Always Forever

by Mark Chadbourn

  A little further on they smelled smoke, and as they progressed they realised they could make out a faint glow tinting the tunnel walls. They moved in closer to one wall and edged forward cautiously. The smoke grew thicker, the light brighter.

  Round a bend in the tunnel they glimpsed several fires burning. After so many hours of darkness it took a while for their eyes to adjust to the glare, and when they did they pulled back quickly. Several Fomorii were moving amongst piles of burning rubbish. It was obviously some kind of checkpoint or guard camp.

  Veitch cursed quietly. "We're never going to get past that."

  "I bet they've got camps like that all around the perimeter of their core area."

  "There was a door further back. We will find a way past the bastards."

  "I wish we could get some of that fire." Ruth examined what remained of the torch.

  They retraced their steps to an unmarked door almost lost in the gloom. Veitch used his dagger to smash the lock and they slipped into a clean corridor that led on to a large thoroughfare. It had a hard Tarmac surface and there were military-style stencils on the wall pointing to locations obviously written in code.

  "These must be the tunnels the Government set up in the fifties and sixties in case of a nuclear strike," Ruth said. "A good way to save all the great and good and leave the poor bastards to die. Probably a favour. Who'd want to live in a world filled with politicians, the military, businessmen and the aristocracy?"

  "We're well and truly bleedin' lost now," Veitch said angrily. "Why did it have to be me who fucked up again?"

  When he was like that there was no consoling him. "Pick a direction," she said dismally. "It'll take us somewhere."

  His anger grew more intense as it became obvious they were moving off the beaten track. The well-tended road gave way to rough ground, the tunnel became unfinished: bare brick, then girders and scaffolding, before they came to a thick barrier of sleepers and planks.

  Veitch smashed his fist against the wall, as hard as if he was punching someone in the face, but his rage wiped away any pain he might have felt. When he turned, Ruth could see his knuckles were ragged.

  She cowered as he stormed around searching for something to attack. "We fucked up!" he yelled.

  "We can go-"

  "No! We! Can't!" His furious face thrust an inch away from hers. Suddenly she was terrified; she couldn't see any sign of the funny, gentle Veitch she had known from the quieter times they had shared.

  She took a step back, but didn't show her fear. "Pull yourself together."

  "What?" His eyes ranged wildly as though she wasn't there.

  "I said, pull yourself together. You're the hero here-"

  "Hero! I'm the bleedin' loser! Same as I always was!" He flailed his arm, obviously some sort of primal gesture to wave her away. But instead he caught the torch and knocked it from her weak grip. It smashed into pieces on the floor, the flame now a faint flicker along one of the shards.

  "Ryan!" Ruth dropped to her knees desperately, but there was nothing to save.

  "Oh, fuck! Now look what I've done!" He ran over and kicked the wall hard.

  Ruth only saw what happened next from the corner of her eye as she bent down trying to pull the remaining pieces of wood together to keep the flame going. Weakened by his punches, the wall collapsed. Veitch plunged forward into a gulf beyond and a shower of rubble fell down reclosing the opening.

  Ruth covered her head until the fall had ended, but none of the debris touched her. She looked at the faint flame and then slowly took in her surroundings.

  "Oh, Ryan," she whispered. And then the tears came in force.

  When she finally regained control of her emotions, Ruth wiped her eyes and resolved to find a way out of her predicament. She wasn't going to be beaten. She certainly wasn't going to die down there. Balor had to be beaten, humanity had to be saved and, more importantly-she had to laugh at that strange truth-she had to see Church again. Even if she had to crawl along pitch-black tunnels to find a way out.

  The flame was barely more than a candle's height on the splinters of wood. It became trimmed briefly with blue and then began to gutter.

  Here we go, she thought. Prepare yourself.

  Then, as the flame finally began to die, she became aware of other lights in the dark. At first she dismissed it as an optical illusion caused by the sharp contrast of shadow and light on her retina. The flame became the size of her fingernail.

