He raised his right hand and the crowd parted to admit Lugh, leading four of the younger gods. Each carried one of the ancient artefacts Church, Ruth and the others had located to free the Tuatha De Danann from exile: the Stone ofFal, the Cauldron of Dagda, the Spear of Lugh and the Sword of Nuada Airgetlamh. Lugh himself carried the Wayfinder, the lantern with the flickering blue flame that had pointed them in the direction of the mystical objects.
"The Quadrillax," Cernunnos intoned, "are yours once more. Use them well and wisely."
Church could barely believe what he was seeing. The four objects were so powerful, such a part of the traditions of the Tuatha De Danann, that he could never imagine an occasion when they would have freely given them up. But he could tell from the way the other gods looked to Cernunnos and Manannan that he knew who to thank.
He bowed. "The Brothers and Sisters of Dragons thank you. And we shall use them well and wisely."
Barely able to contain himself, he walked over to the sword that was resting on a cushion of strange, shimmering material. He had once seen it as a rusty, crumbling artefact. Now it gleamed as if it were made of silver and gold, and looked as sharp and strong as if it had just been forged. A shiver of anticipation made him pause before his fingers closed on it. But then it was in his hand and once again the power rushed through him; it felt warm and alive, comforting, against his skin. "Now we'll see some justice," he said in hushed tones.
Church sheathed the sword in a leather scabbard presented to him by Baccharus, while Ruth took the spear that she had used to such good advantage when freeing Cernunnos from Fomorii control in South Wales. The other artefacts were placed in a golden box that the young gods would hold until directed by Church.
Once they were on their own in their room, Church dragged Ruth on to the bed and hugged her tightly. "A result," he grinned, "on every front."
"So where's that familiar pessimism? Come on, you're the man who manages to drag misery from every victory."
"I'm still pragmatic-I know it's still going to be near impossible. But at least we have the two things we need: the support of the Tuatha De Danann and the Quadrillax. That's a chance, and I'm going to seize it with both hands."
"Oh, get away from me. You're not the real Church. You've been possessed in that mysterious pool." She playfully attempted to push him away, before relaxing so he could fold into her. "Go on, there's got to be something on your mind." The flicker across his face gave her answer. "Spit it out."
"Okay, there's one thing that worries me, and it's a big thing." He rolled over so he was lying next to her, staring at the ceiling. "Everything was tidied up nicely on the ship, except for one thing. You've seen the Tuatha De Danann. You know what they're capable of. And now they have the Wish-Hex."
Chapter Fourteen
Like A Serpent play'd Before them
ater began to flood in around Laura as she shivered in the cold beneath the insipid dawn light. The Bone Inspector attempted to force the rag back into the hole, but it only made matters worse. "We're going to go down like a brick," he hissed.
"I can get a bit further if I throw you overboard." She leaned up just enough to peek over the rim. They hadn't even made it as far as the Dartford river crossing. Nearby, gleaming mudflats lined the bank. There was no movement anywhere, nor was there any sound, not even birdsong. The stillness was unnatural.
"If we drag it over to the side, we might have a better chance of plugging it up again," she hissed.
The Bone Inspector grunted before rolling over the side into the waist-deep water; he appeared oblivious to the cold. Laura allowed him to drag the boat close to the flats before she jumped out to help it across the last few feet.
Once they'd beached it, the water drained out and the Bone Inspector could attempt the repairs a little easier. But it was soon apparent why the previous owner had abandoned the craft. As the Bone Inspector worked the rag in tightly, his hand went right through the bottom, taking out a chunk of rotten wood about a foot square.
"You ham-fisted git!" Laura slapped a shaking hand over her eyes. "Now what do we do?"
The Bone Inspector ignored her attempts at blame. Quickly surveying the area, he pointed toward some streetlights beyond an expanse of waste ground. "The Fomorii may not have spread this far out of the city. If we proceed cautiously, it would be quicker to use the road to put the city behind us."
Laura wrapped her sopping arms around her. "All right. But you go first."
