‘And finally, there’s fear,’ the voice croaked from within the inferno. A human torch stepped out from the fire, its body a skeletal mass of charred meat, eyes burned away, tendons exposed beneath blackened flesh, hair gone, and a scalp flayed to expose a charcoal skull.
Sergei stared nonplussed as the ghoul reached towards him and grabbed his throat with claw-like hands. Terror surged through Sergei. For a moment he was back in Bosnia, and every innocent he had murdered with bullet and flame was reaching for him.
Tears drove up through the corners of his eyes as the skull pushed its way into his face. Sergei felt his bladder and bowels go as the apparition’s foetid stink squirmed into his nose. Incredibly strong bony fingers dragged him back into the searing heat.
Only when the flames licked at his body did Sergei begin to fight back, but by then it was too late. The empty sockets of the grinning skull bored into him, its lipless mouth lisped awkward words as the thing drove him deep into the fire.
‘And now you know death. Burn in hell, you traitorous bastard!’ Its teeth clattered against each other as it spoke, the deep nasal passages glittered with ash, and the empty eyes scoured what was left of his soul. Sergei screamed as the true immortal fed his life to the razor-edged flames of retribution.
The Russian’s body burned. Mark held him in the fire long after he had stopped struggling. When there was nothing left but bones, Mark staggered backwards in immense pain. He stood panting in the flaming room as his body regenerated. The woman’s corpse was still and accusing.
Reaching over his shoulder, he reassured himself that the black sword was still there. The cloth hilt had burned away, and the steel beneath it was still warm. He found Camulus lying where it had fallen. He collected it numbly.
Sergei’s bones were jumping in the flames. Mark stood over them and watched in disgust. Flesh was trying to grow from the blackened skeleton, but every time a tendril flashed out, the flames seared it away. Still, the fire would eventually go out … Mark slammed Camulus into the charred ruin, raining blow after blow down into Sergei’s remains until they were smashed into shards and dust. He watched until he was satisfied that no more flesh would grow back – that the Russian was truly dead – and then he turned back to the door.
Highs and lows: his life had always been a series of highs and lows. Finding Annaea and losing her, repeatedly, for millennia. Highs and lows. Killing the woman in the apartment had finally broken something inside him. Something fragile. Something that simply couldn’t resist that final failure. Mark wondered if normal people were haunted by that same emotional turmoil. He wondered if they felt the mind-numbing, soul-tearing depression that filled him now. He had been so certain that it would be different this time. So sure he could protect her – technology had come so far, so fast, in the last fifty years, that he had been convinced he could keep her alive.
Instead, a flood of monsters had washed through his life and taken her from him again. This death was her most gruesome yet. Could normal people understand the emotional nadir he had reached? Could they comprehend the terrible pain that crushed him every time he saw the woman he loved die again? For all his strengths, Mark knew he was powerless. He could not change her destiny, and he could not escape the pain. Even suicide was denied him.
Walking through the Beetham Tower, uninterested in the abominations that shrieked around him, uncaring of the flames, unconcerned about the threat of being buried under hundreds of tonnes of collapsed building, he once more courted death.
Again, he knew he would not find the Reaper. A Barghest leapt at him, driving him to the floor. He suffered its tearing teeth and lashing tentacles, hoping maybe this would be the thing to dispatch him.
Eventually, he thrust Camulus up into the creature’s stomach, and it screeched in outrage and pain. ‘It is a gift,’ he whispered as he extricated himself from the ropes of its dead body. Another failure, he thought.
Mark continued his steady slog upwards – ever upwards, towards Cú Roí. Maybe that creature could finally finish his hellish existence.
‘You want to die,’ said a melodic voice from behind him. He froze. He recognised that voice. Something began to burn within him, and all thoughts of suicide and melancholic self-pity vanished in an instant.
‘You,’ he said flatly. ‘I have been looking for you for a long time.’ He turned. The Maiden of Earth and Water stood before him. She was not as he remembered her; her eyes were still green and powerful, but her long fiery hair was matted and grimy. Her figure was still slim and toned, but now she was dressed in rags, and her face was filthy with soot and dirt.
