Through the rock, Church perceived a sound like an engine running. In a moment of frisson he realised it was the sound of breathing.
“Change is the important thing,” Tom continued. “You have to bring things out into the open, for good or bad.”
Church tried to read his face, but he knew how futile an exercise that was. “I don’t like the way you said that,” he noted.
The walk back from the strange, ritualistic room had been a blur to Ruth. The pain and shock of her experience had, for a brief while, almost wiped her mind clear. Only one thing had struck her through the haze: a sound from behind a heavily padlocked door, like a flock of birds crazily flying around the confined space.
She barely noticed they had taken her to a new cell, as depressing as her old one, but almost palatial in size; although it was pitch dark she could tell how large it was from the bouncing echoes of her footsteps. After the cramped confines of her last prison, it should have been cause enough for joy, but her every thought was taken up with the struggle to accept she was still alive. When the black pearl was being forced into her mouth, she had so convinced herself she was going to die her survival had left her disoriented, shocked and, in an odd way, depressed.
She could still feel the awful weight of the pearl deep in her stomach; it was radiating cold into every fibre of her being. She turned to one side and vomited on the flags, sickened by the pressure and the changes taking place in her body. The nausea never left her. What did it all mean? They’d be coming for her again soon and she really didn’t know how much more she could bear.
She crawled away to the other side of the cell, trying to avoid the smell of vomit, but the stench was too strong. She retched again. Shaking, she lowered her head on to the cold floor and hoped sleep would come soon to save her from the nightmare.
Veitch’s instincts had been sending sharp prompts throughout the morning, and by late afternoon he had already made up his mind to move by sundown. Scarcely had he accepted the decision than he heard a tumult echoing across the city from the Old Town. From his window he could see nothing but scattered groups of people looking up to the old, grey buildings that crested the great ridge which ran down from the castle, so he quickly made his way outside.
Dark storm clouds hung oddly over the Old Town, while the rest of the city was bathed in the reddish light of the setting sun. Further down the Royal Mile towards Holyrood those clouds seemed to be churning and there were flashes of light that were not lightning erupting among them; each flash was accompanied by a rumble like distant gunfire.
The crowds were uneasy and apprehensive. It was a manifestation of all their deepest fears that had grown since the Old Town had been so mysteriously sealed off. “What’s going on up there?” one man asked darkly, of no one in particular. Those nearest looked at him fearfully, looked back at the disturbance, said nothing.
Veitch watched it for a moment or two longer, until he decided it might well be the diversion for which he had been waiting. He didn’t know if it was the doing of Shavi and Laura or Church and Tom, but he should move fast to seize the moment. He broke away from the crowd and hurried in the direction of the Old Town.
He realised how much had changed the moment he began to climb the steep steps of Advocate’s Close. Within the space of a few feet the temperature had changed from summer balm to deepest winter; his breath clouded and the steps shimmered with hoar frost. When he reached the summit he was startled to see thick, fresh snow drifting across the Royal Mile, unspoilt by footprints or tire tracks. The mist had quickly descended, casting a spectral pall over the entire area.
Shivering, he zipped his leather jacket to the neck and waded out into the street. The covering of snow was crisp; it was several degrees below zero.
Another flash and rumble startled him. The battle, or whatever it was, was still raging at the foot of the Royal Mile, obscured by the haar. His first instinct was to head straight to the castle, but he knew he had to be sure the Cailleach Bheur was being distracted. He made his way out into the middle of the road where the snow wasn’t so deep and set off towards the disruption.
About halfway down the Royal Mile the mist had thinned out enough for him to see what was happening. The Cailleach Bheur stood with her back to him, both hands grasping her gnarled staff, which was planted firmly in front of her. Bubbles of blue energy were forming around her, increasing in size rapidly, then rushing out in waves. Whenever they burst, the deep rumble rolled out, making Veitch’s ears hurt. That close to her, it was almost unbearably cold; Veitch convulsed with shivers.
