Destroyer of Worlds kots-3

by Mark Chadbourn

  A tolling bell echoes dully through the Fortress.

  'It's time,' he says.

  Niamh nods, takes his hand. They make their way along corridors of pulsing meat, down echoing stone steps, until they come to a hall so large that the far walls are not visible.

  You will not want to enter. Even in your dreams it affects you, the stink, the feeling of subsonic vibrations in the pit of your stomach, but most potently a dread so terrible it would drive you insane if you lingered. You want to shut it out, pretend you never experienced it, but it will haunt you for the rest of your days. Amidst a seething mass of shrieking foul creatures floats the great god Janus, his two faces switching back and forth, black on white, white on black. He holds aloft the golden key to open the doors and then the ironwood stick to drive away those who have no right to cross the threshold. The monstrous beings shriek louder, the noise rising and falling, and you realise that hideous sound is singing, a form of celebration. In their ecstasy, they fight and tear at each other like animals in a pit. In a circle around Janus's feet lopes the god Loki, part-man, part-wolf, his head rolling as he mouths incantations, lost to the ritual, lost to the dread and the frenzy, round and round in circles.

  Niamh smiles, closes her eyes and breathes deeply of the foul atmosphere. 'You can smell it. An ending,' she says. 'And a beginning. The serpent eats its own tail.'

  Janus raises the key once more and a door opens behind him. Listen. That beat, steady, growing louder. It is the sound that lies behind everything you see and feel.

  'He is coming,' Niamh says.

  The Void, the Devourer of All Things, the essence of Anti-Life approaches the door, preparing to coalesce in this place, this time, and fill the receptacle that has been made for it: the Burning Man.

  For once the Libertarian has nothing to say. A tear stings his eye. It could have been joy had he not relinquished that emotion long ago.

  Niamh claps her hands. 'It is over,' she sighs.

  Quickly. You must leave before it is too late for you.

  The pounding grows louder, and the beasts fall silent, and still, and look towards the door, and wait.

  Chapter One

  God Only Knows

  1

  The Last Train thundered out of the world. Behind it, swarming spiders tore apart the land and rebuilt it with a boiling intellect and a cold eye. Hope and wonder and magic could not survive under that scrutiny. The unequivocal image of the Void was all that would remain.

  Through the carriage window, Church attempted to see some pattern in the dark pressing in on all sides, but the dream was still heavy on him, distracting, haunting. Lying on some kind of bed or trolley or bench, faces loomed over him uttering familiar yet unrecognisable voices. On awakening, he had been convinced of some life-changing meaning just beyond his grasp, but it was slipping further away with each moment. It felt very much like a death dream.

  His reflection in the window revealed the burden of responsibility carved into his brooding features. There was too much darkness about him, from the black hair, to the eyes lost in shadow, to the hollowness of his cheeks. Was this the chrysalis state before he would emerge as the Libertarian, bloody eyes staring from the gloom?

  Veitch came up silently behind him. His features carried the hardness of a life lived on the street, his eyes registering every hurt, every betrayal, every disappointment, all too close to the surface. Church still didn't know how much he could trust him.

  'You know what we need? Some music,' Veitch said.

  'Sinatra,' Church replied.

  'Nah. Something… something sunny. A bit of heart, bit of hope. I've got this Beach Boys song stuck in my head. Can't remember what it's called.' He quietly hummed a few off-key bars.

  Lounging back in a seat, Veitch's silver hand caught the lamplight, the glow illuminating another hint of uncertainty in Veitch's eyes. 'Laura's never going to accept me,' he commented.

  'Surprised? She never liked you much before. Now she knows you've killed about ten times as many people as the worst serial killer in history, all of them Brothers and Sisters of Dragons.'

  Veitch gave nothing away.

  'Any regrets?' Church pressed.

  'I did what I did.'

  'You had the spiders whispering in your ears-'

  'Don't blame them. I knew what I was doing.'

  'The Void deals in despair, Ryan. Once you get infected with that you can believe black is white and up is down. Nothing looks right.'