When he had first seen her, Mark had thought her a peasant girl of passing attractiveness. Now, he saw the age behind the youthful appearance. It was in her eyes – knowledge beyond human understanding, the passing of far too much time, the self-loathing that comes with a desire for death. He knew it well, for he saw it in his own eyes every morning when he looked in the mirror. She smiled, her freckled cheeks crinkling slightly.
‘You have grown, Marcus Aquila Romila. I think you are more than the boy who desecrated the standing stones.’
‘I am less than that boy, for he had youth and passion and a lust for life. I have none of those things. You took them from me when you cursed me.’
‘I granted your wish, Marcus. I told you there would be a price.’
‘A price?’ he demanded angrily. ‘You took everything from me. Over, and over, and over again. It was a vicious torment. You did that. And you did it with a sweet smile, you sanctimonious bitch! I was a boy who pissed on a stone. I was arrogant and I was ignorant, but I did not deserve this living hell!’
‘Marcus, you understand nothing, even now.’
‘I understand enough. I understand that you will die here.’ She laughed with genuine humour and, he thought, affection. It was too much. He swung Camulus at her head.
The sword never reached its destination. It stopped of its own accord just before it touched her neck. Marcus strained for a few seconds, trying desperately to complete his revenge.
‘Poor Marcus,’ she said with sympathy. ‘Camulus cannot harm me, for I created it.’
Snarling, Marcus dropped the rainbow sword and reached over his shoulder. The black sword whispered from its sheath, the noise a sigh of pleasure amongst the crackling of the fires. ‘I had this forged especially for you. It has sent a thousand of your kind to hell.’
‘I know of it, just as I know of you, Marcus. You have forged a reputation amongst the Courts as a seeker of death. The black sword has become infamous. It is known as the Immortals’ Requiem, for it has sent many of my brothers and sisters to their doom; the sound it made as it cut the air was their only funeral song.’
Mark laughed without humour. ‘I like that,’ he said. ‘Now it will sing you into oblivion. You should have killed me all those years ago.’
‘And I have been encouraged to kill you many times since then. But your life is far too valuable for that, Marcus. You think I have been unkind to you, but …’
‘Unkind? Unkind!’ Mark yelled the word in fury, spittle flecking his lips. ‘I’ve heard enough – now you die.’
The Immortals’ Requiem slashed towards the Maiden’s head, and this time there was no unseen force holding it back. It howled, the notch in the blade tearing the air. Mark felt his blood surge at its song. The blade craved the Elf’s blood, and Mark’s spirits soared as his revenge finally took form.
Then, something flashed in front of the Maiden, and the blade slammed into it. Mark stared along the length of the Immortals’ Requiem and saw that it was buried in a thick, muscular arm covered in tattoos. The arm’s owner was a hugely muscled man, tattooed from his neck down. Behind him, Mark saw a slim Elf with long blond hair, two gashes half healed along his filthy cheeks. Target One and Target Two. Target One raised his open palm towards Mark. ‘No, Camhlaidh,’ called the Maiden, and the Elf lowered his hand.
Screaming with the rage of being denied, Mark pul
led the sword free and stabbed at Target Two. The tattooed man stumbled backwards, turning his body to protect the Maiden, and the Immortals’ Requiem slipped into his side. His tattoos appeared to writhe around its point as Mark thrust again, trying to bury the sword as deep as he could.
Something tugged at the edges of his mind. He turned to face Target One. ‘I am old beyond your imagining, boy,’ he hissed at the Elf. ‘I have spent millennia killing your kind – do you think I’ve not learned how to resist your Glamour?’ The Elf went pale and took a step backwards. Mark allowed the hatred to well up in him. He dragged the Immortals’ Requiem from the tattooed man and leapt towards the Elf.
Target One managed to point a shotgun at him and pull the trigger. He heard the boom and felt the load punch into his body at point-blank range, and he cartwheeled back into a flaming wall. Staggering back to his feet, he ran at the Elf again. When the blond creature’s finger tightened on the trigger of the shotgun, Mark threw himself forwards and rolled beneath the whistling death.