The object of her attack was a gloriously beautiful young man floating several feet above the road, his long hair whipped by the force of the energy. He seemed to glow with an inner golden light, but there was some unpleasant quality in his face which disturbed Veitch immensely. The flashes of light appeared to be generated somewhere within him; they were diffuse, like a heat haze on a summer day. Veitch occasionally felt their warmth breaking through the cold. He guessed this was the power Shavi and Laura had been despatched to find and was pleased by their speedy success. The first strike went to the underdogs, he thought; perhaps things weren’t so bad after all.
Although the two forces were obviously in battle, Veitch saw no anger, no emotion of any kind that he recognised. But he was relieved to see the new arrival was more than a match for the wintry ferocity of the Cailleach Bheur. With renewed vigour, he left them to their fight and hurried back up the steep road.
Edinburgh Castle stood at the very summit of the Royal Mile on a mound of volcanic rock created three hundred and forty million years before. The Fomorii had chosen their location well. Surrounded on three sides by sheer cliffs, its position was impregnable. And if the Fomorii had somehow burrowed into the very rock beneath the castle, Veitch knew they would be almost untouchable. His comfort came from the knowledge that he didn’t have to defeat them-that would be up to the others-he must merely get Ruth out.
To that end he had spent his time well since the departure of the others, reading up on the fortress’s history and studying its layout in intricate detail until he had his strategy well mapped out in his mind. Subterfuge was the only way forward. In the times when the garrison had fallen into English hands, the Scots had only been able to retake it through stealth, once by scaling the cliffs and taking the defending troops by surprise, once by disguising themselves as merchants and using their supplies to block open the castle gates so a larger force could sweep in. Deception went against his nature-a direct assault always made him feel much better-but he was learning rapidly.
The approach to the castle was across the wide-open forecourt where the Tattoo was held every year. In normal weather Veitch would not have been able to cross it unseen, but the drifting thick mist provided reasonable cover. He sneaked into an entryway near the Camera Obscura for a few minutes while the sun set completely. Then, with the night providing added protection, he crept around the perimeter wall.
It was an eerie scene. The castle was ablaze with light reflecting off the thick snow, a Christmas confection designed to lure tourists from across the city, but there wasn’t a sound in the vicinity. The drifting mist that resembled smoke on a battlefield muffled any sound from the New Town and obscured any view of the modern city. Veitch felt like he had been transported back in time.
The castle gates were open-the Fomorii obviously feared no direct assault. Witch ducked below the level of the low stone wall and crept beneath the dark arch of the gatehouse. Adrenalin was coursing around his body; he felt revi talised, ready for anything. In the Lower Ward he paused and glanced through a window back into the gatehouse. A guard in military uniform stared blankly across a bare table. Veitch couldn’t reconcile the army presence with the Fomorii until he recognised the waxy sheen to the guard’s face; on close inspection, it resembled a mask: it was a shape-shifted Fomor. This was obviously how the Fomorii had managed to take the castle in the first place, quietly, unnoticed, while the Old Town bustled around them. Somewh
ere, he guessed, there lay a charnel house filled with the bodies of all the soldiers who had been replaced.
He kept to the shadows as he climbed the stairs towards the Middle Ward, trying to muffle his footsteps as much as he could. If he allowed himself to recognise it, he would have had to admit he was terrified, but every sense was fixed on the here and now, smelling the wind for the familiar reek of the Fomorii, listening for even the slightest sound, constantly scanning for any movement in the shadows. He had no idea if the Fomorii had established any kind of secret defence which would alert them to his presence, but he put his faith in moving fast, so he didn’t stay in one place too long.
As he rounded the corner into the Middle Ward he was brought up sharp by a patrol moving in step across the windswept expanse. Quickly, he pulled himself back against the wall, praying he had not been seen. With foreknowledge, it was obvious the patrol did not consist of human soldiers; there was a brooding presence to it which set his nerves on edge.
