Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2)

by Mark Chadbourn

  Veitch perked up at this. “What do you mean?”

  Laura pointed out the rough sketch of the village layout with the victims’ houses highlighted.

  “That’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?” he said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “All those poor bastards in one place.”

  “The old biddy wasn’t anywhere near them. It’s probably just that they’ve settled on this area because it’s near to where they come in to the village. Or something.” She stared at the map intently, turning it this way and that.

  Veitch chewed on a jagged nail thoughtfully. “I’m getting a very fucking unpleasant idea,” he said.

  The evening was warm and still as they moved through the village. The chorus of birdsong filled the air, but there was no sound of cars or human voices. Even though it was still light, everyone had retreated to their homes.

  Witch first took them to the large, detached house of Mrs. Ransom, quiet beneath its canopy of old trees. They slipped through the creaking iron gate and up the brick path to the front door. Instead of knocking, Veitch simply inspected the door jamb before growing suddenly excited. He ran back down the path and vaulted the low brick wall on to the pavement. Shavi and Laura hurried to keep up with him as he ran the two streets to the collection of council houses which had provided all the other victims.

  Oldfield’s house was the first to be inspected. Veitch ran from there to the other two. He didn’t bother checking the door of the young mother who had lost her child. Finally he rested breathlessly against the wall of one of the houses. He’d obviously figured something out that everyone had missed, but there was no jubilation in his face; instead, he seemed intensely troubled, and when he looked up Laura saw the familiar glint of cold, hard anger in his eyes.

  “Fucking hell,” he said.

  Max gunned the Fiesta into Richmond just as dusk was falling. The town was dominated by the ruins of the Norman castle which overlooked the River Swale, the keep towers soaring up a hundred feet into the darkening sky. Beneath it, the cobbled market was filled with people enjoying the warm summer evening as they made their way to the pubs.

  Max scrutinised the scene. “People carry on trying to be normal even when they realise something is badly wrong,” he mused.

  “Nothing there to write about,” Tom muttered.

  A tight, knowing grin crept across Max’s face. “That’s where you’re wrong. That is something to write about. That’s something that speaks loudly.”

  “Yes. And it says `Sheep to the slaughter,”’ Tom noted sourly.

  Max laughed easily in disagreement. “And that’s just what I’m going to do. Write about it. About all this. This is something I can do, let the people know the truth. It’s a kind of-“

  “Calling?” Church knew just how he felt. Max nodded, still smiling.

  They left the car in the centre and headed towards the castle on foot, Ruth trailing apprehensively between Church and Tom. Church surveyed the broken stone silhouetted against the blackening sky.

  Tom followed his gaze. “Do you feel it?”

  Church nodded. “The blue fire.”

  “All the clues are there in the legends. The secret history. The story goes that a potter by the name of Thompson found a secret tunnel under the castle. He followed it and found a large cavern where King Arthur and his knights lay asleep. Sound familiar?”

  “What are you talking about?” Max asked.

  “All the legends have truths stitched up inside them. Important information, vital lessons.” Church could see the reporter was soaking up all the information. “The King Arthur legend is a metaphor for the power in the land, what we call the blue fire. The legends surround all the places where this earth energy is most potent, many of them with links direct to Otherworld.”

  “Like here,” Tom said.

  “So when the legends say the king needs to be woken to save the country in the bleakest of times, they’re really talking about waking the power in the land?” Max looked up at the castle in a new light.

  “Thompson found a horn and a sword near to the sleeping knights,” Tom continued, obviously irritated that his story had been interrupted. “When he picked up the horn, the knights began to wake. Naturally, he was scared to death. He dropped the horn and ran back down the tunnel, and as he did so a voice came after him. It said, `Potter Thompson, Potter Thompson, If thou hadst drawn the sword or blown the horn, Thou hadst been the luckiest man e’er born.”’

  “Good story,” Max said warmly.

  They wound their way up for a while until they looked back and saw the lights of the town coming on before them. They all found it uncannily comforting; Richmond looked bright and at peace in an inky sea.

