"How do you know all this? Did the Bone Inspector tell you?"
"Some of it." There was a long silence in which he seemed to be wrestling with his thoughts, and then he said, "I have been to Otherworld."
Church at first wondered if it were some kind of stupid attempt at humour, but he had never heard Tom joke before. "You're lying."
He sighed. "I never lie."
"Then how?"
"Through one of those weak spots I mentioned. In Scotland, on a hillside."
Witch seemed excited by this turn in the conversation. He crawled to the front of the cage and gripped the bars. "What was it like?"
"So many wonders." Tom's voice was oddly strained. "I was changed, immeasurably. I learned things there, wisdom, certain skills, the ability to manipulate subtle energies-"
"Magic," Church said.
"If you like. Though I'm not adept, I achieve some little things."
"Like getting us out of here?" Veitch said hopefully.
Tom shook his head and they all fell silent for a long minute.
"You're not lying to us?" Church stressed.
"I said, I never lie."
Veitch hammered a fist against the bars angrily, then crawled back to the corner of the cage.
"Then you know at first hand what all these so-called gods can do," Church continued. "Is there hope?"
"There's always hope."
"What about Calatin and the Fomorii?"
"The Fomorii are a race made up of tribes, some large, some small, all vying for power. Since Balor died they have been on the verge of civil war. Although Calatin is the nominal leader, his halfbreed status has not endeared him to the others. But that's by the by. Their return to our world has reunited them to a degree, but the power struggle has simply moved into the background." He coughed fitfully, then spat through the bars. "You and the others are a fine trophy, the symbol of everything the Fomorii wish to eradicate. Whomsoever holds you captive, or eliminates you, is advanced in the eyes of all the tribes."
"What are you saying?" Church gripped the bars to lever himself up; although the pain had receded a little, he felt like nails were being driven into his flesh.
"Were you to escape," Tom continued weakly, "there would be others at your back apart from Calatin. He is dangerous ..." He paused, moistened his lips. "But there is one much worse. He controls dark power to a degree which Calatin can only dream of, but it has consumed him physically. Now his presence can only be contained by a murder of crows, swirling tightly together in a proscribed pattern that prevents his life energy seeping out. His name is Mollecht."
Church remembered the description the Bone Inspector had given of their pursuers at Avebury. "So Calatin set the Fabulous Beast and the Wild Hunt after us, but this Mollecht is hunting us too?"
"Christ, it sounds like we're wasting our time," Veitch groaned.
"No," Church said adamantly. "If we can get out of here and find the four talismans by Beltane then we can free the Danann-"
"Beltane?" Veitch looked at Church in bafflement.
"May Day."
"Shit." He slumped down in the straw, his head in his hands.
11 -and they can do all the dirty work for us," Church finished, ignoring Veitch's despondency.
"Best be careful what you wish for," Tom croaked. His head was nodding; he was on the verge of either sleeping or blacking out.
"Tom!" Church called. "Stay focused. We need some answers. You've been out of this cell a lot. Did you see any chance of a way out of here?"
There was a long pause, then: "No. No way out."
Occasionally noises would filter through the walls, their source impossible to discern, but disturbing nonetheless; Church tried his best to ignore them. Instead, he turned his thoughts to Tom and his outrageous assertion that he had visited the home of the gods. Church had noticed a single expression that had convinced him; it was so fleeting, it had probably only been there for an instant, but it had been so stark and filled with terror Church had almost flinched.
He and Veitch spent what seemed like hours turning over every possibility that might lead to escape, but their talk only increased their sense of hopelessness. Yet as they crawled off to their separate corners to sleep, Church's mind was still turning, refusing to give up. Whatever had been released from deep within during his agonies on the torture table still fired him, refusing to allow him to drift into despair.
He awoke suddenly, aware that there was someone standing near him. With a start, he threw himself up and back against the cold, slick stone wall, ready to defend himself. But instead of a threat, there was a moment of shock while he struggled to comprehend what he was actually seeing. Before him, wrapped in a thick, dark green cloak with a hood thrown over her head, was the woman from the Watchtower. She raised a hand quickly to silence him before he could cry out. Quickly he glanced around to get his bearings; both Veitch and Tom appeared to be sleeping.
