Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2) (77 page)

Mollecht was now just a black smudge following the hedge line. There was no doubt Church was being allowed to escape and that the sword had been left for his use. What did it mean? After the Kiss of Frost he was no longer so naive that he would take an obvious Fomorii gift. But this time his instincts were telling him the sword was not a threat to him, although he had no idea what the ulterior motive was. A weapon would certainly be useful. He weighed up his options, and decided to go with his instincts after all. Tom would have been proud of him, he thought.

Fighting against encroaching unconsciousness, he tried to blot out the pain by using the sword as a staff to help him limp back towards the tor.

Shavi stood on the edge of the parkland that rolled up to Windsor Castle filled with a relief that pulled him back from the brink of exhaustion. For days he had played a cat-and-mouse game with the Fomorii, who knew he was in the vicinity, but hadn’t quite been able to pinpoint him. It had meant advancing, retreating, doubling back, searching for each tiny break in their lines; on one day he had advanced a mile, only to find himself five miles back by evening. He had slept under hedges, curled in the branches of trees, once even dozed on a pile of Sunbrite at the back of a coal shed. There were times when he thought he would never reach his destination at all.

The Fomorii were everywhere, but only to his advanced perception. Most people seemed to be continuing with their lives, oblivious to the unusual shadows, the bushes and trees that were there one day, not the next, with only a vague feeling of unease to warn them things were different.

As Lughnasadh approached the Fomorii were growing more desperate. Shavi had noticed a light in the sky over Reading to the west which had the ruddy glow of an enormous conflagration. Strange, worrying sounds were occasionally carried on the wind, but they were too brief for him to recognise their source. But where were the army, the air force, the civil defences? He had seen no sign of any opposition. Perhaps they had already crumbled, or else there was a vacuum at the top, the Government paralysed or fallen apart at its inability to confront anything so alien and powerful.

But finally he had seen the tower of Windsor Castle in the distance, the flag waving in the summer breeze, and he had skipped into the back of a lorry which had brought him directly to the park. Even so, time was short. Already the heat of the day was starting to fade. But if he acted quickly and Cernunnos could help, he could still commandeer a car that would get him back to the others before midnight.

Halfway across the parkland he was aware of a rejuvenating atmosphere that seemed profoundly magical. Clouds of butterflies danced across the grass and the air was clear of any stink of pollution, despite the proximity to the Capital; it smelled and tasted as fresh as a mountaintop. The sun had blazed from a clear blue sky all day, but there was no sign of parching on the ground, which was lush and verdant. A languid quality eased his troubled thoughts; he felt something wonderful could happen at any moment. He found himself smiling.

When he moved beneath the cool shade of the trees everything seemed to take on an emerald tinge. There was a fluttering among the branches high above his head which he at first thought were more butterflies, but when he looked up he caught sight of a group of gossamer-winged people, minute but perfectly formed, their skin dusted green and gold. They weaved backwards and forwards, sometimes merging with the leaves until they were completely invisible. One stopped to watch him curiously, then laughed silently before rushing away. He moved on, wishing the whole of the country was like this.

He had no idea where the Great Oak had been, but he was trusting his instinct to lead him there. Yet as he progressed he suddenly heard the sound of faint laughter and happy voices. He ducked down and moved through the undergrowth until he came to a sundrenched clearing. On one edge a teenage Asian woman lay in the arms of a young man with a skinhead haircut. From the disarray of their clothes it appeared that they had been making love. The woman rested her head on her boyfriend’s chest and traced circles with a long nail on his bare, muscular stomach.

“No one can ever take this away from us,” she said.

He chuckled throatily. “Who’da thought it, eh? You and me, no worries.”

“I can’t believe we got out of Birmingham. Your dad-“

“He’s not my dad.”

“You know what I mean.” She tapped him sharply on the chest. “When that van came crashing into us on the motorway, I thought-“

“We had a guardian angel. I told you that.”

She rolled on her back and shielded her eyes from the sun, her fragile features framed by her long, black hair. “I reckon things are going to get good from here on in.”

“There’s a lot of strange stuff around.”

“Doesn’t matter. This is about you and me. All that shit’s behind us now.” She gave him a tight hug. “There’s no one to tell us what to do any more. We stand by each other, we can face up to anything. We’ve proved that.”

He started singing Stand By Me then burst out laughing at his feeble attempt. She gave him a short punch in the ribs for teasing. “So,” he laughed, we going to get married?”

“Could do. Sooner or later. We’ve got plenty of time for that. We’ve got a lot to see, lots to do.”

She rolled over and kissed him passionately. Shavi felt suddenly like a voyeur and crept away quickly. But the tableau stayed with him. Strangely, it filled him with so much hope, and it wasn’t just because they were at the start of their lives, on the cusp of the great adventure and a great love. After a moment’s thought, he realised what it was. The woman had been right. The terrible upheaval, the failure of an entire way of life, none of it mattered. The truly important things were still continuing as they always had. Those things could never be beaten down. It was a simple thing, but at that time, in that magical place, it seemed like a great revelation to him and he was fired to tell the others when he got back to them.

For the next hour he searched among the woods. Every now and then he felt a strange sensation at the base of his spine, as if he were crossing some invisible electric barrier. Eventually he became sensitive enough to it to follow the waves which progressed in a spiral pattern, growing tighter and tighter, until he arrived at the epicentre.

He was in a grove among the wider wood. The trees rose up on either side to form an arched roof high above his head, and that deep, emerald light infused everything. A cathedral stillness lay all around. No wind touched that place, no blade of grass stirred. Even the calls of the birds sounded miles away, as if they had been muted by a dense wall. This was the Green Home, the place where the Great Oak altar had once stood, where men had worshipped the all-consuming power of nature for millennia. Unconsciously he bowed his head.