  'You're the one always banging on about accepting responsibility. What I did felt right then. Now…' Veitch gave a shrug that was supposed to represent easiness. 'All that matters is I did it. I'm never going to put it right, no chance. I've got to accept what I did and live with it.' Veitch rolled up his shirt to reveal the mass of colourful tattoos that covered his torso. He indicated a Promethean figure strapped to a rock being attacked by ravens. 'See that? That's me. Being punished for ever for what I've done. No relief. Just pain. You fuck up like I did, you deserve to pay the price.'

  Church felt a pang of pity. 'You're here now when we need you most.' 'So you trust me?'

  'I do.'

  'You're an idiot, then. Even I don't trust me.'

  Their eyes locked, and Church was acutely aware of the weight that lay between them. Veitch loved Ruth as much as he did, and neither of them was wholly sure where Ruth stood. What would happen when the time came for choices to be made? Could he trust Veitch to walk away? Could he trust himself?

  His transformation into the Libertarian would be sparked in some way by his relationship with Ruth. Before, he couldn't comprehend how that could possibly happen. Now he could see with startling acuity the road begin to appear before him. The question was clear: how far would he be prepared to go for the woman he loved?

  Something similar unfolded in Veitch's face.

  'None of us are heroes, mate,' Veitch said quietly. 'In the end we just do the best we can.'

  'And sometimes we fail.'

  Veitch nodded.

  'But that's the thing about five. If one screws up, there's always someone else to make sure the job gets done.'

  Veitch pondered this for a moment. 'We've all got a part to play. Thinking about this too hard does my head in, but it's like even bad stuff is important. Like you couldn't have had some of the good if the bad things hadn't happened to cause it. So it's all linked. Pull back a bit and you start seeing things for what they are. They're just part of some…' He struggled to complete the concept.

  'Pattern?'

  'It's like we're so far inside it we don't see how it all fits together, but if you could float above it somehow… you know… Listen to me — I sound like bleedin' Shavi.' He laughed. 'Looking forward to spending some time with that fucker. I missed him. He keeps me calm.'

  'We go well together.'

  'Yeah. We do.'

  Outside the carriage, the impenetrable black was like deepest space, punctuated every now and then by a burst of fire in the far reaches, a beacon crying for help, quickly extinguished. Briefly, a vast mountain of stone came into view, topped by a sharp spire with gargoyles and carvings and windows but no sign of life: the Watchtower between the Worlds.

  'You think Miller and Jack are enough to stop the Void?' Veitch was lost to the gloomy view.

  'Not without the Extinction Shears. Maybe not even then.'

  'It's not going to end well for us, is it?'

  'No happy endings.'

  'I never expected that for me, but you lot… you deserve better. You've fought hard.'

  'Maybe dying won't be so bad. I just feel so tired. All this running, and fighting.'

  They were interrupted by the silent arrival of Ahken, the host of the Last Train, his heavy-lidded eyes staring from a skull-like face. His black robes were pristine, but he smelled of the grave, and when he clasped his hands before him in a show of obsequiousness, it hid something darker. 'Brothers of Dragons,' he said. 'Is there anything that would make your final journey more pleasur
able?'

  His words chilled Church.

  'Yeah. Some dancing girls,' Veitch replied.

  Ahken smiled slyly. 'You feel at home on the Last Train.'

  Veitch stroked the leather seat. 'It's weird. It feels a bit Egyptian, some Chinese, Arabic, Victorian.'

  'Oh, the Last Train is very old,' Ahken said. 'It was here in the earliest time, before the Golden Ones, before even the Drakusa.'

  'Before the Oldest Things in the Land?' Church asked.

  Ahken did not reply.

  'What are you going on about?' Veitch asked.

  'There's a hierarchy. The gods manipulate us. The Oldest Things in the Land manipulate the gods and us. Puck, the Caretaker…' With an involuntary shudder, Church recalled the two figures he had seen, or imagined, hovering over the cauldron that was not a cauldron while he suffered the Sleep Like Death in the casket of gold and ivory. 'There's always something higher. Apparently.'

  Defiance hardened Veitch's features. 'Humans are on the way up, and we're not taking any bollocks from anyone any more.'