"How did you get in here?" he hissed.
Her face peered from the dark depths of her hood, pale and beautiful like the moon. "I am here to help," she said in that soft, musical voice that had so entranced him before. "I am your patron, Jack. I am guiding you to a greater destiny. In the current climate, it is dangerous for me to leave the Watchtower, but you need my aid to leave this foul place. Do you know what the Night Walkers plan to do with you?"
"I can guess."
"No," she said darkly, "you cannot. It was foolish of you to allow yourself to fall into their hands." There was an edge to her voice he hadn't heard before; it suggested darker emotions lying just beneath the surface. "It was even more foolish to let them take hold of the Wayfinder. You must not leave here without it. Should they ever utilise the secrets it represents, it would be the end of everything. Do you understand?"
Church nodded dumbly.
Gold flecks flickered in the depths of her eyes. "When next you try the cell door, it will be open. And all the doors before you this night will be open. That is my help, the rest you must do yourself. You are a Brother of Dragons, and perhaps you need to earn that title for yourself."
"Deus ex machina," he muttered.
She held up a hand sharply. "Do not disappoint my faith in you again." Her cloak seemed to shimmer and then fold in on itself. There was the strange sucking noise he had first heard outside the Salisbury depot as the air collapsed, and then she was gone.
Church stared blankly into the vacated space, trying to come to terms with what he had heard, and then he launched himself across the cell. His rough shaking woke Veitch, but Church didn't wait to explain. He was already at the cell door, almost afraid to try it, but it swung open with a loud creak at just the touch of a finger.
"How'd you manage that?" Veitch said incredulously.
"I'll tell you later." Church propelled himself across the gap to Tom's cell; the door opened just as easily. It was a little harder to stir the exhausted man, who was mumbling and twitching in the throes of nightmare. Up close Church could see the bloody scar on Tom's temple; he wondered how much damage had been done to him.
Veitch helped Church get him to his feet, but it didn't take Tom long to fight through his daze. He seemed sharper than the last time they had spoken. "Stop manhandling me!" he snapped. They let him go, and although he wavered slightly, he seemed able to walk unaccompanied. Cautiously they pulled open the main door.
The corridor without was shored up by rough timbers in parts. It was lit intermittently by torches, but the gloom was pervasive. As they moved out, anxiously glancing around, they became aware of vile smells awash in the air, the foetid stink of the Fomorii, the dampness of the underground atmosphere, and beneath it all the stench of cooking that Church had experienced in the torture chamber.
Their bodies were clenched, their eyes darting anxiously; Church didn't think he had ever felt so much fearful apprehension. It seemed it would only be a matter of time before they stumbled across one of the dark creatures, but the winding corridors were as silent as the
grave, almost as if the Fomorii had deserted the mine.
When they reached a junction in the tunnels, Tom paused to lean against the wall. Church thought he was fading again, but Tom waved him away furiously when he went to help. Eventually he pointed along the tunnel which sloped deeper into the ground. "That way."
Veitch glanced in the opposite direction. "You sure? It looks-"
"That way," Tom snapped. "We cannot leave until we have the Wayfinder."
Church concurred, then led the way along the tunnel which grew steeper and steeper with each step. Soon they were almost slipping and sliding down an incline, desperately trying not to make any noise, but the sound of their shoes on the rough surface echoed crazily. The tunnel came to an abrupt halt in a cavern so large the roof was lost in shadows. After the grey and black of the corridors, Church was shocked to see the gleaming, manmade yellow of the drums he had first come across at the depot in Salisbury; they were piled across the expanse of the cavern.
Alarm bells started ringing in Church's mind. "What's going on?" he whispered. "I thought this chemical delivery was just a front for whatever the Fomorii were doing in Salisbury."
"They are not chemicals," Tom said darkly. "Not in any sense you mean."
