And there was still time, he thought, still hope.
He raised his sword and prepared to face Calatin. And as he did, the strangest thing happened. Confusion, disbelief, then shock crossed Calatin's face, he took a shaky step back. Another unnerving sound reverberated among the Fomorii, almost querulous this time.
"That sword…" Calatin pointed a tremulous finger.
Church eyed it curiously, then shrugged. "Come on," he said with a confi- dente that belied his thoughts. His hand was afire with pain and his body was racked with aches. "Or are you going to back out now you know I'm ready to take you?"
Calatin raised his chin nobly, but his eyes flickered from side to side as if he were searching for a way out. There was an instant of brief despair that was so profound Church was taken aback, and then Calatin raised his own sword and advanced.
They circled each other warily; if either of them had expected an echo of their previous confrontation, they both soon realised the dynamic had changed. Calatin was cautious, his step unsure, afraid to come within Church's circle; that in turn gave Church confidence, although he couldn't grasp quite why things had altered.
Church knew his only hope was to eliminate all the negative impressions bearing down on him: the pain he felt from his many injuries, the physical and spiritual accumulation from weeks of striving, suffering and numerous setbacks. The upsetting wash of threat and evil that came off the Fomorii had to be put on one side, however much it felt like pins stabbing his flesh; but he had trouble shaking the rumbling paranoia that they were moving in to strike every time he turned his back to them. He fixed his attention on Calatin's face, a cauldron of conflicting emotions the Fomorii leader would have done better burying deep. In there, for the first time, Church saw hope.
The tension rose as they continued to move, feinting but never quite striking. And with each faux beginning to the battle Church could see Calatin's anxiety rising; he was afraid to attack, and just as afraid to continue dodging the battle for fear of losing face.
Eventually his twisting emotions proved too much for him. He lashed out, but even in his unfocused blow his remarkable skill came to the fore. All Church saw was the rusty, stained blade suddenly become a blur, whirling in circles before licking out. He ducked at the last minute, but the serrated edge still took a jagged slice out of the meat of his cheek; an instant's hesitation and he would have lost his head. He cried out in pain and a brief cruel smile leapt to Calatin's lips. The Fomor felt a surge of confidence from first blood, and pressed his attack with a rapid scything motion.
Church barely saw it, but his sword leapt up to block and Calatin's blade slid off with a bone-jarring clang. A coldness washed through Church's limbs; his sword had blocked it of its own accord. By rights he should be dead; in his paindulled state he hadn't seen enough of the attack to make any move himself.
He took his eye off Calatin to survey the grim, black sword. Calatin saw this opening and attacked again, lunging in an attempt to disembowel Church. The sword forced Church's arm to parry and then came up sharply, ready to attack if Church gave it the lead.
Church felt sick from the sensation; it was as if there was something alive in his hand. It no longer really felt like a sword at all; it was almost slimy and resilient in his grip.
When Calatin attacked again, this time swinging low in a bid to take off a kneecap or two, Church blocked it with ease. And at the same time he allowed the sword to guide him, putting his weight behind the attack. It passed through Calatin's defences easily and ripped open his forearm. Calatin howled wildly in pain. When it had passed Church saw the hesitancy of true fear in his flickering eyes. Church expected the ranks of Fomorii to show some sign of emotion at this weakness, but there was only utter silence; and that was more damning.
Church took a step back to inhale deeply; sweat was soaking through his clothes. He was ready for Calatin to seize the opportunity, but now his opponent was even more wary than when they had started.
Calatin moistened his dry lips, couldn't take his eyes off the sword. "He gave it to you, did he not?"
Church ignored him, still breathing deeply. He was surprised to notice the perception of the blue fire Tom had taught him was now almost operating independently. Across the landscape he could see the thin azure lines growing brightly in the deep darkness. Some were broken, others intermittent; the land still needed to be truly awoken. But they were growing stronger. And there on the tor the earth force was strongest of all. He had a sense of being engulfed in a brilliant blue light shining up out of the ground; it was awesome and transcendent, and he could feel it seeping into every fibre of his being, refreshing him, starting to heal him. Above all, it gave him a deep sense of connectedness that added meaning to his existence, and from that he drew a deep, abiding strength. He was ready.
"I should have destroyed him," Calatin said bitterly.
In desperation Calatin drove himself forward, hacking and slashing like a wild man. There was no sign of the decaying, fey persona he normally exhibited, just a driven, cruel ferocity.
But it was not enough. Infused with the blue fire, with the black sword dancing like a beast in his hands, Church moved sleekly to block every blow, returning each with a harder strike that drove Calatin back and back. A lunge came through and ripped open the Fomor's breastplate. Another sliced across the bridge of Calatin's nose; he howled again, flicking black droplets from the wound as he shook his head.
And still Church moved forward. A blow came down so hard that Calatin went to his knees to block it. He wriggled out and danced away as Church's next attack missed him by a whisker. But Calatin had nowhere to turn. The Fomorii forces were pressing too close, as if they were refusing to allow him to retreat; nor were they giving him any aid. And that was just how Church expected them to see it: in a race without any compassion, the weak should be allowed to perish so that the collective would grow stronger.