  Tom followed the lines of blue fire as Church had done at Arthur’s Seat until he located their confluence on an open spot on the hillside. The sparks flew like molten metal as he pressed his hand down hard. Within seconds, to Max’s obvious amazement, the grass, soil and rock tore apart with a groan, revealing a dark path deep into the hillside.

  Max peered in nervously. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

  “No,” Tom said, and gave Max a shove between the shoulder blades that propelled him into the shadows.

  Otherworld was bathed in the crisp, creamy light of an autumnal morning just after sunrise. Swathes of mist rolled across the wet grass at calf height. The air was rich with the perfume of turning leaves, fallen apples and overripe blackberries. Melodic birdsong floated out from a nearby copse that was painted gold, red and brown in the dawn light.

  Max looked around, disoriented. “I don’t get it.”

  “Time moves differently here.” Church strode out towards gleaming white Doric columns he could just make out through another thick copse. “Sometimes faster, sometimes slower. It’s not fixed.”

  Max’s face showed his difficulty in grasping the concept of this new reality.

  “Here are the rules,” Tom said curtly. “Eat and drink nothing. If you are offered anything, politely refuse. Treat everyone you meet with respect. Never, ever raise your voice in anger. It would be best if you said nothing at all. Try to stay in the background.”

  “I’m getting a little nervous now,” Max admitted.

  “Just pretend you’re in a different country with a culture you don’t know,” Church said. “You have to be cautious until you know the rules of the society, right?”

  They moved quickly through the trees, the curling leaves crunching underfoot. Beyond, they had to shield their eyes from the glare of the sun reflecting off the polished white stone of their destination which rested in majesterial splendour among intricately laid out gardens. The Doric columns supported a portico carved with an astonishingly detailed tableau showing aspects of the history of the Tuatha De Danann. Behind it, the Court of the Final Word spread out as far as the eye could see, like some Greek temple reflected in infinite mirrors.

  “It’s enormous.” Max’s voice was laden with awe.

  “It would seem.” The door was made of polished stone. Tom was there first and hammered on it. His fist barely seemed to make a sound, but they could hear the echoes rumbling through the structure into the distance.

  When dim footsteps approached Church and Ruth both caught their breath. Despite all they had seen, they were not inured to the wonders and terrors of Otherworld. The life forms were myriad and astonishing in their complexity; even with the Tuatha De Danann, one could never quite be sure what would present itself.

  The door swung open silently, as if it weighed no more than a feather. It framed two figures standing in a cool, enormous hall dominated by a large, tinkling fountain and tall trees which oddly seemed to be part of the structure. The young man and woman looked barely in their twenties and were dressed in what appeared to be gleaming white togas, edged with gold braid. Church and the others’ eyes had no trouble adapting to their appearance, which meant the Golden Ones were of low level and low power.
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br />   “Frail Creatures?” the young man said curiously, his beautiful face like marble, his heavy-lidded eyes moving slowly, like a lizard in the sun.

  “I am True Thomas,” Tom began. “You may have heard of me. I have been granted the freedom of your realm.”

  The woman bowed courteously but a little stiffly, her long, black hair shimmering as she moved. “Greetings, True Thomas. We are aware of your prestigious position.”

  Tom winced at this, although there was no irony in the woman’s words. “My companions and I seek the aid of the Council of the Final Word. Are any of them present this day?”

  “All the council members are concerned with the business of study, True Thomas,” the man said. “A great deal was lost in the storm that followed the Wish-Hex and now so much has been opened up to them once more. The Fixed Lands for one. I am sure you understand.”

  Tom nodded slowly; Church was puzzled to see a grey cast fall across his face. “They are not involved in any dissections?” The young man said nothing. Tom composed himself and continued, “With the freedom granted to me, I would wish to wait.”

  “It may be some time. In your perception.”

  “If you would inform the council of my attendance I am sure one of the Venerated Ones would eventually find a way to greet me.”

  The man nodded and stepped aside so they could enter. They were led to a room off a long, lofty atrium. It was filled with marble benches and sumptuous cushions piled alongside rushing crystal streams cut into the gleaming stone floor.

