"Take it easy, mate," he whispered in a strong, calm voice. "You'll end up blowing one of us away."
McKendrick's bottom lip was trembling. He plunged his teeth into it and a trickle of blood ran down on to his chin.
The mist continued to distort the forest sounds; the birdsong seemed to come and go, and when they heard the vegetation crushed beneath loping paws it was impossible to pinpoint the location. But the pack was undoubtedly nearby, possibly surrounding them, as Tom had feared. Twigs cracked from somewhere behind them, grass or a bush swished just ahead. Yet despite the muffled nature of the sounds, something about them didn't sound right to Witch's heightened awareness; the weight burden was wrong, the movements not as sleekly lupine as he would have expected.
"They're moving closer," he hissed.
"How can you tell?" McKendrick's gun was wavering so much Veitch thought there was more danger there.
"I can hear things clearly." These days, he mentally added. He truly did feel a different person to the woolly-minded, sluggish old Ryan Veitch. The Pendragon Spirit had given him the chance to rise above himself.
Tom moved in close so only Veitch could hear him. "So what's the big strategy now, warrior-boy?"
A large figure shimmered in and out of the tendrils. "There!" McKendrick cried and raised his gun.
Another shape erupted out of the mist and knocked McKendrick flying; the gun disappeared into the undergrowth. Veitch lashed out instinctively and caught the attacker a glancing blow. It howled sharply before it was gone.
He dropped low, whirling around. "That wasn't a wolfl"
As if in response to his words, another figure dropped out of the air in front of him, obviously from a tree branch above. It was a man, but oddly different to any man Veitch had seen before. His long, matted hair was a deep black and his skin swarthy, with an excess of body hair. His bone structure was clearly defined above his sharp jaw, forming handsome features which suggested both pride and an incisive intelligence. He was naked, his body lithely muscled, filled with power. But it was his hands and feet that caught Veitch's attention; they were over-sized, the fingers long and gnarled, with sharp, jagged nails that more resembled talons. He was sweating profusely from his exertions and there was a sheen of forest dirt across his skin. Gradually Veitch's attention was drawn to his thick, dark eyebrows which menacingly overhung glowing golden eyes; Veitch knew instantly he had seen those eyes before.
Veitch went to lift his crossbow in warning, but the man raised his arm quickly with a strange hand gesture that had the little finger and index finger extended while the others were folded back; oddly, it was filled with a threat Veitch didn't feel comfortable opposing, and he let the crossbow drop.
"Who is this?" McKendrick said in a broken, uncomprehending voice. Tom helped him to his feet.
"The Lupinari have returned to the deep forests," the man said in a deep, almost growling voice which rang with an unplaceable accent.
Recognition suddenly dawned on Tom's face and he took a step towards the strange, beast-like man to communicate, but he was halted in his tracks by the same threatening hand gesture.
Tom held his open hands up, palms outwards; a primal gesture. "I never encountered your people in the Far Lands."
The man eyed him coldly. "Then you never ventured into the forests of the night."
"No, I never did."
The man let his hand drop slightly and used it to gesture around. "The Far Lands, for all their twilight appeal, were uncommon grounds to us. These are our homelands. This is our world, where we have hunted since time began."
Other figures began to appear out of the mists, both men and women, all naked, dark-haired and swarthy-skinned; they moved low and sinuously, like animals; occasionally their eyes gleamed like cats'.
"In the days of our ancestors, we lived side-by-side with humankind. The wild men of the woods, you called us, and in the dark wintertime you even came to look upon us fondly, as you yet feared us. For sometimes we would bring gifts to your door, and keep away the privations of the long, dark nights. For it is in our nature to help fellow creatures of intellect." There was a hint of anger in this last sentence. "Your people knew us, and our powers, and never hunted us, for they knew we never ate human flesh. For if we did, the taste of it would consume us and we would desire it ever more and there would be nothing but war between our races."