The wasteland had been used as a dump. Burst dustbin bags lay around amidst broken bottles, empty milk crates, a burnt-out car and decaying furniture. It smelled of chemicals and excrement. The road beyond was deserted, apart from a jackknifed petrol tanker.
"Looks safe," Laura mused after ten minutes in the shadows of the hedgerow. "Shall we chance it?"
"No choice." The Bone Inspector sniffed the air, then stepped out on to the pavement.
They'd gone only a few yards down the road when Laura experienced a prickling sensation. Looking back quickly towards the city, all she could see were a few birds swooping in the grey sky. She attempted to dismiss the nagging feeling, but if anything it was growing stronger. She took a few more paces and only then realised that since she had woken in the charnel house she had not seen any birds at all. With a shiver of dread, she turned back.
The dark smudges had moved much closer in the seconds between looks, and now she could see they were far too big for birds. Their uncanny speed held her rapt for a few seconds and by then she could see they were winged Fomorii. "Shit. I didn't know some of them could fly."
The Bone Inspector turned at her strained voice, before grabbing her arm to propel her back the way they had come.
"Away from them!" she yelled.
"There's no cover." His voice was remarkably calm, although his body had dropped into a low, loping posture that reminded her of a hunting wolf.
He was right; their only chance was to attempt to hide and hope the Fomorii couldn't see where they were going, but there was hardly anywhere in the flat open landscape.
The only place in view was the jackknifed tanker. It offered little protection, but if they could crawl beneath it they might be able to scurry into the ditch beyond where the Fomorii would have trouble reaching them. In the heat of the moment Laura didn't have time to consider how sickeningly short-termist that was.
The Fomorii had the terrifying speed of jet fighters. The tanker was still yards away when the wash of driven air buffeted Laura and the Bone Inspector. There was a smell like rotting meat and what sounded like a power drill. Their peripheral vision was filled with constantly changing horrors; a deep, arctic shadow fell across them. The Bone Inspector knocked Laura to the ground and threw himself across her.
They both felt the breeze as the Fomorii tore through the space where they had been. Despite his advancing years, the Bone Inspector was on his feet in an instant, hauling Laura up behind him as if she weighed nothing.
Amidst the frantic activity and danger, Laura was surprised to find an area of deep serenity in which she could step back to observe herself. What she saw surprised her: just weeks ago she would have been paralysed by fear. Instead she felt calm and focused and, if it hadn't sounded so incongruous, brave.
She was thrown out of the moment by a hard impact to her right shoulder. Relieved that the Fomorii had missed clubbing her to the ground she continued a pace before an object came flying past her to skid across the road. It was an arm. Her arm.
The shock of the sight brought her to a halt. Her vision wavered a second; impressions rushed towards the front of her mind, but didn't coalesce. She was dimly aware of several shapes converging on her.
The Bone Inspector was in her frame of vision, yelling something she couldn't hear. A second later she was being lifted across his back as he ran the final few yards. They dived beneath the tanker as the road erupted at their heels.
Laura came out of her daze, aware of a dull ache at her shoulder. She didn't look at all
. Shards of metal clattered across the road as the Fomorii tore frenziedly at the side of the tanker to get at them. "Keep moving," she croaked. "I'm fine."
The Bone Inspector cast a searching eye across her face, and then scurried into the ditch. Laura followed, keeping low, feeling brambles tear at her face and hair, not really caring.
The Fomorii continued to attack the tanker. "Stupid bastards," Laura said under her breath.
The two of them had managed to crawl three hundred yards away when the inevitable happened. The tanker went up in a massive explosion that rained burning debris all around them. They had just crawled in a culvert that ran beneath the road as the hedgerow disappeared in a blur of flame; trees turned to charcoal and the field beyond disappeared in red and yellow smoke. For a second or two, Laura couldn't breathe, until fresh air rushed in to fill the vacuum. Her ears rang from the blast.
She slumped back against the culvert, suddenly convulsed in tremors. The Bone Inspector was at her side in an instant, ready to bandage her shoulder with his shirt. When he paused suddenly, she gasped, "I know. Green blood."