  Almost gone now.

  But the other lights remained; tiny, glittering stars sweeping across the firmament. She scanned them curiously, and then, just as the flame finally died she realised what she was seeing and her blood ran cold.

  Darkness swept up around her and she heard the sharp skittering sound as the first rat moved forward.

  Veitch fell fifteen feet into freezing water, slamming his head hard on the way down. The cold and wet kept him conscious, but the dark was so all-consuming he couldn't tell up from down. The water came up to his thighs and by stretching out slowly on either side he realised he was in some kind of small tunnel or gully as wide as the span of his arms. He spent ten minutes trying to find where he had fallen and attempting to climb back up, but it was impossible to see, and more rubble kept falling. Dejected and afraid he might be pinned by another collapse, he began to wade wearily forward.

  He continued for what he guessed was around an hour, pausing occasionally to rest against the wall and catch minutes of microsleep. He couldn't even feel his lower legs and he wondered how long it would be before hypothermia set in. But whatever set him apart as a Brother of Dragons made him resilient, helped him to heal; he'd keep going, he thought dismally. He hated himself. He hated himself so much he considered lying down in the water and drowning himself, but it wasn't in his nature. So he had to continue with the infinitely worse burden of his guilt, thinking about what he had done to Ruth, punishing himself by images of her wandering along inky corridors until the inevitable end came. It had all been his fault; he could almost have scripted it.

  The water began to rise soon after, a half-hour later it was up to chest height. He was racked by convulsive shivers, drifting in and out of a fugue state brought on by the cold. Gradually he became aware that the tunnel was becoming increasingly steep. By the time he had grasped how sharply it was falling away, his feet would no longer give him purchase and suddenly he was sliding down. He barely had time to take a breath before the water washed above his head, and then he was rattling down an incline, faster and faster, until it became a vertical drop.

  The rush of water burst out into thin air. He could vaguely feel his legs bicycling as he plunged thirty feet into more water, deeper this time and rushing in a torrent. One random thought flickered through his head: Ruth's beautiful face as she told him about London's old River Fleet, now buried beneath the city as it rushed down towards the Thames. And then the impact stole his consciousness and the water closed over his head.

  chapter nineteen

  in the belly of the beast

  ave Sweeper was moored not far from Southend when Church came sweeping down from the northwest with the remainder of the Tuatha Df Danann force. The journey skirting Greater London and through the green fields of rural Essex had passed in a golden blur. He was accompanied by Tom, the Bone Inspector and Niamh, but he didn't recognise any of the other gods, although he sensed many of them were not sympathetic to the cause of the Fragile Creatures. He wondered why his particular task force was burdened with more dissenters than the other two, but Tom wasn't too concerned when he raised the matter.

  On board it felt strangely good to be back in the familiar detachment of Otherworld with its heightened sensations, away from all the suffering of the real world. There was an atmosphere of stillness that eased the anxiety coiled in his chest; even the sun was shining brighter than on the shore. He made his way to the rail where he quietly enjoyed the tang of the sea and the warmth on his skin, until Tom joined him.

  "You're going to b
ring me down, aren't you?" Church said without looking round.

  "I'm the last person to advocate an injection of reality, but-"

  "I know: responsibility, obligation, and all that. Is this the standard precrisis pep talk?"

  "Something like that." Tom leaned against the rail, facing the sun, his eyes closed. "You know, I can remember the days of my youth as clearly as if they were yesterday. Hundreds of years-although it's not really, not by Otherworld time. But it's still a long, long time and so many experiences." He took a deep breath. "I smell the blossom in the garden of my childhood, so powerful, like incense and fruit wrapped up together. I remember distinctly the way the sunlight caught the dew on a spiderweb in an old yew tree, one dawn when I had crept out of the house before anyone had awoken. The rosewater on the neck of the first woman I ever loved. The touch of her fingers on the back of my neck." He shook his head dreamily. "Amazing."

