Always Forever (40 page)

"Yes, I know my responsibility and I've accepted it. But once I've done all
I can do, that's it. No more Fabulous Beasts, no more waking the sleeping king and
all that Arthurian shit, no more Blue Fire. I'm getting my life back."

"Then you think you can actually do something? In the face of such overwhelming odds? That a life still awaits you?" Baccharus's words, as always, were
calm and measured.

Church turned back to the Walpurgis. "Now. I want to know who killed
Marianne."

"There is always something bigger, Jack." Baccharus's voice sounded closer and more intense, although he had not taken a step. "Bigger powers. Bigger
plans."

"Show me," Church said harshly to the Walpurgis.

The Walpurgis began to move. Church felt butterflies in his stomach. This was
it: the final, bitter revelation. He put his head back, closed his eyes and waited
for the Walpurgis to push his fingers into Church's mind.

Something was nagging at him as he waited. Not the silence in the room,
so heavy he could almost feel currents flowing through it. Not the way the hairs
on the back of his neck were prickling, the way his gut was knotting in dread
at what he would discover. He felt his nostrils flaring and that triggered recognition; smell, the least developed of all his senses, the reason why he had not
been able to pinpoint Marianne's killer. Smell.

An odour was shifting gently through the room, caught on the subtle
movements of air caused by the heat from the torches. The primal part of his
brain kicked into gear, generating memories before he had even identified the
source: the adrenalin, wild, wild action and then the rush of terror that was so
all consuming it could only come from one source. The stinking, zoo-cage
smell of them.

"Fomorii." The word was on his lips before the thought had found purchase
in his head. It appeared to be a word of power, for in the instant that followed,
very many things happened at once: there was a rushing through the chamber
like a mighty wind; the smell grew suddenly choking; his eyes snapped open to
reveal faces frozen in disbelief; and movement, all around, so rapid his eyes at
first couldn't focus on it, like the shadows in the room were breathing.

The Walpurgis was framed in his field of vision, hanging in that single
moment like everything else in the room. Church took in the seething red eyes,
which glowed brighter, as if fanned by the breeze, the wide-brimmed hat, the
tattered black rags of his body. And in the next instant they started to come
apart. Scarlet lines were being drawn across the figure. A section across the arm
here, across the torso there, underlining the head, pointing up the waist. Spaces
appeared between the segments; a hallucinogenic moment filled with fascination. The Walpurgis was falling apart.

He snapped from the moment as if someone had punched him in the face.
The room was in turmoil. The occupants dashed here and there searching for an
exit as dark shapes moved lethally amongst them. For only the briefest time,
Church focused on the remains of the Walpurgis scattered across the floor before
him, consumed by the immensity of what had been snatched away from him;
wondering how his future life had been changed by that one moment.

And then he was moving instinctively, just as some heavy object whistled
past his ear. One of his fellow passengers with tentacles where his face should be
lay in chunks under his feet. He skidded on the remains before finding his balance, propelling himself toward the place where he had entered the secret
chamber.

The Fomorii were all around, moving so quickly it was impossible for him
to estimate how many of them there were.

His thoughts were cut short by a heavy axe that splintered into the wooden
wall next to his head. Thinking would be the end of him; he gave himself
wholly over to instinct. The chaos of fighting bodies, flashing weapons and
striking limbs became a series of frozen instants through which he could dart
and dive. All his reactions had improved immeasurably in recent times, more
than just learning from experience; it was the Blue Fire, or Destiny, or whatever
he wanted to call it. He was changing.

He dodged another Fomorii attack that increasingly appeared to be directed
towards him. The Tuatha De Danann were fighting back ferociously. Church
slid towards the entrance through a stinking, poisonous grue washing across the
floor. But it was a solid wall, and he had no idea what Baccharus had done to
make it accessible.