"And not much of it." He pressed the shirt against the protruding socket joint and torn arteries. Despite his comment, it quickly grew wet.
"It had to be the right one," she said miserably. "Now I'll never beat Veitch at darts." Her attempt at humour sounded pathetic. She let her chin slump on to her chest, listening to the roar of the inferno.
"We'll rest here for a while," the Bone Inspector said. "We'll start moving again when the fire dies down."
"Good idea," Laura murmured. "I feel so tired." She closed her eyes and drifted away.
"I'm just saying it's bad strategy, that's all." Veitch finished up the last of his plate of rabbit stew hungrily and eyed the black pan on the old range with a measure of hope. Through Tom's judicious herbal treatments, he had recovered from the shock of the amputation and appeared back to his old irascible self, a piece of white cloth he washed obsessively was tied around his stump.
"Ryan is our strategist, after all." After his dinner of steamed vegetables, Shavi gnawed on a raw carrot, his dessert, much to Witch's disgust.
Tom furiously dunked his homemade bread in the last dregs of gravy. Before he could launch into a bad-tempered tirade, Davenport, the farmer who had taken them in earlier that day, poked his head round the door. He was wearing a dirty, shapeless hat and old coat, protection against the evening chill as he finished up the last of the jobs around the farm. "Everything all right, lads?"
"It was a very enjoyable meal, Mr. Davenport," Shavi said. "Our compliments to your wife. And we offer you our thanks for feeding us, when we have nothing to offer in return. We know there are shortages-"
Embarrassed, Davenport waved him quiet. "We've got enough to go round. I'd be worrying if I was one of the big boys. They won't know what to do now they can't get hold of their pesticides and chemical fertilisers. But I've been organic for a few years now, so, cross fingers, we should be all right for a while."
His wife, Rowena, pushed in next to him. She was in her late thirties, attractive, though weary looking. "Go on, Philip," she said, nudging her husband in the ribs, "ask them."
"I'm not going to ask them." Davenport shifted uncomfortably.
"If you don't, I will."
He sighed with irritation. "The wife wants to know if you're the heroes-"
She slapped him on the arm. "Don't say it like that!"
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "If you're-"
"Oh, get out of the way!" She pushed past him. "People are talking about a group of men and women going round the country trying to put right this awful thing that's happened. The farmers have been talking about it for weeks. They keep saying how some of these people helped out a farmer down in the West Country who'd got one of those spooks or goblins or whatever in his house. That's the story, anyway. But then we heard it from somebody else… a woman in the village. She's part of this parish pump news grapevine that's being set up to let everyone know what's going on. And one of the stories passed down the wire was about this group up in the north somewhere who fought against all those horrible things and saved an entire village. And they were doing all sorts of other… " Her voice faded away as she realised she was starting to ramble. She looked at her husband and added, "And yes, they did call them heroes. Said they could do things no other people could do. Said they were special."
Veitch tried to appear nonchalant, but he was fighting against pride. The woman noticed his fidgeting. "It is you, isn't it?"
"We are not special," Shavi said. "Not really. We are simply trying to do the best we can in a very difficult situation-"
"I told you they were the heroes," the woman said to her husband. She turned back to them excitedly. "What are you-"
Her husband pushed her out with undue roughness. "They don't want to be bothered by us!" He shuffled around uncomfortably. "We'll leave you alone now, lads. I know you'll have important stuff to talk about. But if you've got a moment before you take your leave-"
"We'll fill you in, mate." Once he'd gone, Veitch said conspiratorially, "Can you believe that? They're talking about us!"
"One should never believe one's own publicity, Ryan," Shavi said wryly. He eased back in his chair and sipped on his boiled water.
"Yes, control your ego before your head explodes." Tom collected the plates together and put them in the sink. "It's not important-"
"It's important to me. Nobody's ever called me a hero before."
"And this lot wouldn't either, if they knew you," Tom snapped. "To get back to the matter at hand-"
"Your strategy's all wrong."
Tom picked up his chair and banged it down in irritation. "So you said. Then what do you suggest?"