  “I wish I’d brought Laura’s sunglasses,” Ruth said feebly.

  “How are you feeling?” Church gave her a hug.

  “Still sick.”

  They arranged some of the cushions in a circle and lounged. “They’re like the worst kind of arrogant aristocrats,” Max whispered. Tom made a silencing move with his hand. Max nodded and continued, “How long are they going to keep us waiting?”

  “Hours. Perhaps days. Maybe even weeks.”

  “Weeks!” Ruth said dismally.

  Yet it was only twenty minutes before they heard movement in the corridor without. “Looks like you’ve still got some clout,” Church whispered.

  A deep, unfocused light glimmered across the white walls, as if whoever was approaching held a lantern, but when the figure emerged he carried nothing. And this time Church did experience the unnerving shift of perception; faces seemed to float across the figure’s head, some of them sickeningly alien and incomprehensible, others cultured and sophisticated. Eventually he settled on a set of educated, aristocratic features that centred on a Roman nose and a high forehead with piercing grey eyes and full lips; his hair was long and grey and tied at the back in a ponytail. There was a sense of tremendous authority about him that made Church almost want to bow, although he was loath to debase himself before any of the invaders.

  Tom, however, was already down on one knee. “You honour me, master.”

  “True Thomas. It pleases me to see you so hale and hearty after everything.” His smile was broad and warm; Church felt instantly at ease. “And these companions, are they as resilient as you, True Thomas?”

  “Oh, more so by far.” Tom stood up and gestured to Church and Ruth. “A Brother of Dragons, a Sister of Dragons.” Tom introduced them by name, studiously avoiding bringing any attention to Max. Then he motioned to the gentle, kindly figure while keeping one eye on Ruth. “You are honoured. This is Dian Cecht, High Lord of the Court of the Final Word, seeker of mystery, master healer, supreme smith, builder of the silver hand of Nuada-“

  Dian Cecht waved him silent with a pleasant laugh. “There is no need to trumpet my successes unless you also tell of my many failures, True Thomas, and those I would rather leave to the shadows. I would thank you, Brother and Sister of Dragons, for the part you played in freeing us from the privations of the Wish-Hex.” Church winced at the memory of how the Tuatha De Danann had manipulated them, made them suffer in the extreme, just for such an occasion. Dian Cecht gestured magniloquently. “Now, tell me your request.”

  Tom laid a hand on Ruth’s shoulder and pressed her forward. “The Night Walkers have inflicted their corruption on this Sister of Dragons, Good Lord. We ask your favour in helping to remove it.”

  Dian Cecht nodded thoughtfully. “I sensed the whiff of the Night Walkers’ presence. Their vile trail is too distinctive to hide. I would not have thought a Sister of Dragons would have allowed herself to be so tainted.”

  Ruth felt as if she had failed in his eyes.

  “There is nothing ignoble in this suffering,” Tom said in her defence. “This Sister of Dragons has proved the most hardy of her companions. She succumbed only in the face of overwhelming force.” He paused, then added, “Much in the way the Tuatha De Danann succumbed to the first onslaught of the Fomorii.”

  There was a flicker of coldness in Dian Cecht’s eye as he cast it suddenly in Tom’s direction. “Ah, True Thomas, one would have thought you would have learned diplomacy during your time among us. Still, I am sure there was no offence intended, and I understand your point.” He turned back to Ruth, now smiling warmly. “The Filid I am sure will sing loudly of your courageous struggle. I will do for you what I can.”

  As he turned to go, he spied Max hovering behind the others. “I see you have left this Fragile Creature out of your accounts, True Thomas.”

  Tom had the expression of a schoolboy who had been caught out. “He is here to keep a record of these great things transpiring in this world of ours.”

  “Ah,” Dian Cecht nodded thoughtfully. “Then you maintain the traditions of the Filid. Good, good. Wisdom and knowledge needs to be recorded and disseminated.”

  Once he had glided out of the room to make his preparations, Ruth turned to Tom. “Who is he? Can he do the job?”

