Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2)

by Mark Chadbourn

  Church grinned triumphantly. “That’s the way in. A natural spring which was always seen as somewhere sacred, probably because it was a potent source of the earth energy-” They were distracted by a faint sound.

  Laura looked round anxiously. “What was that?”

  Church silenced her. Nothing moved in his field of vision across the library. No sound came through the windows from the normally bustling Old Town. Cautiously he moved forward, motioning to Laura to investigate one side of the library while he looked down the other.

  He soon lost sight of Laura among the stacks. Although he could feel on some instinctive level they were not alone, there was no sign of anyone else in the building with them.

  He’d got to the edge of the stack dedicated to religion when he heard Laura cry out. He sprinted across the library to find her slumped against the wall in a daze, her eyes flickering with fear as they focused on some inner landscape.

  “The black wolf,” she said, as if she were drugged. “He looked at me. And his eyes were yellow.”

  Once Church was sure she was physically unharmed he quickly turned his attention back to the room. It was still empty, but there was an increasing air of tension; someone was definitely nearby.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered distractedly, “it’ll be okay.”

  “No,” Laura said forcefully. “It’s the Black Wolf.” The fear surged up in her; she covered her face with her hands.

  Church moved on. The stacks rose on all sides; the interloper could be round any corner. His attention was drawn to a door away to his right which seemed to be moving gently; it might have been simply the result of an air current. Holding his breath almost involuntarily, he approached. The movement of the door stilled. Apprehensively, he reached out for the handle.

  The door crashed against him, forcing a yell of surprise. Before he could recover, boney fingers were clamped around his wrist, wrenching him towards the gap. Through the shock Church registered the bizarre sight of what appeared to be tracings of black veins against parchment-white skin. By the time he reacted, his hand was already through the gap and the door had been yanked back sharply against his forearm. He cursed loudly and struggled to drag his hand back, but it was held tight.

  “One for the unified force of my anger. And one for revenge.” Church’s blood ran cold. The voice was barely human; it was like hot tar bubbling in a pit. “And five is the number of my despair. Each digit a catechism in the ritual of salvation. A symbolic death to be followed by a real one.”

  A new pain, harsh and focused, erupted in Church’s hand. With horror, he felt the skin of his middle finger break open, the blood start to trickle down into his palm.

  He’s trying to cut it off! The terrible thought burst in his mind, and with it came the certain knowledge that this was the one who had mutilated and abducted Ruth.

  He wrenched at his hand with increasing desperation, but it was pinned with an inhuman strength. And the blade bit deeper. Red hot needles danced across his skin. His forehead felt like it was on fire, his vision fracturing around the edges as he started to black out.

  No, he pleaded with himself.

  It felt like the blade was down to the bone now. His head started to spin, his knees grew weak.

  Somehow he found an extra reserve of strength to give one last pull, but it was not enough. Just as he started to lose consciousness, arms folded around him, adding to his strength. Laura set her heels and heaved and somehow he found the will to join in. His wrist felt like it was going to snap, his arm like it was popping from its socket.

  But then something gave and he found himself flying backwards. He landed on the floor several feet back, with Laura pinned beneath him.

  “You big bastard,” she gasped.

  Desperately he rolled off her and pulled out his handkerchief to stem the flow of blood. The cloth was soaked crimson within seconds, but the blood slowed enough for him to tie it tight.

  Laura was anxiously watching the door which had swung shut. “I think they’ve gone,” she ventured. Then: “What was that?”

  “I don’t know.” Church still felt nauseous at the memory of the voice. It had sounded like something from The Exorcist. Fighting off the rolling waves of pain that were rising up his arm, he moved forward cautiously and pulled open the door. There was no one on the other side. Splatters of his own blood, that had run off his attacker, marked a trail out of the building.

  “Whatever it was, it’s not going to be satisfied until it’s had us all,” he said.

  “I need my fingers. They’re a lonely girl’s best friend.” Although she was trying to make light, there was no humour in her words. “Come on, we’ve got to get some stitches in that.”