"You're the big bleedin' psychic. Shav here can talk to the birds. Can't you find out where the others are-exactly-so we can link up with them? We haven't got the time to keep wandering around. I want to be there the moment they roll up, ready to ride on London."
"And do what? Shake your stump at them?" Tom recognised it was a cheap shot the instant the words had left his lips but he refused to be contrite, although he wouldn't meet Veitch's eyes.
Veitch wasn't upset. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table so he wouldn't look so combative. "You know I'm talking sense here. We need a plan. There's only a matter of days until Hallowe'en… Samhain… that's all. There's not even a guarantee Church and the others are coming back."
"Then we're lost," Tom said sharply. "Separately, we are nothing."
"Sometimes you're so bleedin' pathetic."
"They will be back," Shavi said. "I have faith."
"Then we can get down to the fighting." Veitch adjusted the cloth around what remained of his wrist.
"You all appear to be forgetting something vitally important." Tom spun the chair around so he could lean on the back. He looked at Veitch accusingly. "Church will not have forgotten."
"What?" Veitch looked from Tom to Shavi.
"The land," Shavi said.
"Exactly." Tom took out his tin and made a roll-up with his dwindling supply of tobacco. "Wake the land. The primary mission, encoded for generations in myth and legend. There will be no defeating the Fomorii, no future for Britain-or the world for that matter-unless the land is woken from its long sleep."
"Like Church did in Edinburgh," Veitch said, "when the Fire helped blow those Bastards in their lair to kingdom come. But, yeah, it helped. Why's it so important?"
"The Tuatha De Danann would not have beaten the Fomorii before if the power in the land had not been vibrant."
"I do not remember you telling us that before," Shavi said suspiciously.
Tom sucked on the roll-up a few times to get it alight. "The power in the land, at its height, weakens the Fomorii. The Blue Fire-and what it represents-is the antithesis of the Night Walkers, and what they represent."
"So it's everywhere-" Veitch began.
Tom had no patience left. "It is po
wered by belief and faith and hope, by humanity and nature in conjunction. By all that is good in us. And for generations it has been slowly growing dormant. Several hundred years ago humanity took a wrong path. We gave up all that was most important for the promise of shiny things, home comforts, products. There was a time we could have had both, to a degree. But the ones who shape our thoughts, in politics and business, and the fools who invested their faith in science alone, convinced us to trade one off for the other. And without the belief of the people, the energy slowly withered, like a stream in a drought. Not gone for ever, just sleeping."
"But you know how it can be woken," Shavi said. "You have always known."
Veitch watched Shavi's face and then turned his narrowing eyes to Tom. "Another thing you've kept from us. You can't be trusted at all, can you, you old bastard? We could have done it weeks ago and saved us all a load of trouble."
"The time was not right then. Church was not right. The Fomorii corruption in him would have brought failure. And to fail once would have meant failing for all time."
Shavi watched Tom carefully. "What else do you know?"
"More things than you could ever dream." Tom was unbowed. "Some have to be learned through hardship and ritual-they can't be imparted over a quiet cup of tea. Others, well, the telling of them could alter the outcome of what is being told. I ask you to trust me, as I always have."
"We do trust you," Veitch said irritably. "That doesn't mean you don't get on our tits half the time."
"At least we have some common ground," Tom said acidly. The strain of events was eating away at all of them.
"Then what needs to be done?" Shavi asked. "And can it be done in the time that remains?"
Tom sucked on the roll-up thoughtfully; they couldn't quite divine his mood: dismal or hopeful? "The energy in the earth crisscrosses the globe, interlinking like the lines of latitude and longitude, only not so uniform. The Fire is not a straight line thing. It splits and winds in two strands around a central point, so that from above it resembles the double helix, the map of life, or perhaps the caduceus, the ageold symbol of two serpents coiled around a staff. Imagine, if you will, powerpoints where the energy rushes in, or is refocused and driven out into the network. The Well of Fire at Edinburgh was one, and Stonehenge and Avebury and Glastonbury Tor. The last three are important for they all fall on the divining line for Britain."
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