World's End (Age of Misrule, Book 1) (71 page)

"What a sad story."

"Over here." Laura was standing near an open doorway, motioning to them.

Once they entered, Ruth could tell it was the drawing room, but there was no sign of a flag. "Where is it?"

Tom pointed to a picture on the wall. "That's all that's left of it." Behind the glass was the remnant of what once had been a proud flag of brown silk, intricately darned in red.

"It looks like it will fall apart if we touch it," Ruth said, not knowing what she had expected.

"It isn't how it appears." Tom dropped the crate on the floor and Laura carefully removed the talismans while he took the flag down. With trembling hands, he cracked the back from the frame, then laid the glass on one side. Once the flag was freed, he took a step back and bowed before it. Then, with an obsessive attention to angles and distances, he laid out the artefacts around the flag so they made the four points of a star.

From his breathing and his body language, Ruth could tell he was gripped with a curious anxiety, but it didn't seem the time to ask what was on his mind.

"Now," he said tremulously, "it is time for the ritual of summoning."

Tom stood before the artefacts, head bowed, and muttered something under his breath. There was an instant change in the quality of the atmosphere in the room; Ruth and Laura backed anxiously to the wall.

Above the talismans, light appeared to be folding out of nowhere, like white cloth being forced through a hole. There was a sucking sound, a smell like cardamom, and then the air tore apart and they saw something terrible rushing towards them.

Ruth felt her head start to spin. "Oh Lord," she whispered.

The road from the castle was bleak, the trees disappearing the further they got from the loch to leave a heartless landscape of rock and sheep-clipped grass. They were thankful for the faint, late-afternoon sun which at least provided a vague patina of colour to the desolation.

Church and Veitch rarely spoke; the oppressive weight of what lay ahead made any conversation seem too trivial. And for Church, the cold had become almost more than he could bear. There was a part of him demanding that he throw away the flower, tell Veitch that he was far from his peak, but a stronger and more worrying part suppressed it easily. Worse, the cold now seemed to be affecting his vision; he could see what appeared to be little dustings of frost appearing round the edges of his sight, sparkling in the sunlight.

But the rose was a gift from Marianne, the suppressing part of him said. How could it he anything but good?

They heard the babbling of water before they saw the bridge, but once they crested a slight incline it was before them: just a single arch in a mediaeval construction of stone. Yet the moment Church took in its style and setting in the rocks and grassy banks, he felt like his heart was being crushed. It was exactly the image he had seen in the Watchtower when he had received the premonition of his death.

His sudden terror must have played out on his face, for Veitch turned to him with concern. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." But he was transfixed by the sight and he couldn't have moved if he had wanted to.

The spell was broken when Veitch clapped a supportive hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, I'm scared too. But we've just got to do our best. No point worrying about what's going to happen."

Church sucked in a juddering breath to calm himself. "You're right." Before he drove all fatalistic thoughts from his head, he had one fleeting wish that he had properly said goodbye to Laura, and then it was replaced with the unsettling certainty that soon he would be with Marianne again.

They took up position on their side of the bridge, ready for their last stand. The sword felt awkward in Church's hand; more than useless after wielding the Otherworld weapon. He wondered how long they would last. A minute? Two?

For a long time there was nothing but the tinkling of the brook and the smell of damp grass, constants that made the subtle changes which came next seem like the blaring of an alarm. First there was a stink like a hot generator and burnt diesel, then a sound that reminded Church of a long-closed door being wrenched open. Then, some time between his eye blinking shut and opening again, the entire world slipped into horror.

They seemed to rise from the grass and heather like twisted blackthorn in time-lapse photography, filling the banks and road ahead of them, bristling with hatred, eyes burning in faces too terrible to consider, dark skin that seemed to suck up the sunlight and corrupt it. Eerily silent, motionless, a tidal wave poised at the moment before it suddenly crashed forward.

Veitch stifled some faint noise in his throat. Church was so frozen he had barely been able to feel anything, but even the iciness could not contain the hot blast of fear that roared through him.