Veitch prised off the lid of one of the drums and peered inside, snatching his head back suddenly as the foul stink of the contents hit him. "Shit! That's bleedin' disgusting!" he hissed. Inside a viscous black solution like crude oil reflected their faces.
"What is it then?" Church searched Tom's face for any sign.
"A ritual potion of some kind."
Church looked around dumbly at the stacked drums. "What could they use all this for? And why are they transporting it?"
Veitch cocked his head and listened carefully. "We can't hang around here gassing all day. Let's sort this out later. Where do we find that Wayfinder thing?"
Tom pointed across the cavern. "Over there somewhere."
Witch shook his head. "If you say so, mate. Lead the way."
Their footsteps echoed hollowly off the stacks of drums as they wove their way among them; it almost seemed like they were in a maze. At any moment he expected the Fomorii to fall upon them from all directions. But though he strained to hear a sound, there was nothing, and that was just as unnerving.
It took them fifteen minutes to reach the other side, tension growing with every step. Tom led them to an upward-sloping tunnel, and five minutes later they came upon a rough-hewn door. There was a large padlock on it, but when Church touched it, it fell open in his hands and the door swung in. It led on to a small room cast in blue from the flickering flame of the Wayfinder, which stood on a bench against the far wall. Next to it, on a velvet cloth, was the Black Rose, and beside that was a handgun and some boxes of ammunition. Church stepped in ahead of the others, snatched up the rose and slipped it into his pocket.
"What was that?" Tom asked.
"Just something they took from me when I got here," Church said dismissively. He examined the Wayfinder carefully and then hid it under his jacket.
"Is that what everybody's so worked up about?" Veitch said. "A bleedin' lantern?" He picked up the gun and slugs.
Church eyed him suspiciously. "Are those yours?"
Veitch shrugged. "For self-defence."
They hurried back into the tunnel, but Church felt increasingly uncomfortable. "This doesn't make any sense. Surely they wouldn't leave the Wayfinder here without any guards if it's supposed to be so important to them."
"Perhaps they didn't expect us to be wandering freely out of our cells," Tom said sarcastically.
"Even so-" Before he could finish his sentence, the mine reverberated with the chilling sound of the tolling bell they had heard before. It seemed close at hand, but still muffled, as if behind thick walls of stone.
"Shit," Veitch muttered. His face looked drained of blood in the flickering torchlight.
"Which way?" Church prompted. Tom was expressionless; Veitch merely shrugged. On a hunch, Church left them and sprinted back down the tunnel to the cavern. Through the gloom on the other side, he could see movement. It was hard to make out at first, just oddly shifting patterns of shadows like running water in the dark, but as his eyes focused he had the disturbing impression of insects swarming from a nest, an impossible multitude sweeping out amongst the yellow drums. The image was almost hypnotic, but it filled him with dread. He sprinted back up the tunnel, not even pausing as he reached the other two. "This way," he yelled as he passed.
The tunnels were low, dark and slick, and numerous times they slipped or cracked their heads against low roofs, but they were driven on by the noise growing behind them; it sounded at first like the low, deep rasp of an enormous beast, then it began to fragment into a mix of individual sounds, of rumbling, bestial voices and thundering feet.
Their breath burned in their throats and sweat stung their eyes, but they knew they couldn't slow for a moment. The tunnel rose upwards relentlessly, but Church couldn't shake the terrible feeling that it would suddenly start dipping down again, leaving them nowhere to run but round in circles. As they passed another junction, Church felt a blast of chill air. Scrambling to a halt, he herded the others up the branch tunnel. A minute later they hit a dead end.
"Shit!" Witch's eyes blazed like a cornered animal.
The thunderous sound of pursuit was growing louder; the Fomorii couldn't be far off the tunnel junction.
"Up," Church gasped; it was all he could force out.