  Church watched Tom curiously. He had never heard him speak so tenderly, nor talk of any of the happy times in his human life before his transformation at the hands of the Tuatha De Danann Queen. It was as if he had wanted to keep them secure from the horrors that had assailed him since.

  "Now I begin, for the first time in many years, the memories come thick and fast." Tom's eyes glistened in the sun. "Days of tenderness, composing songs and poems. Nights watching the stars over the Eildon Hills. My mother and father, at Christmas, leading the singing before the fire. My best friend James, playing hide-and-seek in the kitchens, then later courting the girls from the village together." He turned fully to Church with no attempt to hide his tears. "Remember your own bright moments, Jack, and hold them in your heart. They will keep you warm in the coldest nights."

  "Why are you telling me these things?"

  "Nothing I could say would help you to comprehend right now. You will understand everything presently."

  Church tried to glean some insight from Tom's face, but he was taken aback to see it was packed with complex emotions. For so long, Tom had appeared to have no feeling in him at all; as inhuman as he always believed himself to be. It felt like a sea change had come over him, even in the last hour. "What's happened to you?"

  "Time has come a-calling. Finally."

  Church could see he was not going to get anything out of the Rhymer; infuriatingly, his friend's unexplained words worked their way deep into his mind, where they set off a troubling resonance.

  While he wrestled with his thoughts, he scanned the deck where the crew busied themselves for departure. The main Tuatha De Danann force had all disappeared below with their weapons. Manannan stood at the wheel, overseeing the activity. He raised a hand in greeting when he saw Church.

  "I hope you're telling him what a pathetic little runt he is." The Bone Inspector's gruff voice shattered the mood in an instant. He leaned on his staff, the wind whipping his grey hair.

  Tom snapped, "No-"

  "I was talking to him." The Bone Inspector nodded towards Church.

  "Don't start with your useless prattling." Tom eyed him murderously.

  "You may have been honoured by the Culture in the times of my ancestors, but that doesn't mean I can't give you a good whupping with my staff." The Bone Inspector underlined his point by twirling the staff around his arms as if it were alive.

  "Great. Two old people fighting," Church muttered. "It'll be like watching your granny barge her way into the bread queue."

  "Don't forget," Tom cautioned the Bone Inspector, "the Culture dies out with you." He smiled sadistically.

  "Well, that's where you're wrong. I've been making some plans-"

  "Don't you think that's a little premature?" Church said.

  "You shut up and concentrate on your job, you lanky-arsed weasel." The Bone Inspector returned his attention to Tom, nodding superciliously. "Yes, I've been thinking. Now the seasons have turned and all the materialistic, logic-obsessed bastards have had a rude awakening, it might be time for a reflowering of the Culture. I can see the colleges now, maybe at Glastonbury and Anglesey, like we used to have in the old, old days. Passing on the wisdom to a new generation of bright-eyed-"

  "You think you'd make a good teacher?" Tom sneered. "After all that time sleeping in ditches they'll need to hose you down with industrial cleaning fluid just to get somebody in a room with you."

  The Bone Inspector scowled. "At least I know my arse from my elbow."

  "Yes, but do you know your arse from your mouth? I think not."

  Church sighed and made to pacify them, but they turned on him so venomously he backed away. "Okay, go ahead, knock yourself out," he said tartly. "Literally, if possible."

  The bickering ended when Niamh walked over. Tom gave a restrained, deferential bow, but the Bone Inspector simply looked away, as if he were alone on deck and lost in a reverie.

  "The Master is preparing to sail," she said. She glanced round to ensure she could not be overheard, then added quietly, "Taranis oversaw the arrival of a container brought aboard by Nuada's personal guard. It was stowed in a section of the hold where access is restricted only to the Master and Taranis. Those faithful to Nuada stand guard without."