The stink and shadow overwhelmed him before he glimpsed any hint of
movement; then he realised an axe was swinging down with such force it would
likely cleave him in two. Reacting instantly, his hand was on his sword, whipping it up sharply. The blade just caught the handle of the axe at such an angle
that it managed to deflect the strike slightly, but the impact jarred his bones so
much he thought his teeth were coming out of his head. He went down on one
knee. The Fomor was already raising the axe for the killing blow.

A flashing motion crossed the beast's throat and its thick, stinging blood
came gushing out. Church threw himself out of the way at the last moment,
watching as it sizzled into the wooden floor.

Baccharus stepped forward as the creature slumped down, wiping a small,
sharp blade. "Now, quickly." He made a hand motion and muttered, and the
wall became like water.

Church was just about to dive through when a figure burst out of the shimmering wall, knocking him to the ground. Others followed, and in a second he
and Baccharus were surrounded. They were not Fomorii, but they were misshapen, lithe and reptilian, with scales and slit eyes. The Malignos, Church
guessed. As they huddled around, bending over him with forked tongues
darting, he felt so destabilised the only thought in his head was that they
smelled like wet grass.

He saw a glint of teeth, sharp talons, and then the circle of them parted and
in stepped a maliciously gleeful figure.

"Now we shall find a balance for old wrongs," Callow said sardonically.

The voice sounded like the rustle of brown paper just beyond the window, where
only the sea spray lived. Ruth had been dozing intermittently on the bunk, but
she woke sharply when the familiar tones insidiously infected her drifting mind
with memories of cells and chains and torture. Throwing open the windows to
the crashing waves of a burgeoning storm, she frightened the owl, which fluttered upward towards the deck like the ghost of a bird in the gloomy night. Yet
its words stayed in her head like a bad taste: "The war has begun."

A tremor ran through her; a premonition, perhaps. She riffled in the chest and
came up with a long, thin dagger, ideal for poisonous court intrigue, but little use
in any fair fight. But it was easy to secrete upon herself, and she had other weapons
for confrontation, locked away in her brain. An insurance policy, nothing else.

Her familiar's warning could have meant nothing at that time, but she
thought she ought to discuss it with Baccharus at least. Yet as she made her way
to the door she heard an unidentifiable sound without that brought a shiver to
her spine. She rocked briefly on the balls of her feet, then hurried back to the
bunk, glancing round for somewhere to hide. Not so long ago she would have
dismissed her instinct as stupid and childish; now she trusted it implicitly. She
realised there was no worthwhile hiding place in the cramped chamber. She
flung open the windows again. Beneath her the waves crashed crazily, topped
with white surf. The boat dipped and rose sharply. Lightning crackled along the
horizon as the storm rushed towards them.

A slim wooden spur ran around the boat, slightly below the level of the
window. It was slick with spray, barely wide enough to get a toehold, but an oily
rope stretched above from which members of the crew could hang if they needed
to make repairs.

Don't be stupid! the rational side of her brain yelled at her. The ship rolled
from side to side. You'll be off there in a second. And if she fell into the tossing sea,
she would be lost in a moment. No one would even know she was overboard.

She looked back at the door. The strange noises, both rumbling and slithering at the same time, were closing on it. Steeling herself, she launched a leg
out of the window, clutching at the rope and swung on to the ledge. With her
other foot, she kicked the windows shut.

This is insanity. You really have lost it. But the warnings sounded like the
faint, dying voice of the old Ruth, who had been supplanted by someone
smarter, braver, more in control.

Outside the comfort of the cabin, the full fury of the night assailed her. The
spray lashed against her like ice bullets, while the ship bucked on waves that
appeared to grow fiercer the instant she stepped outside. Bracing her feet against the
spur, she hung on as if she were about to rappel down the side. Self-preservation took
over all thought processes; nothing concerned her beyond the strength of her arms
and the intensity of her grip, on which her whole life depended.

Through the smeared panes, she could just make out the golden-suffused
interior of the cabin. It looked warm and comforting, and safe.

She leaned over to get a better look and had to fight to prevent herself
sliding off the rail. Steadying herself with one hand on the sopping boards, she
tried again, just as the door eased open. Through it came a shadow with substance that still made her gorge rise however many times she saw it. The
Fomorii were onboard.