The other members of the pack circled round, filtering in and out of the mists. Witch kept a wary eye on them; the mention of human flesh had unnerved him.
"And if one of our people turned rogue, and ate mortal meat, we would hunt him down and destroy him ourselves," the leader continued. There was a long pause while he looked into each of their faces, and then he said, "But this night gone you did attack us."
Veitch suddenly noticed the splatter of dried blood across his left ribcage. "You attacked his sheep."
The leader fixed his cold eyes on Veitch. "But we never ate human flesh."
Tom took a cautious step forward to attract the leader's attention away from Witch's lack of diplomacy. "We had no idea the Lupinari had returned to these lands," he said in as conciliatory a tone as he could muster. "We would never wish to offend you. We would hope to live in peace, as we always did in times past."
Golden eyes blinked slowly, implacably. "Nevertheless, a blow has been struck. There must be some retribution before we agree a pact." His face contained no emotions they could understand, and they all feared the worst.
McKendrick had seemed in a daze to this point, but in that moment he appeared to grasp what was happening. "Not Anna," he whimpered.
"His sheep, given freely," Tom suggested hastily.
The leader shook his head slowly. "We had no knowledge they were his beasts or we would not have taken them. We can easily find other prey. For that is what we do."
"Not Anna," McKendrick said again.
"You better not have killed her," Veitch snapped.
The leader's eyes flashed towards him, filled with such bestial rage Veitch instinctively went to protect his throat. "I held your head in my jaws," the leader growled. "You are nothing to me."
"You don't eat human flesh," Tom noted. "You said."
As if on cue, another figure advanced from the mists; it was Anna. At first she moved with the sluggish pace of someone who had been hypnotised, but when she neared them, recognition dawned in her eyes and she ran to her father. They held each other, crying silently.
"What do you require?" Tom asked quietly.
The leader fixed his unflinching stare on the Rhymer. "For one night, every year, she will leave her father to be with us."
McKendrick's eyes grew wider. "What will happen to her?"
"She will learn to hunt with the Lupinari."
"To hunt?" McKendrick brought the back of his hand to his mouth. "My wee girl?"
Veitch saw something else. "She isn't going to stay around here forever."
The leader's eyes narrowed. "If the pact is broken the Lupinari will seek retribution through the hunt."
"It is agreed," Tom said.
"No!" McKendrick was blazing with righteous anger now. "I won't leave my daughter with these things!"
Tom placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "There isn't another way. If you want to save her life, and yours, then you'll do this." He turned back to the leader and repeated, "It is agreed."
The leader nodded slowly. "Then perhaps in times to come our peoples can live closely and wisely once more."
There was a note of conciliation in his voice. Veitch herded McKendrick away before he could put up any opposition, relieved that it hadn't come down to a fight, knowing they wouldn't have stood a chance if it had.
After a few paces he glanced back, just to be sure they were not being followed. But all he saw were vague impressions as the Lupinari melted back into the mist, and not a single footfall was heard to mark their passing.
Back at the croft McKendrick was in a state of shock, but Anna seemed to have
accepted her tribulation with equanimity. When she saw Veitch watching her intently, she left her father sitting on the floor next to the hearth and pulled him to one side.
"No grim faces now," she cautioned with a gentle finger on his cheek. "It's not the end of the world."
"You don't know what they'll be expecting of you on your nights with them."
"I'll deal with it when it happens."
"And it's going to be hard for you ever to get away from here now."
"What's to stop me coming back just for the night?" But they both knew it wasn't going to happen. "I just wanted to say, thanks for helping us." She seemed to read every troubled thought passing through his head. Then she took his face in her hands, stood on tiptoes and gave him a long, deep kiss. Afterwards she said, "It's a shame you have to go-"
"I have to."
"I know. But it's a shame." And then she smiled once and turned to her father. Veitch watched her for a while, kneeling next to McKendrick, one hand round his shoulder, whispering comforting words that only the two of them could hear. But then Tom caught his eye and nodded towards the door.