Coming gracefully to his feet, he lashed out with the Immortals’ Requiem and smashed the shotgun from the Elf’s hands. Mark spun and brought the blade back around to decapitate Target One, who somehow managed to arch his back so the tip brushed his throat, opening the very top layer of skin. Mark twisted and stabbed the point of the blade down into the Elf’s left thigh.
His yell of pain was sweet music to Mark’s ears. Target One fell to his knees in front of him, and Mark raised the Immortals’ Requiem to cut the Elf’s head from his body. Somebody stepped between them.
Before the final blow came down, Mark saw who was in front of him and slowly the light of madness drained from him. ‘Rowan?’ he asked.
‘I can’t let you kill him, Mark. He’s a good man. He’s helping me find my sister.’
‘But Tabitha’s dead,’ he said without thinking. The grief in Rowan’s face triggered his own, and the strength went from him. The Immortals’ Requiem fell from his fingers.
‘Where? How?’
‘My house … Rowan, it was not an easy death.’ Rowan stared at him, then just nodded and stepped back. The Maiden stood behind him, the tattooed man beside her.
‘So, I fail in this too,’ he said tiredly, the weight of Tabitha’s death overwhelming him. ‘This moment has driven me for two thousand years, and I cannot find the strength to kill you.’ He found himself on the floor, his legs bent underneath him. His head dropped to his chest. Quietly, amongst the fires, Mark began to cry.
Soft arms encircled him. He smelled the rich aroma of damp earth and a salt-spray ocean. Her arms were warm and he fell back into them, burying his head in her bosom. She stroked his hair gently and hushed his sobs.
‘I have failed in everything,’ he said through his tears. ‘I hate you.’
‘I know. It is a heavy price, but one I willingly pay. I told you that there would be a price, didn’t I?’
‘It was too dear,’ Mark said. His eyes were closed and he felt sleepy.
‘Marcus, you do not understand.’
‘How could I – you are inhuman, and the torture you inflict upon me is inhuman too.’
‘Do you believe that the power it requires to keep you from harm is something that I would use frivolously?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, uncaring. She held him close and he relaxed for what seemed like the first time in years.
‘The stone you defiled; did you ever bother to learn why it was so important to us?’
‘No,’ he said unashamedly.
‘It was the passing place of Grímnir Vafthrúdnir – the man who vanquished Cú Roí. Great power was expended there, enough to form a new Fairy-Ring. The day we met, I was there searching for inspiration. I see the futures – I explained that to you when you lectured me on the greatness of Rome. I see the futures, but they are hazy and difficult to interpret. I saw the return of Cú Roí and the weakness of my race. I was lost and alone, and I went to a place where I might find an answer.
‘Instead, I found a churlish boy defiling a place sacred to me. I was angry at first, and I thought to punish you. But when you wished to live forever – well, I found an answer.
‘I am an avatar of our magic. I was just an Elf. I am just an Elf, but when I took the mantle of the Maiden of Earth and Water, I became much more. I became one with the magic. It has lived inside me for longer than you can imagine, but it was dying even back then, beneath the stone roads of Rome. I carried the Seed of magic, but to keep it within me would be to doom us all. I needed somewhere to hide the Seed – somewhere nobody would ever look. Somewhere that was inviolate. A true immortal.
‘You carry the Seed, Marcus, and the Seed keeps you alive. But I need it back now. You have done well, and I am sorry for the hurt I have caused you. It was necessary, though. I needed you here, in this place, at this time. Now I can face Cú Roí on equal terms. It is time to see Annaea again, Marcus.’
Mark sighed as he realised what she meant. Somewhere under his breastbone a warmth swelled. He felt the Maiden of Earth and Water’s fingers gently stroking his head, and the heat rose towards them, through his heart and up his neck and then into his brain. Soft whispers filled his mind, and he heard the magic speaking to him, wishing him well, giving him thanks. It was like being in a warm bath.
Rolling over, Mark gazed down at the face of Annaea sleeping beside him. He smiled down at her. She opened her eyes and smiled back. He bent towards her and their lips met …
For a moment, nothing happened. The Maiden continued to caress the dead man’s head. An expression of intense grief contorted her beautiful features. Cam watched uncertainly, the pain in his leg a spiteful thing that throbbed mercilessly. Grímnir stepped past him and scooped up Camulus. The Maiden seemed to awaken from her reverie and she sighed. Then, she carefully laid Mark’s body on the floor and stood up.