After the shock, her initial thought was for Church. She prayed that however
the Fomorii had got on, they had focused their attentions on the upper decks where
the Tuatha De Danann were, and not surprised Church in the dark below.

The Fomorii swept into the cabin and turned everything over. The
smashing and rending should have alerted someone, but when no one came after
a full five minutes of destruction, Ruth feared the worst.

Suddenly she thought that they might see her through the window. She
pushed herself back a little too animatedly, throwing her careful balance awry;
both feet slipped off the rail. For an instant she was like a cartoon character, frantically scrambling for purchase on the side of the boat, her feet kicking over the
drop into the waves that clamoured for her.

Her toes slid and slid, and then she dropped. The arm that clung on to the rope
took the full force of her weight, jerking her like a puppet. Fiery pain shot through
her tendons and muscles into her armpit. Her fingers felt like they were going to
snap; they slipped around the rope, barely holding. Wildly, she lurched out with
the hand that had been leaning against the boards, missed, tried again, missed.

All she could see was wet wood and spray and the hungry waves below. Her
fingers slipped a little more, barely holding on now. An unbearable heat was
burning in her knuckles.

Finally her free hand caught hold, but she was still hanging tight against
the boards, slamming into them with every roll of the ship. Any second now,
she would be knocked off.

Four months ago, it would have been too much of an effort to save herself:
too much pain, not enough desire. She would have hung there until her
knuckles finally gave way, feeling the skin strip from her fingers as they slid
down the rope, and then the long drop into the hard, cold, suffocating depths.

But she was a different person; her suffering at the hands of the Fomorii had
seen to that. Somehow, for all the agony, it had brought out the best of her, given
her a reason to live beyond all else; a dichotomy too great for her to ponder.

With tremendous willpower, she clamped her fingers tight on the rope.
Flexing her muscles, she rocked back and forth, bouncing off the boat, but with
a bigger and bigger space between her and the wood until she could bring her
feet up to plant them on the side. Then it was only a matter of inching up slowly
until she found the rail again.

Finally she could peer through the window to see the cabin was empty.
Shaking from the shock, she managed to hook the window open with her foot
before swinging in on the rope to land hard on the bunk. It winded her, but she
felt exhilarated at her victory over death.

It faded too quickly, to be replaced by that familiar unease. Cautiously, she
approached the door. No sound came from beyond except the usual creak of the
timbers. How many Fomorii were there on board? And where were they now?

After a moment's reflection, she gripped the dagger tightly, eased open the
door and slipped out into the dark corridor.

The mists had a disturbingly cloying texture that felt like wet cotton wool
slowly being drawn across the skin. For Veitch, that wasn't the worst thing,
although it was unnerving enough. Nor was it the chill that reached deep into
his bones, even though the air itself was not particularly cold. It wasn't even the
way the mists occasionally cleared to reveal brief glimpses of a terrifying scene,
different every time it happened, too quick to ever settle on any detail, but
enough for the subconscious mind to know it was shocking. It was the feeling
of someone constantly at his shoulder, about to draw icy fingers down his neck,
but whenever he turned round, there was nothing but the subdued echoes of his
footsteps.

His destabilisation began the moment he stepped into the Grim Lands and
discovered the door through which he had passed was no longer there. How
would he ever find his way back?

But there were many things to do before he even had to think about getting
back, and it was possible he might not have to worry about it at all, so, true to
his nature, he simply put it out of his mind.

Occasionally the mists cleared enough to provide a view of the lowering
gunmetal sky. Oppressive enough, he also glimpsed black shapes sweeping
across it; birds, he guessed, but of a size that made him think of pterodactyls.
Perhaps it was their unnerving silence, but there was something immensely
threatening about them, although he never saw them in enough detail to decide if they were raptors. But that gave him pause. If he was in the land of the dead,
were they dead too? Or did the Grim Lands have its own life? Dead life.