They made their goodbyes as best they could, and then when they were out walking over the sun-drenched hillsides, Veitch asked, "Is this always how it is?"
"What do you mean?"
"When you're trying to do the right thing in the world. When you've got all these responsibilities. Like a big fucking rock on your shoulder."
Oddly, Tom appeared pleasantly surprised by the comment. He clapped Veitch warmly on the shoulder. "That's how it is. You get your reward later."
"How much later?"
Tom's tight smile seemed filled with meaning, but Veitch couldn't understand it at all. "Much, much later," the Rhymer said before turning his attention to the path ahead.
They walked nonstop for the next day across the exhausting mountainous landscape and made camp in a gorge as night fell. They hadn't seen or heard anyone since they had left the croft; in the desolation, humanity could have been stripped from the face of the planet and they would never have known.
Since he had left Anna, Veitch hadn't been able to settle. He had found his thoughts turning to the others he had spent so long with over the past months. Why did they act the way they did? Why did they say one thing while believing another? His own thoughts had always moved swiftly and directly into words, and in the past he had judged others by the same standard, although he had known subconsciously that was rarely the case. And finally his attention had turned to Tom; he had spent the day secretly watching the way he moved, the subtleties of his facial expressions, his strange choice of words, and by the evening he knew that he didn't know the man at all.
As they sat around the fire finishing up the last of the provisions McKendrick had given them, the questions were plaguing Veitch so much he couldn't keep them in any longer. "You said yesterday your eyes were better than mine." Tom nodded. "How much else has changed?"
The Rhymer prodded the fire, sending the sparks soaring. "A great deal."
"Like what?"
"I can hear better. Smell things more acutely. Can't really taste very much any more, though."
Veitch gnawed on a crust while he thought. "If a doc cut you open," he began, "what would he find inside?"
Tom stared into the fire, said nothing.
"If you don't want to talk about it-"
"I don't think I'm quite human any more."
"Don't think?" Veitch watched Tom's face in the firelight, wondering why it was always so hard to tell what he was thinking or feeling.
"I don't know. I don't know if I should be here with people, or back in Otherworld with the rest of the strange things. I don't know if I can trust my feelings, if I really have any feelings, or if I just pretend to myself I have feelings. I don't know if I cut myself open if I'll find straw inside, or diamonds, or fishes, or if all the component parts are there, just in the wrong order." He continued to watch the flames.
Veitch had a sudden, sweeping awareness of Tom's tragedy. He had lost everything; not just his family and friends, who were separated from him by centuries, but his kinship with humanity, his sense of who or what he was. He was more alone than anyone ever could be. Yet he still wished and hoped and felt and yearned; and he still tried to do his best for everyone, despite his own suffering.
"I think you're just a bloke, like me and the others," Veitch said.
Tom looked at him curiously.
"And I think you'll find what you're looking for."
Tom returned his attention to the fire. "Thank you for that."
"It must be hard to go back to that bitch who wrecked your life."
Tom remained silent, but Witch noticed the faint tremor of a nerve near his mouth.
"You know when I said I couldn't understand why everybody thought you were a hero. I'm sorry about that."
Tom threw some more wood on the fire and it crackled like gunfire. "We need to get some sleep."
"Okay, I'll take first watch." He stood up and stretched, breathing deeply of the night air. "What are we going to find when we get where we're going?"
"Everything we ever dreamed of." Tom wandered towards the tent. "And everything we ever feared."
Tom had been in the tent barely five minutes when an awful sound echoed between the steep walls of the gorge. All the hairs on the back of Veitch's neck stood erect instantly and a queasy sensation burrowed deep in the pit of his stomach. Veitch hoped it was just an unusual effect of the wind rushing down from the mountains, but then Tom came scrambling out of the tent, his face unnaturally pale, and Veitch knew his first instincts were correct: it was the crying of a woman burdened by an unbearable grief.