He held his breath, let the darkness settle on him; the cold bit sharply and he could no longer feel his feet where they were covered by the blanket of snow. As he scanned the battlements, towers and building, it was clear the Fomorii were everywhere. It would take all his skill and a large dose of luck to slip by them unseen; if he were spotted at this early stage he wouldn’t stand a chance.
His task was to find where the Fomorii had established their entrance to whatever lay beneath the castle; his only chance of discovery was to follow some of the Bastards to the location. He guessed, though, that entrance could lie in the Castle Vaults, which were on the closest level to the base rock. But his progress wasn’t going to be easy-the Fomorii patrol was marching back and forth across the Middle Ward, barring his advance. At least his detailed preparation had left him with a fairly comprehensive knowledge of the castle’s labyrinthine byways. Slowly, he edged backwards through the shadows until he found the Lang Stairs, seventy mediaeval steps that led up into the mist. Cautiously he advanced up them; if a Fomor was coming in the opposite direction, the haar would prevent him knowing until they were on top of each other.
By the time he reached the top he was covered in a cold sweat. Somewhere ahead he could hear the crunch of footsteps in the snow. Quickly he dashed past the rows of cannon lining the battlements until he found another hiding place. At that point he was off the beaten track and the chance of another Fomorii patrol passing by was slim. He squatted down and caught his breath, wondering what Church would have done in the same situation. The tension was so high it would have been easy to turn back, but his evening of conversation with Reynolds had filled him with an uncommon, fiery hope; he really believed he could reach Ruth, get her out, even. And then, perhaps, she would recognise him for who he truly was.
It was too cold to remain in one spot for long. Crown Square, with its clustering, towering buildings, was his best chance for cover as he made his way towards the Castle Vaults. At the square’s east entrance he paused to survey the scene. It was quiet and deserted, the snow deep and unbroken across the broad expanse. The mist drifted hazily along the rooftops. To his right, the Scottish National War Memorial loomed up, dark and foreboding; there would be no one in there at least, among the silent monuments to those who had died in defence of the realm. The other buildings around the square could well be occupied, but they were all dark too.
Warily, he stepped out; the snow crunched unnervingly loudly under his feet. The exit to the vaults was directly opposite him, just a stone’s throw across the way. He had made it halfway across when he came up sharp. The lights from the Upper Ward that filtered into the square were suddenly throwing a large, distorted shadow on to one of the walls ahead of him. Veitch had only an instant to think before launching himself to his left and his only possible hiding place: the Great Halls, where the door hung open.
The shadow was across almost the entire square as he threw himself through the opening. He prayed he had been quick enough, but as he scurried into the gloom his foot clipped the door and it swung shut. It must have been seen by whoever was approaching, for it was followed by the insistent, nauseating barks and shrieks of the Fomorii dialect. Veitch propelled himself into the main hall and searched for a hiding place. If he could lie low, the Fomorii guard might simply think the door had been blown shut by the wind.
The darkness in the hall was magnified by the oppressive wooden panelling beneath the deep red walls and heavy beams which supported the vaulted roof. Stained-glass windows along one wall allowed dull beams of light to filter through. The hall was a museum to armoury: swords, pikes, spears, shields, breastplates and helmets were everywhere. Two heavy wooden chairs stood in front of an enormous stone fireplace at one end. Veitch dived behind them into the shadowy hearth and waited there.
A second after he’d settled, footsteps echoed across the room. He peered under the chairs to see a Fomor disguised as a Royal Scots Dragoon march into the centre of the hall and slowly survey it. Veitch held his breath, every muscle of his body tense. The moment was suspended for what felt like hours until the creature turned and began to walk back towards the door. Just as Witch was about to breathe again, the guard stopped, threw one more glance around, then began to fumble for a radio at its belt. Veitch knew instantly from the body language what was intended: a warning of a potential intruder, or just a call to be more vigilant; either way, it was bad news.
The thought had barely registered when he was stealthily slipping out from behind the chairs. As the guard brought the radio up, Witch pulled a stout short sword silently from a baize-covered display table and began to creep across the floor. He could catch it unawares, drive the sword into the base of its skull before it had a chance to raise the alarm. He’d seen how powerful the things were; he didn’t want to risk a face-to-face confrontation.