  In spite of having found their next step forward, their confidence had ebbed as they made their way up the street from the library. Apprehension almost prevented them crossing the Royal Mile, with its clear vista from the imposing bulk of the castle at the top, but they pulled themselves together enough to continue towards the worrying darkness of Advocate’s Close.

  Halfway across the road Laura caught at Church’s sleeve and whispered, “Look at that.”

  Above the castle, grey clouds were roiling unnaturally, unfolding from the very stone of the place, rolling out across the Old Town. Within seconds the hot summer sun was obscured. The temperature dropped rapidly and Church felt the sting of snow in the cold wind.

  They raised their faces up to stare at the dark skies, suddenly shivering in the heart of winter.

  chapter six

  only sleeping

  awn came up over Calton Hill like gold and brass. Summer heat quickly dispelled the cool of the night, and the air was soon filled with the chorus of waking songbirds and the aroma of wild flowers. Amongst the treetops that clustered to the southwest side of the hill, tiny figures danced and swooped on the warm currents, their gossamer wings sparkling in the sun’s first rays.

  For Veitch, it was a transcendent moment that pointed up the hollowness of the world before the change. His hard face softened as he followed the winged creatures’ magical trail; the tension eased from his muscles. His smile transformed him into the kind of man he might have been if he hadn’t grown up at a certain time in a certain place, trapped by destiny, punished by reality for no crime apart from existing.

  And Shavi watched Veitch, and he too smiled. And the others looked to Shavi and felt the genuine warmth and hope he exuded, even in the darkest moments. It was he who had suggested the ritual to greet the sun as a way of marking the next phase of their life, and as a memory of something good to carry with them into dark places. Tom had helped out with the details of the ancient rite which had been carried out at the stone circles in the long-forgotten days, and they had chosen Calton Hill, where every year Edinburgh residents gathered for a pagan rite of seasonal renewal on Beltane. It was the place, it was the time.

  And there, in the aftermath, they all felt stronger and they could turn their eyes away from the still-sleeping, geometrical streets of the New Town to the clouded, chaotic and thunderous bulk of the Old. Above it, the winter clouds still churned.

  “We will always remember this moment.” Shavi’s voice was a whisper but it carried through the still air with a strength and clarity that sent a shiver down their spines. “This is not just an age of darkness and anarchy. It is a time of wonder and miracles too. Never forget. Light in dark-“

  “The best of times, the worst of times.” Church smiled.

  “Sweet and sour,” Laura chipped in. “Cabbage and chocolate-“

  “All right!” Shavi laughed. “You have no sense of occasion!”

  “And you’d get on a pretentious spiral up your own arse if we’d let you.” Laura rolled on to her back, chuckling playfully.

  For that brief time, Church forgot his brooding nature and turned to look through the twelve Doric columns of the National Monument towards the sun, pretending it was Athens, dreaming of Marianne-but no longer in a bad way.

/>   Tom, stoned and grinning, looked more like a Woodstock refugee than he had done in weeks. When he smiled, the lines of suffering and despair turned to crinkles of good humour and his piercing eyes sparkled with a blissed-out hippie’s playfulness. “Shavi’s right.” His voice, too, became less sombre, and more of its original Scottish brogue was evident. “Make the most of it.”

  “Okay,” Church said. “Pop quiz. Favourite golden oldie. I’ll start: `Fly’-“

  “-‘Me to the Moon,’ you predictable Sinatra dickhead,” Laura chided. “You hadn’t mentioned the great elan for a while. I thought you’d grown out of that.”

  “We haven’t had much time to kick back and listen to music.”

  “`Scooby Snacks.”’ Veitch’s voice surprised them all, floating out dreamily and distracted while he watched the sprites in the trees. “Fun Lovin’ Criminals.”

  “`Strange Brew’ by Cream,” Tom grinned.

  Laura stared at him as if he was insane. “No, wasn’t that Beethoven?” she said sarcastically.