  Church nodded in agreement. 'This whole period is ushering in the next step of our evolution, if we can follow the right path. Not Fragile Creatures any longer. A lot of the ones above us don't like that.' He eyed Ahken, who smiled, giving nothing away.

  'So does that mean we get one of those little silver rats like all the gods?' Veitch said.

  'A Caraprix?'

  Ahken flinched.

  'You know something about them?' Church asked him.

  'I know the Last Train, and that is all,' Ahken lied.

  'The Tuatha De Danaan can't live without them,' Veitch said. 'But what use are they? They change shape, yeah, but I mean, so what, right? It's not like they serve up your dinner. They're like pets.'

  'Except I can never tell which is the pet — the Caraprix or the god,' Church said.

  2

  Laura kept one eye on her reflection in the window of the adjoining carriage as she teased her white-blond hair. 'The end of the world is no excuse for looking less than perfect,' she hummed.

  Further down the carriage, a piper played a heart-wrenching lament to the four lost cities of the homeland of the Tuatha De Danaan. The king of the Seelie Court maintained a cold dignity, but the queen's head was raised, eyes closed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  'Do you miss Hunter?' Shavi sat cross-legged on the opposite seat.

  Laura noted the tinge of rawness around his left eye where the stolen alien orb had been inserted, but it only emphasised the beauty of his bone structure, the gleam of his black hair, his flawless skin. 'Like I miss crabs.'

  His smile revealed he recognised the truth behind her words.

  'All right, so he's not a complete loser. And trust me, I've shagged enough of those in my life to tell one at fifty paces.'

  Shavi continued to smile.

  'Will you stop that?' She sighed. 'He's not had the experience we've had. I mean, we've all died and come back, for a start.'

  'He is a strong and capable man. There is little in the Far Lands that would give him pause.'

  'I'm going to be really pissed off if he goes and dies on me. At least before I've managed to suck the life out of him.'

  'You deserve a little happiness.'

  'Yeah. Tell that to her.' Laura nodded towards Ruth, who stood apart from the strange members of the Seelie Court, lost to the music and her thoughts. She leaned on the Spear of Lugh as if it was a crutch.

  'Ruth does not think badly of you.'

  'She doesn't like it that I'm not a frosty, miserable moaner. And she envies my beauty, wit and charm.'

  'You know, you do not have to be afraid to be honest about your feelings.'

  'I've never been honest in my life. Why start now?' She fixed him with a telling gaze, but for once Shavi did not notice the subtle signs.

  'When are you going to tell us your real name?' he asked.

  'It's DuSantiago.'

  Shavi nodded; another faint smile.

  'So how's the new eye? Causing you a great deal of pain?'

  'It appears to have settled in remarkably well. For an eye stolen from an otherworldly construct to replace the one it stole from me.'

  'Shame.' She saw the briefest shadow cross Shavi's face. 'What's up?'

  'The eye doesn't always show him things he wants to see.' Ruth stood in the aisle. Laura felt a charge in the air, as if Ruth were some kind of generator. It was both comforting and unsettling at the same time.

  'So what are you seeing, Shavster? Or should I cross your palm with silver?'

  'Nothing.'

  Laura grew serious. 'I'm going to throw back at you all that shit you tell me about friends. You shouldn't keep all this stuff inside you. It'll eat away at you and drive you mad. Trust me, I know.'

  'She's right, Shavi,' Ruth prompted.

  'I do not see specifics, just fleeting images, impressions.' He shrugged.

  'He sees death,' Ruth said.

  Shavi flinched.

  'How do you know that?' Laura asked.

  'It's circling all around us. Can't you feel it?' Ruth hugged herself. 'A coldness, that brief feeling of a shadow passing over you?'

  Laura shook her head. 'What do I know? Thanks to Cernunnos I'm more plant than human. A beautiful little nature sprite.'

  'Maybe it's my Craft,' Ruth accepted. 'Come on, Shavi — share your burden.'

  Reluctantly, he replied, 'Yes, death is all around. As it comes closer, symbols of its presence will arise, as they always have done, but we are usually oblivious to their presence.'

  'You're creeping me out now.' Laura said. 'What are you talking about?'