He slid quickly across the room, raising the sword as he moved. He was almost ready to put his shoulder behind the plunge when the radio suddenly let out an ear-piercing shriek. In a split second it had changed form, like mercury being dropped on to the floor. A silver sheen flooded over it as it sprouted legs like a spider before scurrying up the guard’s arm, where it proceeded to shriek.
Veitch only had the barest instant to realise the thing was a Caraprix-one of the symbiotic shape-shifting creatures which both the Tuatha De Danann and Fomorii carried with them-before the guard was whirling. In the same fluid motion his human face began to melt away like candle-wax, rolling, pluming, becoming something so hideous it made Veitch’s gorge rise. He tried not to look as he continued with his sword stroke, driving it towards the creature’s head. But the Fomor had shifted enough for the blade to glance off its shoulderbone or whatever the unpleasant ridge was that was materialising under the guard’s shirt, splitting it open.
The creature swung something that had been an arm but now resembled a scorpion’s tail, still changing, catching him hard on the side of the head. He flew sideways, hitting the floor hard as purple stars burst in his brain.
He rolled on to his back as the Fomor advanced like a reptile, indistinct and dark and sickening, smelling of raw meat. Veitch gave himself wholly over to instinct, that strange fighting prowess that had gradually emerged from deep within him. He propelled himself forward, tangling himself in the creature’s legs. Its momentum carried it forward and over him. As it fell, he held up the sword, then rolled out of the way at the last moment. The Fomor’s own weight drove the sword through its neck and into its skull. It lay on the floor twitching and shrieking, leaking a substance that smelled so bad Veitch had to fight back the nausea.
The Caraprix, too, was wailing. It leapt from the fallen guard and scuttled across the floor. Veitch reacted instantly. He jumped forward and stamped down hard with one heavy boot, splattering it in a burst of grey ichor; its wail of alarm was cut off midnote.
Witch allowed himself one moment of relief, scarcely able to believe he had killed one of the creatures, though he still didn’t fancy his chances in a direct fight. Then
he hurried over to the wall display, selected another short sword and a dagger which he tucked into his jacket, then a crossbow and some bolts, which he hung on a strap over his shoulder. And then he headed hastily to the door to see if anything had responded to the creature’s dying cries.
The square was as quiet and deserted as when he had first seen it. The only tracks were the guard’s and his own. Quickly he ran to the west exit from the square. He could hear the patrol still moving around the Middle Ward, but there was nothing between him and the Castle Vaults.
He kept close to the walls until he reached the entrance, still amazed he had made it so far. The vaults were dark and dank and smelled of wet stone and earth. The first section consisted of a long arched corridor; there were two rooms leading off it. After the wide open spaces, the place felt claustrophobic. Water was dripping from the ceiling in a constant rhythm and echoes bounced wildly off the stone.
His teeth went on edge when he heard the Fomorii dialect reverberating from the furthest room. Guardedly, he crept to the corner and peered round. Two more Royal Scots Dragoon guards stood talking next to an enormous cannon, which he knew from his reading was the mediaeval siege gun, Mons Meg. Beyond it was a ragged hole in the stone floor from which cold air currents drifted. He had been right. Here was the entrance to the Fomorii’s subterranean lair. But how was he going to get past the guards?
He noticed the room had a door near the far wall, which he guessed connected with the other chamber that led off the corridor. He returned to the first room, where there was a tourist display detailing the vault’s history as a prison, a bakehouse and barracks. Steeling himself, he used the haft of the sword to smash the glass, then hurried back to his original position outside the second room. As he had guessed, the guards took the back route to investigate the disturbance, allowing him a free run to the hole in the floor. Rough steps led down into the dark.
There was no time to deliberate. It had been a gamble to do anything which might alert the Fomorii to his presence, but it had been the only option; he would deal with the consequences later. Fighting back his anxiety, he put his foot on the top step.
Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2) Page 27