Cam staggered. ‘That bastard nearly took off my leg.’
‘Can you walk?’ Grímnir asked as he examined the bloody wound.
‘Just about, but God it hurts.’
‘He was a strong man. A warrior. I have never seen a human move so fast.’
‘He was a lunatic,’ Cam grumbled in the True Tongue.
‘The fate I dealt him was terrible,’ the Maiden said in English, ‘and he did a lot of terrible things because of it. But his love was powerful enough to see him through the ages. I think he was a good man, and I mourn his passing.’
‘He looks happy,’ Rowan said disbelievingly.
‘He is where he is supposed to be,’ the Maiden said. ‘He is at peace now. He is with your sister.’ Rowan turned away, his face blank. He walked to stand over the black sword.
‘The Seed was hidden within him?’ Cam asked as Grímnir tore a strip from the bottom of his shirt and used it to tightly bandage his wound.
‘Yes – it was necessary at the time. Some of the magic within him was used to resurrect his wife every fifty years, in this area. He had to remain near. To try to save her. It would not have done for him to be on the other side of the world and inaccessible when the Miracle Child returned. He suffered greatly, but his suffering served a purpose greater than any of us.’
‘What about the Satyr?’ Cam asked. ‘Did he carry a Seed as well?’
‘Yes, he did, though it was weakened by time and humanity’s taint,’ she said regretfully. ‘My husband never forgave himself for ignoring my warning – I think he wished to die.’
‘And where is the Satyr now? Where is his Seed?’ Cam asked suspiciously as his fingers tentatively explored the dressing around his thigh.
The Maiden ignored his question. Instead, she spoke to the group. ‘You must prepare yourselves for what is to come. We will face Cú Roí on the roof of this building, far above the Earth. We will be in his realm, where he is strong and I am weak.’
‘Jesus,’ Rowan muttered. ‘Why are we even up here then? I mean look at Cam – he’s bleeding badly. He needs a doctor.’
‘The dragon would never have
come to us on the ground. He sought this place, where he has the advantage. He has no reason to face us. He is stronger than us. He could fly away and we would never find him until he was so powerful, it would be too late … but up here? Stepping into his domain? The challenge will be enough to bring him to us. He will be angry and overconfident. We must take advantage.’
‘How?’ Cam asked.
‘By swatting him. It is time to destroy the beast. Grímnir, are you ready to fulfil your destiny?’ she asked in the True Tongue.
The Jötnar swung the rainbow sword, and his beard split into a ferocious smile. ‘I am ready, my lady.’
Cam limped over to Rowan as the Maiden and Grímnir made their way back towards the stairwell. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked the marine as he examined his shotgun. It was ruined – the black sword had dented the barrel. With regret, he tossed the useless gun on the floor.
‘Not really,’ Rowan said without emotion. ‘You know, dragons and stuff.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Rowan closed his eyes tight and for an instant he looked close to crying. ‘She’s dead.’
Cam put a consoling hand on Rowan’s shoulder. ‘We’ll get the bastard,’ he said.
‘Do you think that’ll be any use up there?’ Rowan asked, nudging the Immortals’ Requiem with his foot. ‘I mean, I’ve still got that dead cop’s gun, but I figure what the hell? Right?’
‘It can’t hurt.’ He clutched his injured leg. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, I suppose I could use it as a walking stick. You’re going to have to help me get up there.’
Rowan picked up the sword, and Cam slung a tattooed arm around his shoulders. Together, they hobbled after their companions.
The roof of the Beetham Tower was dangerous. Dusk rapidly approached full night, and smoke billowed up from fires raging in the apartments below. A swirling dirty veil of soot and ash formed a column that stretched up into the sky, adding to the pall of smog from other burning buildings. The evening was infernally claustrophobic. Half of Manchester was ablaze, and the dark overcast reflected the malefic flickering of the flames. To Rowan, it felt as if the vaults of heaven were collapsing.
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