Almost by accident his eyes fell on a chipped, dirt-engrained horn lying in the grass; he was convinced it hadn’t been there before. His palms were sweating with anticipation; he wiped them on his shirt before picking it up. It felt uncommonly light, too normal to be what he expected. He had at least anticipated some sense of great power or crackling energy that burned his fingers when he touched it.

He weighed it in his hands, knew it was only a delaying tactic, then slowly raised it to his lips. When he blew, the sound that emanated was strangely hopeful. It washed out through the woods in a cleansing wave.

For long minutes everything remained exactly as it was. Just as he was about to blow one more time, another horn answered, from far, far away. This one had a regal ring to it, but there was also something that sent a shiver through him. A few seconds later the wind began. It howled mournfully into the grove, forcing him to take a step back; it was chill, as if it had rushed hundreds of miles from a desolate mountaintop just to be there.

Shavi shuddered as he slowly turned, searching among the swaying trees, his hair lashing around his face. Something was coming; he could feel it deep in his chest; a heaviness. The branches moving back and forth, the noise; distracting. And then movement. Out of the corner of his eye, the merest flicker that could have been just a shadow. He turned sharply, but it was already gone. It was his other senses that picked up the true signs: the musky odour of horses on the wind, a muffled but unmistakable whinny, the thud of hooves on the wood floor. Dark shapes flitted in and out of the boles. They were drawing closer, circling him, but still not enough of the world to be easily seen.

Then they did break through. There was an effect like a heathaze over a road on a hot summer day; shapes shimmered, fell into relief, and suddenly he was aware of horses among the trees. The Wild Hunt had arrived.

He had been sure they could only materialise in that form at night, but in that place their power appeared much stronger. Another blast of the horn close at hand; all the hairs on his neck instantly stood to attention. Away beyond the horses in the deep shadows of the wood was the terrible baying of hounds yearning to be unleashed.

Shavi stood his ground as the horses came stamping and whinnying just beyond the edge of the grove, their eyes glowing fiery red. The riders still wore the furs and armour and carried the long poles topped with sickles he recalled from the grim pursuit across Dartmoor; he looked away from their shrouded faces. The ranks parted and a larger horse moved through, its nostrils steaming despite the heat. And on its back was the Erl-King and his face was not hidden; Shavi saw bare bone, scales like a lizard instead of skin, and eyes that glowed with an inner yellow light, the pupils just a serpent slit. His stomach tumbled in response.

As the Erl-King dismounted, he was already changing. His body grew bigger, hunched over like an animal prowling, an odd mix of fur and leaves spreading across his form. His eyes moved further apart, his nose wider, and then stags’ antlers sprouted from his head. Finally Cernunnos stood revealed, the awe and terror of nature beating like a heart. He made a strange hand gesture and the other riders fell back into the trees.

“Who summons the Wild Hunt?” His voice was like the sound of the winds on a mountaintop, his presence radiating such power Shavi felt like bowing before him.

“I, Shavi, Brother of Dragons.” He lowered his head in deference.

“I know of you, Brother of Dragons.”

“I come on behalf of my sister, Ruth. Her situation is dire. Once, you said she could call to you in the harshest times. I am here before you now to ask for that assistance.”

Cernunnos hunched down over his massive thighs and scrabbled at the soft loam. Gently, he sniffed the breeze. “A face of the Green lives within her, and she has carried out the Green’s True Word to the best of her abilities, even at times of great trial. The Sister of Dragon’s heart is strong.”

“Will you aid her?”

“I will.” He snorted; Shavi could smell his thick animal musk, even stronger than the horses’. “What ails her?”

Slowly Shavi explained her capture by the Fomorii, the implanting of the black pearl, the suffering she was enduring as the medium for the rebirth of Balor; and as he spoke Shavi had the strangest feeling that Cernunnos already knew everything that was being said. After he had finished Cernunnos nodded slowly, grunting and snuffling. “It was only to be expected that the Night Walkers would seek to bring the Heart of Shadows back to form, but the Sister of Dragons deserves better than to suffer their corruption.”

“What can be done?” Shavi asked. “Other Golden Ones have refused to have anything to do with it. Some have said there is nothing that can be done.”

“Little can be done, it is true. The Heart of Shadows is a vile canker. Once established, it grows without respite. It is too hard in its corruption to be eradicated.”

“Then what?” Shavi stared deep into Cernunnos’ gleaming eyes, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “Is it hopeless?”

“Nothing is hopeless. We Golden Ones guard our secrets with pride, and this is mine: the Heart of Shadows can be removed without harming the Good Sister.” Shavi’s mood brightened at once. “The ritual must be carried out tonight, before the turn of the day when the moon is clear. And a sacrifice is called for.”

“Anything,” Shavi said without a moment’s thought. “I will do it.”

“Anything?”

Shavi nodded. “She is a good person. She deserves more.”

“And you do not?”

“If there is anything I can do to help, I must.”

Cernunnos watched Shavi’s face like an animal surveying something which could be prey or predator. Then he turned slowly, making strange, unnatural gestures with his left hand, and when he was facing Shavi again he was holding a small, smoky-coloured bottle with a wax stopper. “Here is the radiance that will burn out the Heart of Shadows.”

He held out the bottle. Shavi took it gingerly. “What will happen?”

Cernunnos’ eyes narrowed until the light within them seemed like distant stars, but he said nothing.

The bottle felt odd in Shavi’s hand, not like glass at all. He slipped it quickly into his pocket. “On behalf of Ruth, I offer my great thanks for your aid. On behalf of all the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons.”