  "I think I saw it," Church said. "Was it a large wooden chest with bands of iron around it and a gold clasp?"

  "That may be how you perceived it." Niamh looked from one to the other. "I believe it to be the Wish-Hex."

  "They won't even let you near it?" Church asked.

  She bit her lip. "I could attempt ... It would cost ..." She shook her head. "No matter. There is too much at stake."

  Church looked to Tom. "When do you think they'll detonate it?"

  "When it's close to Balor and they're well away."

  "Not on board ship?"

  "Good Lord, no!" Tom looked horrified. "And lose Wave Sweeper? This isn't just a collection of timber and nails, you know!"

  Church took Niamh's hand and led her to one side. "I know this is hard for you, working against your own people, but if there's anything you can do-"

  "Do not feel you have to ask anything of me, Jack. I do what I do freely because I believe in the rightness of this course. And I believe in you." She looked down at where her slim, cool hand still lay in his. "You have changed my existence, Jack. And to one of the Golden Ones, who are as constant as the stars, that is a humbling and profound thing."

  "I don't see how I could have, Niamh," he protested. "I'm nothing out of the ordinary."

  She leaned forward to kiss him gently on the cheek. "Things are coming to a head, Jack. All will be made clear soon."

  Her smile was filled with such deep love he was left floundering. She turned and drifted away amongst the frantic activity of the crew, an oasis of calm and dignity.

  The ship hove to soon after and made its way into the Estuary. Though it still remained a tranquil place, the strain on all who sailed was apparent. Tom rejoined Church at the prow, looking around nervously. "Now if we can get to that pep talk without any interruptions from that old curmudgeon ..." He pointed to the makeshift rucksack hanging from Church's shoulder. "You have the Wayfinder?"

  Church removed the old lantern with the flickering blue flame that had guided him through the earliest days of the mystery to show him. "But I don't know what use it's going to be. I was thinking of leaving it here. I don't want to be carrying any more weight than necessary."

  Tom shook his head furiously. "There is still one talisman to find." His smile suggested this was another long-kept secret he was relieved to be revealing. "The biggest one of all."

  "Where is it?"

  "Somewhere near our destination. You recall when we summoned the Celtic dead for guidance in Scotland? They said: You must find the Luck of the Land if you are ever to unleash the true power of the people."

  "Yes," Church said suspiciously, "and you said you had no idea what they were talking about."

  "At that exact moment, I did not. But it came to me soon after. There was only one thing it could be."

  Church bared his teeth. "And
you didn't see fit to tell me until now?"

  Tom shrugged dismissively. "The time was not right."

  "Tom . . . "

  "All right," he snapped. "I wanted only you to know. And I left it to this late stage because I did not want you to confide in any of the others, as you undoubtedly would have done with your various romantic liaisons," he added sniffily. "And then it would have been all over the place."

  "All right. No need to act like my granddad."

  "It is my role to be-"

  "All right, all right! What is the bloody Luck of the Land?"

  "The Luck of the Land is the severed head of Bran the Blessed. He was a great hero, and the closest of the Golden Ones to humanity. He knew about the destiny of the Fragile Creatures and he was even prepared to sacrifice himself to see us achieve it. The old stories tell how he was murdered by a poisoned arrow. On his deathbed, he told his followers to cut off his head, yet even removed, it could still eat and talk. It was brought back to London and buried beneath the Tower, where it became the source of the land's power. Of humanity's power. Another myth said King Arthur sought it out as the source of his own strength. You can see the symbolism."

  "So it's linked directly to the Blue Fire? That's what all the Arthur myths mean, isn't it?"

  "Correct."

  Church looked out at the quiet, dead countryside that bordered the river. "But what can it do?"

  "The Celts revered severed heads, believing them to have great magical power. In their view, the head is the source of the soul. They knew the truth at the heart of this legend. And don't forget ..."

  "... myths and legends are the secret history of the land. I'll be happy when I don't hear that phrase again."