Veitch and Tom raised their heads, but all they could see was darkness. Then another gust of fresh air hit them in their faces and they realised what he meant. Fastened to one wall was a rusty iron ladder. Although Church wasn't convinced it would hold, he forced Tom up first and then Veitch made him follow before taking up the rear. Tom was starting to fade, but Church egged him on insistently. The ladder was cold and wet to the touch and once or twice Church's foot slipped off it, almost hitting Veitch in the face; a flurry of cursing followed. Their muscles ached almost too much to hold on, but the threat of what lay below was enough to free any last reserves of strength they had. It wasn't long until they felt the vibrations in the ladder that signalled the Fomorii were behind them.
Church was just beginning to fear that the climb was too high for them when Tom suddenly hauled himself over the top. Church launched himself out, rolling on to scrubby grass and Dartmoor granite. It was night, cold but clear, the sky sprinkled with stars. Veitch landed on top of him, winding him.
"They're right behind," Church gasped unnecessarily. "We'll never get away-
"Give me a hand." Veitch was at the shaft entrance. For a second, Church couldn't understand what he was doing, but then it clicked. Together they gripped the top of the ladder and strained. Church thought he could see movement in the dark just below and wondered briefly if they had made the right decision. But then there was a deep rending noise as the rusty supports pulled free from the wall of the shaft. The weight of whatever was ascending continued the movement and with a loud crash the ladder tore away and plummeted into the depths.
Witch clapped Church on the shoulder jubilantly. "Bloody hell. We did it!"
But Tom was insisting there was no time for celebration, and soon they were stumbling across the moorland in the moonlight.
The land rose and fell, but they kept to the hollows, crawling on their bellies when they had to mount a ridge, and eventually they made their way to a windswept copse which allowed them some shelter. Church leaned against a tree and looked back, but he could see no indication of pursuit. Suddenly Church was filled with all the pain and exhaustion inflicted upon him by Calatin's torture. It had somehow been suppressed by the urgency of their flight. As he began to pitch forward, Veitch caught him and supported him to the ground.
They allowed themselves only ten minutes to rest, just in case, then Church pulled out the Wayfinder and, with Witch's help, he wearily began to follow its flame westwards across the moor.
chapter twel
ve
mi vida Inca
unlight drenched the streets of Glastonbury and the air was filled with the sweet aroma of honeysuckle and lemon. The sky overhead had been as blue as the brightest summer day since Ruth, Laura and Shavi had nursed the van into town, shattered by the rigours of their pursuit by the Wild Hunt. The temperature had remained unseasonably balmy, without the briefest hint of rain or a chill on the wind.
"It doesn't seem right," Ruth said, trying on the cheap sunglasses she had bought after browsing in the proliferation of New Age shops. She glanced up, trying to reconcile the weather with the time of year.
"Don't knock it." Laura was impassive behind her own sunglasses.
"It's more than just the weather," Ruth continued. "There's something in the air. Can't you feel it?"
"Peace," Shavi interjected.
"For the first time since we set off from London, I feel safe. It's like there's a bubble over the place, protecting it from everything that's out there. Smell all those scents! There doesn't seem to be any pollution at all. And the air almost seems to ... sparkle? Like there's gold dust in it."
The mood was reflected in the open, smiling faces of the people who passed by, nodding to the three of them as if they had always lived there. The residents moved slowly, lazily, gazing into the shop windows, ambling across the road, heedless of the slow-moving traffic.
"Glastonbury has always been seen as one of the most magically powerful places in the country," Shavi noted. "For hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, people have been drawn here by the supposed power in the land. Celts and Christians, hippies and New Age Travellers. It is supposed to be on one of the longest ley lines in the country, running from St. Michael's Mount in Cornwall, through Glastonbury, Avebury and on across the country to East Anglia."
"You seem to know a lot about all this."
He smiled curiously. "When I was six years old I had a map on my wall with all the ley lines drawn on in red felt tip. When I was ten I had read every book ever written about the subject, from Alfred Watkins' The Old Straight Track to the latest scholarly journal. I branched out from that into reading about Buddhism, Taoism, Islam. In my head it all seemed linked." He shrugged. "Where does all that come from in a child?" He already seemed to know the answer to his question.
World's End (Age of Misrule, Book 1) Page 28