  “Stop criticising and chip in so we can criticise your musical taste,” Church said.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Oh God, I don’t know. `Hey Boy Hey Girl’ by the Chemical Brothers. Or maybe something by Celine Dion,” she added with a sneer. “What’s yours then, Shav-ster?” Laura raised her sunglasses slightly to get a clearer view of his expression. “Some Andean pan pipe music? Kashmiri drum and bass? Tibetan chants? Aboriginal didgeridoo solos?”

  “`Move On Up’ by Curtis Mayfield, if you must know,” he said with mock playfulness. “The ultimate positivity in music.”

  “Oh God, can’t you just say you like the beat?” She pulled off her boot and threw it at him. He ducked with a laugh and crawled behind Tom, who suddenly looked very perturbed.

  Church didn’t want to break the mood, but it had to happen sooner or later. “We need to talk about divvying up,” he began. Nobody looked at him as if he had only thought the words, but he sensed a change in the atmosphere, as if everything was suddenly hanging in stasis.

  “I think it’s up to me to go into Arthur’s Seat-“

  “And you said that with a completely straight face, Church-dude.” Laura’s voice was suddenly weary. “I always said you had no comic timing.”

  11 -and I think Tom should go to Rosslyn Chapel-“

  “No,” Tom said firmly.

  “But you know the history of what happened there. You’ve been taught some of the knowledge of the people who did the binding. It’s obviously yours,” Church protested.

  “No,” Tom said again.

  Laura scanned his face for a moment. “He’s scared.”

  Tom glared at her. “Yes, I am, and I don’t mind admitting it, as any wise man would do. But that’s not the reason. We’ve all got a part to play here and mine is as teacher, as guide to the ways of the land, the earth energy. I need to go with Jack to show him, tell him, teach him. I may not be the embodiment of the Pendragon Spirit like you, but I am bound to it for all time. It lights my way. And I, in turn, help it in any way I can.”

  “So it’s not about you being scared at all, then,” Laura said, with a false smile. Tom looked away.

  “Veitch, Laura and I can go to Rosslyn Chapel,” Shavi began, but this time it was Witch’s turn to refuse.

  “I’m staying here.” He turned towards them, his face set.

  “Why?” The fresh stitches in Church’s finger began to ache.

  “Someone has to get Ruth out.”

  “On your own!” Church exclaimed. “I know I asked you for a plan, but I expected it to be one you’d thought about for more than five minutes.”

  “I know what I’m doing-“

  “Right. So you’re going to waltz into a stronghold filled with Fomorii out to tear you limb from limb, go directly to Ruth and carry her out like at the end of An Officer and a Gentleman.”

  “Something like that.”

  “And, of course, it’ll be no problem that when the Well of Fire is ignited or redirected or whatever I’m doing, you’ll be right at ground zero.”

  Veitch shrugged. He obviously wasn’t going to be deterred.

  “Muscle boy’s in love,” Laura mocked in a singsong voice. Veitch flashed her a cold, hateful stare, but said nothing.

  “Ryan-” Church began.

  “I’m going to find a way in to that place and I’m going to do my best to get her out. Because it’s the right thing. Just like you’re trying to do the right thing for everybody else. If I can get in just before the shit hits the fan, there’s a chance-“

  “How will you know the right time?”

  “I’ll know. I feel things. You know, the right way to act. The right thing to do at the right time. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but it’s getting stronger. You said it yourself.” He stared into the middle distance, faintly uncomprehending. “I’m different now. Better. I’m not going to let it go to waste.”

  Church searched his face for a moment, then nodded. “It’s decided, then. I go to the Well with Tom. Laura and Shavi head south to Rosslyn Chapel. And Veitch-“

  “Attempts Mission: Impossible. I don’t fancy your chances, even for a big, tough, street boy.” Church heard a surprising note of concern in Laura’s voice. “A nest of Fomorii. Their biggest stronghold, protecting the thing most valuable to them. And you.” She paused. “Shall I order the pine box?”