"Is it like staring into the face of death?" The voice floated out from the serried ranks. Church recognised it instantly. A second later Calatin limped from the mass, a fey, malignant smile on his lips. He held a rusty sword with darkly stained teeth along one edge like a saw.

Church gripped his own sword tightly, though he could barely feel it in his grasp. Veitch was saying something to him, but the words seemed to be breaking up like a badly tuned radio. He turned, saw Witch's concerned face through a haze of hoar frost. He realised the iciness was starting to reach his brain.

Calatin was facing him across the bridge now, smiling maliciously as though he knew exactly what was going through Church's mind. Behind him there seemed to be just a black wall. Strangely, when he spoke, his voice rang as clear as a bell.

"Do you feel the thorns in your heart?" He laughed like glass breaking. "We have her, you know, at least that pitiful part of her that remains after the body withers. I love to hear her screams."

Marianne, Church thought. His heart began to pound, the heat dispelling some of the cold.

"If you had not allowed death and the past to taint you so, there might have been the slimmest of chances that you might have snatched victory here."

"The sword-" Church croaked.

"The power is not in the sword, Dragon Brother, it is in you. You are the host of the Pendragon Spirit. And you have proven yourself a betrayer of that tradition. Too weak, too trapped by guilt and doubt. We could not have given you the Kiss of Frost if you had not allowed us into your life."

Slowly, the truth stirred in the depths of his frozen mind. The Fomorii had left nothing to chance, attacking with the Fabulous Beast and the Hunt, using Callow as backup; but most subtly of all, invading him from within, driving into his heart and soul. The Roisin Dubh-the Kiss of Frost-had been seeded into his presence right at the very start, lying dormant until releasing its cold bloom when most needed, when everything else had failed. And the worst thing was that Calatin was right: he had done it to himself, he had known in his heart he should have thrown the rose away, but he had been trapped in his obsession with Marianne and her death and that had driven him to his fate. He had been weak, pathetic; and he had doomed them all.

"Oh, the pain," Calatin mocked. "It hurts so to see oneself truly in the mirror of life. Sick little boy. Weak little boy."

Church raised his sword, but the heat he was generating from his emotions was not yet enough; the weapon shook violently in his hand. Veitch seemed to sense Church's inability to act and, with a growl of obscenities, he launched himself forward. It was an attack born more out of desperation than expertise, and as he swung his sword, Calatin parried easily and lashed out with a backhanded stroke. It caught Veitch a glancing blow across the forehead and he fell to the bridge, unconscious.

Calatin gave a sickly, supercilious grin at Church. "We come with the night," he hissed, "and all fall before us. Our ways are the truth of existence. Everything you see is decaying, winding its way down into the dark. Why fight the natural order? Welcome it into your lives. Drink up the shadows, still the ticking of the clock, open your heart to the void."

Church shook his head weakly.

"Now," Calatin said sarcastically, "let us see how well you fight."

Ironically, by focusing on Marianne and her torment, Church found he could move a little easier, although it was still not enough. Calatin came at him lazily, swinging his sword like a father fencing with a child. Church blocked and almost dropped his sword. Calatin nipped in and brought the serrated edge of his weapon across Church's arm; the blood burned on his frozen skin.

And then the strangest thing happened. Church felt as if a bright, white light had suddenly burst through his body; just a flash, and then gone in an instant. And somehow he knew it had emanated from Marianne's locket, which he kept hidden in the same pocket as the Black Rose.

Whatever had caused it, it was enough to give him a burst of energy. With a skill that seemed to come from somewhere else, he brought his sword up sharply. The tip caught Calatin's cheek, raising a line of insipid blood. The Fomor whipped his head back in shock, and when he next levelled his gaze at Church, another eyelid appeared to have opened vertically in the eyeball itself, revealing a piercing yellow slit-iris. There was no mistaking the fury in his face. In a frenzy of chopping and hacking, he moved forward. One blow raked open Church's chest. The next bit deeply into his neck. Blood flowed freely.

Church staggered sideways from the bridge and fell on to the bank. The hoar frost in his vision was turning black. Calatin jumped beside him, still wielding the sword venomously. Another blow, more blood.

