Always Forever (5 page)

Witch hunted the creature down, but he was almost killed in the process. As
he was close to death, the Queen tended to his wounds, eventually tricking him
into drinking a single droplet of water. He was forced to remain there, with the
threat of undergoing the same terrible experiments that had so traumatized Tom.

On Mam Tor, Church, Ruth, and Laura discovered a deserted cottage where
they could hide out. On one wall there was a mass of writing impossible to decipher. Church, who had continued his relationship with Laura, was confronted by
a furious Niamh, who came close to slaying him for breaking his promise to her.
Instead of helping capture Maponus, she had brought the mad god to the
vicinity of the Tor, to wreak his vengeance upon Church.

In a moment of staggering revelation, Church deciphered the scrawling on
the wall to read a message for him from his dead girlfriend, Marianne. He had
no idea how she had managed to contact him, or why he was only aware of it at
that moment, but it was a transcendental experience that gave him a glimpse of
the meaning behind everything. Infused with this understanding at his lowest
ebb, he found new strength to fight on.

With a half-formed plan in mind, Church crept through the Fomorii-
infested countryside in search of Maponus. He found him-and the Bone
Inspector, who had been tracking the insane god. Church explained his plan and
the Bone Inspector agreed to help, but on his way back to the cottage, Church
was finally brought face-to-face with the Fomorii warrior. The battle was short
and brutal, and Church was left broken. But before the warrior could end his
life, the beast was itself killed, by Mollecht, freed from his imprisonment at the
hands of Calatin by the devastation in Edinburgh. Instead of slaying Church, he
departed, leaving behind a mysterious black sword, obviously for Church's use.
Church took it back to the cottage, attempting to recover from his wounds
before the Fomorii's imminent attack.

In Windsor Park, Shavi summoned Cernunnos, who gave him a strange
potion to help Ruth. The essence of Balor could not be destroyed, but it could
be removed, Cernunnos told him; like everything connected with the gods, a
price would have to be paid, a sacrifice made.

As Shavi made his way back, he was attacked by the pursuer they perceived
as a giant wolf. It was Callow, hideously transformed by Calatin for his part in
the debacle that led to the freeing of the exiled Tuatha De Danann. His suffering
had driven him insane and he had been stalking the Brothers and Sisters of
Dragons as architects of his pain, cutting off fingers in a ritual that only he truly
understood. He murdered Shavi with one blow of his knife, then loped away in
pursuit of the others.

At Mam Tor, on the eve of Lughnasadh, the Fomorii attacked in force.
Church sent Laura to stand guard over Ruth in the cottage while he faced up to
Calatin in a mirror image of the confrontation on Skye that had led to his death.
Although badly injured, this time Church had an advantage: the black sword
bequeathed him by Mollecht. It had a life of its own, shaping his attack, then
plunging into Calatin's heart of its own volition. Calatin was eradicated on the
spot, a fate beyond imagining for a god unable to be completely destroyed. And
then the sword revealed its true form: it was Mollecht's shape-shifting Caraprix.

Before the Fomorii could seek revenge, the Bone Inspector led Maponus
into their midst, where the mad god wreaked vengeance for his suffering. When
the carnage was finally over and the Fomorii fled, the Tuatha De Danann
reclaimed their insane kinsman.

Then, in the middle of victory, there was only one last, terrible act for
Church: to kill Ruth and prevent Balor from being reborn. As he approached the
cottage with a heavy heart, Ruth stepped out, seemingly freed from the corruption of Balor. But nothing is ever that simple. Cernunnos had appeared during
the battle and offered his potion to Laura, who accepted the sacrifice to save Ruth. The essence of Balor was transferred from Ruth to Laura, an act of spiritual redemption that would mean her own death. As Ruth gradually came
round, Mollecht and his loyal Fomorii broke in and took Laura; the crowcreature's supremacy in the Fomorii hierarchy was now assured.

Unable to come to terms with the act of sacrifice from a woman they had
both considered beyond saving, Church and Ruth waited for Lughnasadh to
dawn. There was no fire from heaven, nor instant destruction, just a sense of sadness in the air, a darkening of the sky and the smell of ashes in the wind. Somewhere distant, Balor had been reborn, and the last hope for the world had been
extinguished.

But the one message the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons instilled in me was
that there is always hope. It's a message I'm going to keep circulating to bring
us through these dark times. A new dawn will come. We just have to believe.

Until next time.

cy rain blasted across the deserted seafront like stones thrown by a petulant
.child. Jack Churchill and Ruth Gallagher kept their heads down, the hoods
of their windcheaters up, as they spurred their horses out of the dark countryside. Despite the storm, the ever-present smell of burning was acrid on the back
of their throats. Twilight lay heavy on the Cornish landscape, adding to the
abiding atmosphere of failure; of a world winding down to die. The heavy clouds
rolling across the sea where the lightning flashed in white sheets told them the
storm would only grow worse as the night closed in.

Dead streetlamps lined the road, markers for the abandoned vehicles that
were rusting monuments to the death of the twenty-first century. Occasionally
they caught a glimpse of candles in windows or smelled smoke from fires in the
houses that had hearths; beyond that, there was only the oppression of the
growing gloom.

As they rounded a bend, a light burned brightly in the middle of the road.
Surprised, they slowed their horses until they saw the illumination came from
an old-fashioned lantern held aloft by a man wrapped in a sou'wester, struggling
to keep himself upright in the face of the gale.

"Who goes there?" he said in a thick Cornish accent.

"Friends," Church replied, "who don't want to stay out in the night a
moment longer than we have to."

The lantern was raised higher to bring them into its glare. It illuminated the
face buried deep in the shadows of the hood: suntanned; grey, bushy beard. He
eyed them suspiciously. "Where've you come from?" he yelled above the wind.