  “I’ll take my chances. Let’s face it, I’m the only bastard who actually has a chance among you bleedin’ lot. If I kick the bucket, well, you know, it was for the right reason. That’s what this is all about, right?” He turned to Church. “That’s what you keep saying, innit? Do it for the right reason. This is nay right reason.” He seemed surprised to see admiration in their stares and grew uncomfortable.

  Laura attempted to break the mood with some glib, mocking comment, but for once the words escaped her. Church watched her face sag as she bit her lip; he wondered what lay behind her sunglasses.

  “Where are we gonna meet up afterwards?” Veitch asked optimistically.

  “Greyfriars Churchyard.” Church had spent most of the previous afternoon planning, armed with a map of the city and the guidebook, while fighting back nausea from the pain in his finger.

  “Why there?”

  “Because I always wanted to see that statue of the little dog that sat by his master’s grave. Greyfriars Bobby-what a great tourist attraction that is.” He tried to make light of the conversation, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Veitch wouldn’t be meeting them. “I think we can pick a quick route out of town from there. And it’s an easy place to find if the shit really is hitting the fan.”

  They all thought about this for a moment.

  Nobody wanted to be the first to go, but eventually Shavi shouldered the responsibility. He knelt beside Veitch and gave his shoulder a brief squeeze before setting off down the hill. Tom followed, resting one hand on Witch’s head in passing, a restrained show of respect that was surprisingly voluble in a man normally so emotionally detached. Laura paused, but couldn’t bridge the gap and hurried uncomfortably after the others.

  It was only then Church realised how truly strong were forged the bonds that joined them. Their communication was silent, but deeply expressed; powerful emotions united them, of respect and trust, friendship and faith, even love. It was even harder to believe the Celtic spirits’ accusation that one of them was a traitor.

  “Are you going to be okay here on your own?” he said.

  Veitch grinned with fake confidence. “No, but fuck it.” He stripped off his shirt to feel the sun on his skin, his tattoos gleaming across his torso. “See this?” He pointed to a pentacle picked out in an intertwining Celtic design. “I always wondered what that was. But it’s us, innit? See, five points, all separate, but all joined together, and stronger for it.”

  Church gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder. “You’re a smart bloke, Ryan. You shouldn’t hide it so much.”

  “Yeah
, smart like shit.” He fumbled for Church’s hand and shook it awkwardly. “You know, I never thought I’d ever be a part of something like this … fuck it!” He shook his head, embarrassed. “You better get going. It’s time to go to work.”

  Church set off down the hill. Halfway down, where the trees began to close in around the path, he glanced back to see a figure silhouetted against the dawn sky, framed by the soaring Athenian columns. It was such a sad, lonely sight he quickly turned and hurried after the others.

  It was already early afternoon as Shavi and Laura made their way south. The sun had started to give way to the sea mist the locals called the haar. It swept in from the northeast, obscuring Arthur’s Seat and the castle, rolling out across the rooftops and clinging hard to the streets. They had considered hiring a car, but Church had cautioned them about keeping a low profile, so Shavi had convinced Laura to walk the six and a half miles towards the misty, purple bulk of the Pentland Hills. She refused, however, to carry any of the camping gear which was mounted on a framed rucksack on his back. As they set out through Tollcross the Old Town seemed uncomfortably close; Laura was convinced she could feel a wintry chill radiating out from the streets that emptied on to Lothian Road. They kept to the other side, near to the comforting modernity of the new financial district, until the blackened, ancient buildings of the Old Town were far behind.

  Although it was not raining, the haar infused the air with so much moisture their clothes soon became damp and Laura’s spikey hair sagged on to her forehead.

  “You can probably remove your sunglasses now,” Shavi said wryly.

  “When you get the pomposity out of your arse.” She looked around. “Not much traffic for a capital city.”

  “People are only making journeys when they feel it is absolutely important. They subconsciously sense the danger that is all around.”

  “And it hasn’t got so bad yet.”

  The street rode the rolling hills, past rows of smart shops where a few people seemed at ease enough to hover outside the windows, up towards the ring road. Laura leaned over the barrier, still curious to see such little transport.