Church fell on to his back and slithered down to the water's edge. He knew he was dying. As Calatin bore down on him, his sword wet with Church's blood, Church thought of Marianne as a painful swell of bitter emotions washed the ice from him, then Laura, then Ruth and all the others.

Calatin brought the sword down hard and Church had the fleeting impression of floating above himself, looking down on the vision he had had in the Watchtower. And then all became black.

Everything was golden and shimmering, like a river of sunlight, and Ruth felt herself drifting along at the heart of it. It was a far cry from the rush of terror she had felt when the doorway first opened and she had been presented with a vista on the terrible place where the Danann had been banished. But then they had burst out of it, like dawn breaking on a desolate world, and she had been swept up with them, along with Tom and Laura; quite how, she did not know, although she had images of stallions and mares and chariots. Everything was a blur of wonder and awe. Some of them seemed almost human, with beautiful faces, golden skin and flowing hair, but others seemed to be changing their shape constantly as they moved; a few appeared just as light and one or two made her eyes hurt so much she couldn't bear to look at them or attempt to give them any real shape.

We did it! she thought with a sweeping feeling of such relief and ecstatic joy it brought tears to her eyes. We brought the angels down to earth.

Within seconds they were out of the castle and on the road to the Fairy Bridge. Ruth caught glimpses of sky bluer than she had ever imagined, and grass so green and succulent she wanted to roll in it laughing. And there was music, although she had no idea where it was coming from, like strings and brass and voices mingling in one instrument. She closed her eyes and basked in the glory.

It didn't last long. Another sound, discordant and somehow stomachturning, broke through the golden cocoon and she snapped her eyes open. She saw a wall of black, of monstrous eyes, and deformed features, and she recognised the sound of the Fomorii shrieking in anger. As the Danann swept down the hillside towards them, they seemed to roll up, fold in on themselves and melt into the grass.

And then in the stillness that followed there was another sound, smaller and reedier, and she discovered Veitch kneeling on the bridge, yelling something at them. His face was filled with despair so acute it broke through her trance. With a terrible wrench she pulled herself from the golden mass and ran towards him.

There was blood on his temple, but that wasn't the cause of his dismay. He motioned over the side of the bridge, then looked away. She already knew what she would see. She told herself to turn away before she saw so the image would not be with her forever, but she knew she couldn't be a coward. Her eyes brimming with tears, she looked down on Church's body half-submerged in the brook, his blood seeping away with the water. She didn't cry or shout or scream; it was as if all emotion had been torn out of her by a sucking vacuum.

By the time she skidded down the bank her tears were flowing freely and her throat burned from sobbing. She knelt next to the body and took his hand. Why should she feel so bad when it was someone she had met only a few weeks before?

A shadow fell across her and she looked up to see Laura silhouetted against the setting sun. She shifted her position to see Laura's face and it was as she had guessed: cold, dispassionate. "Don't you feel anything?" she said in a fractured voice.

But Laura didn't even seem to recognise she was there. She stared blankly at Church's staring eyes, cocking her head slightly to one side like she was examining a work of art. "I knew you'd do this to me, you bastard," she said softly.

Veitch slumped down on the edge of the bridge. "At least we won," he said wearily. "We drove them off. Despite, you know ... Despite us being a bunch of losers. We did it."

They remained there for a painful moment, not knowing what bound them together any more, barely able even to recognise themselves. And then they heard a crunch of gravel and turned to see Tom and one of the Danann walking towards them. The god exuded power from every pore of his golden skin, and when they looked into his almond eyes they saw nothing they knew.

He stopped before them and rested his gaze on each one of them in turn, a faintly disturbing smile playing on his lips.

"Who are you?" Ruth asked faintly.

The smile grew even more enigmatic. "Once my names were known to everyone in the land. So soon forgotten? It will change, it will change. Who am I? I am Nuada, known as Nuada Airgetlamh, known as Nudd, known as Lludd, known as Lud, founder of Londinium, wielder of Caledfwlch." There was an unpleasant arrogance in the turn of his head. "The Tuatha De Danann give you thanks for freeing us from our place of banishment. In return, the Allfather has given permission for the use of his cauldron."