"A long way." Ruth fought to keep her lank hair from her face. "We started
off in the Peak District. It's taken us days-"

"Aye, well, it would." He looked from one to the other, still unsure.

As the lantern shifted again, Church noticed a shotgun in the crook of his
arm. "You haven't got anything to worry about-"

"You can't trust anyone these days." He nodded towards a pub that glimmered with candlelight a few yards away. "In there."

Church and Ruth dismounted and led their horses towards the inn. The
man followed a few paces behind; Church could feel the shotgun pointed in his
direction. But as they tied up their steeds in a makeshift shelter adjoining the
pub, the guard relented a little. "Any news?" A pause. "What's the world like
out there?"

Ruth shook the worst of the moisture off her hair. "As bad as you'd expect."

The guard's shoulders slumped. "Without the telly or the radio it's hard to
tell. We hoped-"

"No," Ruth said bluntly.

It sounded unduly harsh. Church added sympathetically, "We followed the
M5, then the main roads down here. We never ventured into any of the big
towns or cities, but-"

"Nothing's working," the guard finished.

Church nodded.

"You better get in the pub," the man said with a sigh. "We haven't had any
trouble here in town, but you never know. We've seen what's out there,"-he
peered into the night-"and sooner or later they're going to get brave enough
to come in."

"You're on watch all night?" Ruth asked.

"We do shifts. Everybody's involved. We're trying to keep things going.
They'll tell you more in the pub."

Heads down, they ran from the shelter, but before they reached the door a
crack of lightning burst over the sea. Church stopped to stare down the street.

"What is it?" Ruth blinked away the rain, following his eyes.

"I thought I saw something in the light."

"Probably another guard."

"It was on the rooftops, moving quickly. Looked like ..." He paused. "Let's
get inside."

A blazing log fire in the grate was the most welcoming sight they had seen in
days. With the candles flickering in old wine bottles all around the room, it created a dreamy impression of another time. About thirty people were gathered
around. A young mother with a baby watched some children playing near the
hearth. Four old men played cribbage in one corner with the grim determination of a life-or-death struggle. Everyone looked up when they entered. In one
instant Church took in curiosity, suspicion and fear.

He was distracted by a glimpse of himself in a mirror as he passed. His dark
hair was now almost down to his shoulders, and his close-cropped goatee was a
sign he'd given up fighting against predestination; he resembled the future vision he'd had of himself in the Watchtower between the worlds, watching a
city burn. His features fell into a naturally troubled expression that served to
make him look older. But Ruth didn't look any different. Her long brown hair
tumbled in ringlets around her shoulders while her face still looked as pretty
and serene as the first time he had seen it. There was something new there,
though: an enduring confidence that gave her bearing.

A burly man in his fifties hurried over, one large hand outstretched. His
skin had the ruddiness of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors in all
weathers. "Welcoming committee," he said in a loud, deep voice. They each
shook his hand in turn. He was Malcolm, a local businessman. "What brings
you to Mousehole? Don't get many tourists these days." Although he was
friendly enough, the steely scent of fear was palpable in the atmosphere.

What's happening to us all? Church wondered.

"We're looking for a safe haven." Ruth's calmness was the perfect antidote;
Church could see everyone warm to her instantly. "It's not very pleasant out
there." Her understatement made them smile.

"Any idea what's happened?" Malcolm's eyes showed he was both hopeful
and afraid of what her answer might be. "We thought ... some kind of nuclear
exchange ... ?"

"No," Church said adamantly. "There's no sign of anything like that. Whatever's happened, it's not anything nuclear, chemical or biological-"

"Face up to it, Malcolm, it's the End of the World." A long-haired man in
his thirties hung over his pint morosely. "You can't keep fooling yourself it's
something normal. For Christ's sake, we've all seen the signs!"

Malcolm grimaced in a manner that suggested he didn't want to hear.
"We're muddling on as best we can," he continued blithely. "Set up a local network of farms to keep the food supply going. With no communications, it's
proving difficult. But we're pulling through."

"Boiling water," the morose man said to his beer. "Every day. Boil, boil,
boil."

Malcolm glared at him. "Don't mind Richard. He's still working on his
attitude."

"You're not alone," Ruth said. "We've travelled a long way over the last few
days. Everywhere people are trying to keep things going."

That seemed to cheer him. "I've got to get back to the meeting-a lot of
planning needs doing. You must be hungry-I'll get some food for you. We
can't offer you much, but-"

"Thank you," Ruth said. "We appreciate your generosity."

"If this isn't a time to be generous, I don't know when is."

Malcolm left them to dry off at a table in one corner where the candlelight
barely reached. "I feel guilty not telling them everything we know," Ruth whispered once they were sitting.

"They don't need to know how hopeless it all is."

Ruth's eyes narrowed. "You don't think it's hopeless. I can tell."

Church shrugged. "We're still walking."

"That's what I like about you." Ruth gave his hand a squeeze. "You're such
a moron."

The exhausting journey from Mam Tor in the High Peaks had been conducted
against a background of constant threat; although they saw nothing out of the
ordinary, they were convinced they were about to be struck dead at any moment.
Somewhere, Evil in its most concentrated form had been born back into the
world: Balor, the one-eyed god of death, a force of unimaginable power dragging
all of existence into chaos. Whatever it truly was, the Tuatha De Danann called
it the End of Everything. They had expected fire in the sky and rivers of blood
flowing across the land, but the reality had been more prosaic. At first there was
simply a vague feeling that something was not quite right, then an impression of
imminent disaster that kept them scanning the lonely landscape. There was a
sour taste in the wind and occasional violent storms. The only true sign that the
world had slipped further from the light was the complete failure of all things
technological. No vehicles moved. Pylons no longer hummed. The night was
darker than it had been for more than a hundred years.