  “I was speaking correctly when I said you were honoured. Dian Cecht is one of the greatest of the Tuatha De Danann.” Tom flopped down on to a cushion as if his conversation with the god had wearied him.

  “He seemed … wise,” Max ventured.

  “Wisdom is the essence of him. He has a vista into the very workings of existence. He sees the building blocks that make up everything, the spirit that runs through them. That is why he is the greatest of physicians, the deepest of thinkers, the best maker of all things.” Although his words seemed on the surface to be filled with awe, there was a sour note buried somewhere among them.

  “All of the Tuatha De Danann seem very different from each other,” Church noted.

  Tom nodded. “While obviously a race, they are all set apart as individuals-“

  “So he’s a top doctor?” Ruth interjected.

  Tom sighed at her phraseology. “He is the god of healing in the Tuatha De Danann pantheon. He was renowned for guarding the sacred spring of health, along with his daughter, Airmid. It is believed it has its source here, within this temple complex, though no one knows for sure. Its miraculous waters can cure the sick and bring the dead back to life.” Church stirred at this, but he didn’t dwell on the thoughts that surfaced. “It can, so they say, even restore the gods.”

  Ruth could barely contain her relief. “So he shouldn’t have any problem with whatever those dirty bastards did to me.”

  “Then he’s one of the good guys,” Max said.

  “You could say that,” Tom replied contemptuously. “The truth is buried in the old stories. When Nuada lost his hand in the first battle of Magh Tuireadh, Dian Cecht made him a new one out of silver. The Tuatha lle Danann were impressed by his handiwork, but it was not enough. Because he was not truly whole, Nuada was no longer allowed to lead them into battle. He coped as best he could with the shame, but eventually he turned to Dian Cecht’s son, Miach, who was believed to be an even greater physician. And it was true. Miach knew the workings of existence even better than Dian Cecht. He grew Nuada a new hand, a real one, and fixed it on to him. A remarkable feat, even for the Tuatha lle Danann. Nuada was whole again and once more took up the leadership
of the race. A time of celebration, you would think? Instead, Dian Cecht promptly murdered Miach for upstaging him. So, yes, a good guy. That’s a fair description, isn’t it?”

  They all fell silent while they considered this information. Then Church said, “If he’s such a big shot, why did he come so quickly when you called instead of sending out some menial?”

  “Perhaps,” Tom replied, “he was stricken with guilt.” But he would not elaborate on his comment any further.

  The young man and woman who had greeted them at the door were sent to fetch them an hour later. With Church supporting Ruth, who had been overcome by another bout of nausea, they were led into a massive precinct with a ceiling so lofty they could barely see it through the glare that streamed in through massive glass skylights. Vines crawled around the columns which supported the roof, while some seemed to have trees growing through them as if the stone had formed around the wood.

  Dian Cecht stood in a shaft of sunlight in the centre of the room, next to a spring which bubbled up out of the ground. The water was crystal clear and caught the light in a continually changing manner. Although it had no odour, the air near it seemed more fragrant, clearer. They found their gaze was continuously drawn to its sparkle and shimmer, as if it were calling them on some level they didn’t understand.

  Dian Cecht was wearing robes of the deepest scarlet, which made Ruth instinctively uneasy; he was like a pool of blood in the whiteness of the room. A scarf of red was tied around his head, hiding his hair. He motioned to Ruth to come forward. She glanced briefly at Church for support, then moved in front of the tall, thin god. His eyes were piercing as he silently surveyed her face; she felt he was looking deep into the heart of her, and that made it even more worrying when a troubled expression crossed his face.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He shook his head, said nothing. Beside him, a strange object lay on a brass plate that rested atop a short marble column. Ruth tried to see what it was, but her eyes strangely blurred every time she came close to focusing.

  He bent over the object and muttered something that sounded like the keening of the wind across a bleak moor. It seemed to respond to the sound, changing, twisting, folding inside out, until it settled on the shape of a bright, white egg with waving tendrils. Ruth instantly recalled the creature she had seen in Ogma’s library immediately after the operation to remove the Fomorii equivalent from Tom’s brain. “A Caraprix,” she said.