  'In life, death is an anomaly. It is like a weight dropped onto a taut rubber sheet, bending the patterns all around, throwing up indicators of its presence. In the midst of them, we discount them as coincidences, randomness. Only after death has passed do we see those things for what they are.'

  'Patterns,' Ruth said. 'Symbols. That's where the true magic lies.'

  'Who dies, Shavi?' Laura said sharply.

  'The Pendragon Spirit responds to the gravity that lies ahead.'

  'So if I can cut through all your verbal wankery,' Laura said, 'you're saying Brothers and Sisters of Dragons. Us. One? More?'

  'The details are not clear.'

  Laura couldn't tell if he was lying.

  The musician came to an abrupt end of his piece, and with silent awe the Seelie Court moved to one side of the carriage. The Last Train emerged from the gulf into a crepuscular zone and then rapidly burst into a blaze of colour and detail. They had arrived at the distant edge of the Far Lands.

  But the members of the travelling court were not entranced by their return to the land the Golden Ones now called home. Their apprehensive attention was fixed on the Fortress that sprawled to the lip of T'ir n'a n'Og, as big as several cities and growing with every moment as armies of labourers relentlessly scurried with ant-like organisation to erect annexes, walls, towers, courtyards, keeps. From one angle, it didn't resemble a fortress at all, but an enormous insect squatting on the land. All around was blasted, dry and dusty, and devoid of life. And over it all loomed the Burning Man.

  Everyone remained silent until the Fortress had passed from view, and then they returned to their seats, muttering darkly to those beside them.

  3

  The Last Train moved rapidly across the blasted zone, past the long columns of monstrous beings marching out from the Enemy's Fortress. Their great war machines shook the ground as they rumbled towards the centres of habitation. Soon the train passed onto rolling downs, where the breeze-blown grass looked like waves on a green sea, and then to misty valleys and tree-covered slopes.

  In the carriage beyond the one occupied by the Seelie Court, Tom perched on a seat, studiously constructing a roll-up from the small tin he carried in his haversack. With his silver hair tied back in a ponytail, he still carried with him the spirit of Woodstock. 'Scared?' he said.

  'No, of co
urse not.' Crowther watched the passing scenery intently. He was a big-boned man, wrapped in a voluminous overcoat topped with a wide-brimmed hat that made him appear even larger. 'I have been here many times. In my dreams-'

  'Nightmares.'

  'Speak for yourself. Our world is a place of low horizons. Here, anything is possible.'

  'Yes, death from nowhere, torture, the dismantling and rebuilding of the body in infinite, agonising variations. It's one long, fun-filled holiday of the mind.'

  'If you don't have the intellectual capacity to see the possibilities,' Crowther sniffed, 'there's little point in discussing it further.'

  Tom eyed him coldly. 'Intellect is a poor substitute for experience.'

  'As people without intellect always say.'

  'Oh look, the old folk are arguing again. This journey is like one never-ending visit to a rest home. You'll be fighting over the Rich Tea biscuits next.' At sixteen, Mahalia had the cut-glass tones of an expensive private education, but her eyes suggested easy violence and a much greater age.

  'Oh yes, the teenage delinquent,' Tom said. 'Move along. No mobile phones to steal here.'

  'For God's sake, don't engage her.' Crowther sighed. 'You'll only find ground glass in your food.'

  Mahalia snorted. 'I can be much more inventive than that.' Her hardness fractured briefly as she glanced back along the carriage to where her boyfriend, Jack, sat in gloomy conversation with Miller. At seventeen, with his shock of blond hair and healthy farm-boy appearance, Jack was a stark contrast to the older Miller's sickly pallor, only emphasised by the lank brown hair falling around his ghostly face. 'You need to do something about those two. They've got some kind of death wish,' Mahalia added.

  Realising they were the subject of the conversation, Jack and Miller approached.

  'Tell them!' Mahalia pleaded with Tom and Crowther. 'Just because they've been given these special abilities doesn't mean they have to go out fighting.'

  'Don't, Mahalia.' Jack had a world-weariness that belied his age. 'Everyone can see how this is going to turn out.'