Although Calatin knew his end was coming, to his credit, he never gave in to his fear. It was only visible in his eyes, but to Church it shone out like a beacon.
Church bore down on him with the last reserves of his energy, all his joints aching from the explosive vibrations of sword on sword. A flurry of thrusting and slashing smashed through Calatin's defences, knocking his sword hand to one side. His chest was wide open for the killing strike, but Church knew there would be only a second before Calatin brought the sword back to block the blow. It was his moment of victory, yet he couldn't take it. Although Calatin was a god, there was too much humanity in his eyes.
Not a god at all, Church thought.
But the sword would not be deflected. With cruel efficiency it attacked, almost leaping from his fingers as it propelled itself into Calatin's chest, burrowing deeper like a worm in sand. There was too much black blood; Church had to cover his face with his free arm. Calatin bucked and writhed like there were thousands of volts going through him. As Church looked back he was struck by the expression on the Fomor's face: utter desolation that was almost painful to see. Calatin knew he was dying, finally and irrevocably, and for a being that thought he was an inexorable part of existence it was an ultimate terror that Church couldn't begin to grasp.
Sickeningly, the sword continued to vibrate in Calatin's chest, seeming to suck the life out of him, everything out of him. His cheeks grew hollow, his clothes and then his flesh began to fall in drapes on his bones, and then even the skeleton itself was pulled out of him. Church let go of the handle, but still the sword continued until there was nothing left of Calatin but a smear on the ground, and soon even that was gone.
But that wasn't the end of it. As the sword clattered on to the stone and turf, it began to change shape, growing smaller, sprouting legs like a scorpion, until it scurried off rapidly across the ground to disappear in the enclosing dark. And Church knew then that it was not a sword, but Mollecht's own Caraprix, the strange, symbiotic creature that all the gods carried. But the vampiric qualities it had displayed in its final attack ga
ve Church pause; he wondered whether the odd little creatures really did act at the behest of the gods, or if the gods were their puppets.
He didn't have time to consider the notion any more. The moment Calatin passed on, the Fomorii had begun to move warily, but now they had seen the Caraprix depart they were advancing on him menacingly. He wanted to fight them too, but all he could do was drop feebly to his knees, every last reserve of energy drained out of him.
This is it, he thought, more with weariness than despair. He'd done his best, more than he thought he ever could do. If he had failed, that was all he could truly ask of himself.
The Fomorii rose up in front of him, an enormous wall that must surely have been death. And up and up it went, his perception giving up as it tried to comprehend the eternal permutations of form. It hovered over him, like a tidal wave waiting to smash down on a coastal village, and he was cast in the coldest shadow he had ever experienced.
Church bowed his head, waiting for the strike. But the wave seemed to hang there interminably. In hesitant disbelief, he looked up just as it trembled, then twisted and finally broke apart in a wild thrashing. Dark, frantic motion erupted all around him, and he suddenly felt he had instead been sucked into a sable whirlpool. There was that strange rending metal noise he had heard earlier, faces that were alien, yet still filled with a recognisable fear, the rapid movement of fleeing forms.
And suddenly the whole night was lit in gold.
"Finally," Church said, barely able to believe what was happening. "The cavalry. "
The still-thrashing, dismembered body of a Fomor crashed into the ground in front of him, spraying foul gunk all around.
Another Fomor sent him flying several feet, and for a few seconds he blacked out. When he came round, chaos had erupted everywhere. The Fomorii were scrambling back and forth and the air was suffused with a high-pitched squealing like pigs in an abattoir. Church had to keep on the move to dodge the rampaging beasts, now oblivious to him. The ground had grown slick with the ichor that served as the creatures' blood and he was slipping and sliding, feeling his skin burn where it splashed up on him. Body parts rained from the sky, bouncing off him as he ran. In disarray and shock he had the awful impression he was looking at a vista from hell.
And then the blackness of the Fomorii parted and suddenly everywhere there was golden light, and before him was Maponus, moving through the scurrying forms like the righteous wrath of God, dealing out death and punishment on either side. Bodies burst into flames or just fell apart. Others were crushed by his powerful hands. His face was beautiful and serene, as if he were doling out salvation instead of carnage, but his clothes and his golden skin were covered in the black muck that sprayed out of his victims. As he advanced, his wide, innocent eyes staring out of a now-black dripping face, Church knew it truly was Hell. He fell to his knees in the face of such power, not strong enough to run any more. Maponus bore down on him relentlessly.
Before the Good Son reached him, a blur shot out of the corner of Church's vision, yanked at his shirt and dragged him across the grass out of the insane god's path. Church crashed, gasping, on to the ground and rolled over to look up into the face of the Bone Inspector.
"Nearly didn't make it." The old man's eyes rolled with a hint of madness at the terrors he had experienced. "Trying to drive him up here… get him to follow me…"
"You did good." Church gripped the old man's forearm in gratitude. "To be honest, I'd started to give up hope."
"Never do that." The Bone Inspector slumped down wearily, clutching his staff for support.
