.

On the edge of the dew pond, Tom knelt down and kissed the damp grass.
When he stood back up, he had composed himself. "Are you ready?"

"Bring it on," Veitch replied in a cod-American accent.

Tom closed his eyes and attempted to access the knowledge GogMagog had
implanted there. He had already used the secret words of power to dismiss the
guardian. Now there was one remaining: the key to the door. He couldn't reach
it in his memory by normal means. He simply made a space, and then it leapt
into it. He didn't remember speaking, but when he opened his eyes, Veitch was
clutching his ears and grimacing.

There was a sound like a jammed door being wrenched open and the air over
the dew pond peeled back. Through it Tom could see thick grey fog, swirling
in the wind.

Veitch made to say something, but couldn't find the words. Instead, he
grinned, winked and then launched himself through the hole in the air. The
wrenching noise echoed again as the door closed, leaving Tom alone to stare at
the fading visage of Shavi.

is time." Church tried to sound more confident than he felt, but Ruth was
not about to be fooled.