At first he wondered if it was Anna, who had followed them, but Tom caught at his sleeve as he made to investigate. "Don't. You won't find anyone."
"What do you mean?" Veitch felt strangely cold; his left hand was trembling.
"You can always hear the Caoineag's lament, but you will never see her."
Veitch peered into the dark. The wailing set his teeth on edge, dragged out a wave of despair from deep within him. He wanted to crawl into the tent and never come out again. "What is it?"
"She is one of the sisters of the Washer at the Ford." Tom's voice was so low Veitch could barely hear it. "A grim spirit."
"Is this her place, up here in the mountains?"
Tom shook his head. "She is here for us."
"For us?" Veitch dreaded what Tom was to say next.
"Those who hear the sound of the Caoineag's mourning are doomed to face death or great sorrow." And with that he turned and dismally retreated to the tent.
Chapter Sixteen
On The Night Road
The light from the fire glowed through the trees like a beacon in the darkness of the night. Another technology failure had left Shavi breathless as the sea of illumination that spread out across the Midlands winked out in an instant; even after all this time it still chilled him deeply to see it.
He had just been coming down the final, gentle slopes of the Pennines after Ashbourne when it happened. He never travelled at night, particularly in the wild country, but he wanted to complete the last leg of that difficult part of the journey before he reached the more comforting built-up areas that lay towards the south. Now he wondered if he had made the wrong decision.
More than anything, he was aware of time running away from him; Lughnasadh was only eleven days away, little enough time to put everything right. He still found it hard to believe their great victory in Edinburgh had turned to such a potentially huge failure. His mind kept flashing back to Ruth and the suffering she must be feeling. But more, he was aware of the looming presence of Balor, in the shadows beneath the trees, or the chill in the wind, or the deep dark of a cloudy night. There had been no sign of the Fomorii, but he knew they were out there, searching for him. He could palpably sense the god of death and evil close to their reality. He felt it like a queasiness in the pit of his stomach and in the many d
reams that had increasingly afflicted his sleep. An overpowering atmosphere of dread was beginning to fall over everything he saw and heard.
Although the night was warm and there were plenty of stars, a smattering of clouds kept obscuring the moon. That made the darkness almost impenetrable and he was sure he could hear something moving nearby. On several occasions he had been convinced someone was following; not too close, but tracking him from afar, sometimes off to one side, sometimes the other, always out of sight. He tried to pretend it was paranoia, but he had learned to trust his sharpened senses.
His main comfort was that if it were some kind of stalking beast, it had had plenty of opportunity to attack him while he slept. Yet it kept its distance, almost as if it were sizing him up. A twig snapped, too loud in the still of the night. He looked round briefly, then hurried towards the fire.
Almost forty people were seated around a blazing campfire next to a copse on the edge of a field. In the gloom beyond were parked a motley collection of vehicles: a black, single-decker bus of fifties vintage, a beat-up Luton van spray-painted in Day-Glo colours, other coaches, obsolete and heavily modified, minibuses stocked high with effects. The gathered crowd were obviously travellers, camouflaged by old army fatigues, leather and denim, hair long, spikey or shorn, piercings glinting everywhere, tattoos glowing darkly in the flickering light. They were all ages: children playing on the edge of the firelight, a few babes in arms, several pensioners, and a good selection of those in their twenties, thirties, forties and fifties. The hubbub of conversation that drowned out the cracking, spitting wood dried up the moment Shavi stepped into the circle of light.
Shavi scanned their faces, expecting the suspicion and anger that came when a tight-knit group was disrupted, but there was nothing. He looked for anyone who might be a leader or spokesman.
A thickset man with long black hair and a bushy beard waved Shavi over with a lazy motion of an arm as thick as Shavi's thigh. He wore a cut-off denim jacket over a bare chest and had a gold band straining around his tattooed bicep; a matching gold gypsy earring shone amidst the black curls. He was grinning broadly; one of his front teeth was chipped.
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