No longer able to talk, they both turned to watch the retreating darkness as the Fomorii swept down the tor like oil running off glass. Behind them the Good Son followed, wreaking his crazed vengeance for a spoiled existence; light flashed off him, wondrous and terrifying to see.
But when Maponus reached the foot of the tor, Church was surprised to see an odd effect in the sky, as if it were folding back on itself. And through it came riding members of the Tuatha De Danann, swathed in a diffuse golden light. At their head Church recognised Nuada Airgitlamh, who had helped bring him back from the dead on Skye. He was wielding the sword of power, Caledfwlch, which they had liberated from its hiding place. The five or six gods behind him were not known to Church, until he saw the final rider on a white horse with glaring red eyes. It was Niamh.
She couldn't shirk her responsibilities either, Church thought.
The Tuatha De Danann rounded on Maponus, herding him towards the rift in the air. At first he was reluctant, but then it seemed as if a small acorn of sanity in his mind recognised his brethren and he moved speedily and willingly towards the rift. A second later it closed behind them and the Golden Ones were gone.
Despite all the suffering he had caused, Church hoped the Tuatha De Danann would be able to find some kind of peace for Maponus after all his centuries in Purgatory. The Fomorii didn't appear to notice that their harrower had departed, or if they did, they were consumed with too much fear to give up their fleeing. The streams of shadows disappeared into the greater darkness of the night.
And then they were alone on the tor, a small island in a sea of carnage, as a sudden stillness descended over everything.
It was a moment that should have been savoured, but Church could no longer turn away from the horrors of his responsibility; there was nothing to distract him any more. He stood up, looking back and forth. Tears sprang from nowhere to brim his eyes.
"I wish I'd died," he said honestly.
The Bone Inspector stared at him, uncomprehending. "Where are you going?"
"To face up to my responsibilities." Church looked along the bleak, millionmile walk to the house.
He flexed his fingers, wondering if he had it in him, knowing he had no choice. He sighed, brushed the tears from his eyes. He took the first step.
He was halfway across the distance, feeling his legs grow more leaden with each yard, when the door of the house swung open.
Oh God, not Laura now. He couldn't help a sweep of dismay at having to deal with her acid tone and cheap mockery.
But the figure that lurched out in a daze had a pale, beautiful face and long, dark hair. Church felt a swell in his chest that he thought would tear him apart.
And then he was running crazily, not knowing where the reserve of energy had come from, and he swept Ruth up in his arms and crushed her to him like some fool in a stupid romantic film. But it was honest, raw emotion: relief, and joy, and most of all, love. It filled every fibre of him to such a degree it was as if he were feeling the emotions for the first time.
He looked up into her face, afraid the features would change in some last, cruel blow, but it was definitely her. When he began to speak she silenced him with her fingers on his lips.
"No," she cautioned. A panic seemed to be growing deep in her eyes. "No. It's not like that. It's still bad."
"What do you mean?"
She shook her head, unable to find the right words. Instead she made him put her down, then took his hand and led him back into the house. He looked round for Laura to join in the celebrations, but the place was empty.
"I'm so sorry," Ruth said in a small voice.
Chapter Twenty-one
Lughnasadh
It was like I was floating above myself. I could see and hear everything that was going on around me, and some things that were happening even further afield." Ruth stared bleakly at the makeshift bed where she had lain for so long.
Church slumped in the corner, eyes fixed on the middle distance, too weary to attempt to rationalise anything. There was no sound apart from Ruth's voice and the occasional gust of wind battering against the aged walls.
"It was near the end… I know it was near the end because my consciousness was starting to break up like some radio station on the edge of its frequency. I could see what was happening to my… my shell." She looked down at her belly, now returned to its normal size and shape. There was no sign of the disfiguring blemi
shes, and her skin had regained its usual colour. In fact, apart from the intense weariness that afflicted her spiritually as well as physically, there was no way of telling she had been through anything.
"You know, she wasn't as bad as we all thought," she said, glancing up at Church.
"I never thought she was bad."
"You didn't think she was good. I didn't. Especially me. And the worst thing was, she didn't even think it herself."
Church let the exhaustion pull his head down. He could feel each breath going in and out of his lungs. "What happened to her?"
"But she was good, you see. She deserved to be one of us."
Church looked up sharply. "What happened?"
"While you were out there facing up to the Fomorii there was a sound like an animal snuffling and scrabbling around the house. Laura got frightened by it. She looked round for anything that might make a weapon to defend me. You know, she was pretty close to the edge by then, and not just because of what was going on outside."
"You're pretty good with that perception." It sounded a little more sour than he had intended.
Ruth ignored him. "I think she was about to barricade the door when it suddenly burst in. It was Cernunnos."
Church's brow furrowed. "He came here? What about Shavi?"
Ruth shook her head. "It wasn't his Wild Hunt persona. It was the pleasing side of him… the Green side. He had a bottle." She was staring blankly at the wall of unintelligible writing as if the images were playing out like a movie. "Small, smoky-coloured. He spoke to Laura-"
"What did he say?" Church snapped. His inability to understand her was grating on him; he could sense some mystery behind it all that he didn't want revealed.
"I didn't hear it all. But the bottle held some kind of… potion, I suppose… something that Shavi had been after-"
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