Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2)

by Mark Chadbourn

  Dian Cecht smiled when he looked on it. “My own faithful companion.” He said something else in that strange keening voice and the creature glowed even brighter.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Ruth asked, suddenly wary.

  “Do not worry. You will not be harmed.” He took her hand to comfort her, but the moment they touched a shudder ran through him. “The Fomorii have weaved the darkness tightly inside you. I cannot see through it.” He retracted his hand a little too quickly. “But my friend here should be able to penetrate to the periphery of the shadows and return with the information we need.”

  Church’s heart leapt when he saw the pang of fear in Ruth’s face. “What is inside me? What have they done?” Her voice sounded as if it was about to shatter.

  Dian Cecht smiled a little sadly, then gentle brushed her forehead with his fingertips; she went out in an instant, as she had when Tom had utilised the same technique at Stonehenge. Church started forward, but Dian Cecht caught her easily in his deceptively strong arms and carried her to a pristine marble bench nearby. Church was shocked to see her skin was almost the same colour as the stone on which she lay.

  The atmosphere grew more tense and Church had the uncomfortable feeling that a cloud had passed across the sun, although the light in the room remained as bright as ever. Dian Cecht knelt down beside Ruth’s head and held the gently throbbing Caraprix in his palm. Church glanced to Tom for support, but the Rhymer would not meet his eyes; Max’s face was still with queasy concentration.

  The Caraprix was brought slowly towards Ruth’s right ear. When it was almost touching, the creature burst into life, snapping like elastic in a wild blur before becoming something like a tapeworm that darted into the waiting orifice. Even unconscious, a spasm crossed Ruth’s face.

  Dian Cecht stood up and took a step back, fingering his chin as he watched Ruth with resolute thoughtfulness. Church fought to contain his disgust. He imagined the Caraprix wriggling through the byways of Ruth’s body, probing into the nooks and crannies as it sought out the Fomorii corruption. But he guessed it wasn’t like that at all. Instinctively he knew that if a surgeon cut Ruth open he would find no sign of anything unusual in her body at all; the shadow Dian Cecht sensed was lodged in the invisible shell of her spirit.

  The moments went by agonisingly slowly. Neither Dian Cecht nor Tom moved, which made Church realise how very alike they were, although he would never have told Tom that. Max, it was obvious, was forcing himself to watch the proceedings: a trained observer, lodging every incident for posterity.

  The tableau seemed frozen in time and space; and then everything happened at once. There was a sound like a meteorite shrieking through the atmosphere to the ground. Ruth’s face flickered, then grimaced; finally she convulsed, jackknifing her knees up as if she had been punched in the belly. There was a blur in the air erupting from Ruth’s ear and then a shush-boon as the shrieking sound crashed into the room with them; Church clutched at his aching ears.

  The Caraprix, once more in its egg shape, lay on the floor, surrounded by a pool of gelatinous liquid, throbbing in a manner that Church could only describe as distress. Dian Cecht’s face contorted, ran like oil on water until Church found it unrecognisable; it settled only when he was on his knees beside the Caraprix, scooping it up into his hands like a broken-winged sparrow, and then he was hurrying out of the room, the air filled with the terrible keening of the wind.

  Ruth came round soon after with the sluggish awareness of someone waking from a deep anaesthetic. She made no sense at first, talking about a ship skimming across the sea, and then her wide eyes focused and locked on Church. He held her hand tightly, brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Beads of sweat dappled the pale skin.

  “What did he find?” Her voice was a croak. Church maintained his demeanour; she looked past him, at Tom, and then Max, and a single tear crept on to her cheek.

  They wondered if Dian Cecht was ever going to return. He kept them waiting for more than two hours in the cathedral silence of the precinct. When he did finally arrive, he was not alone. On either side were the young man and woman who were obviously his attendants, and behind them at least twenty others, some with the stern, shifting faces that signified high power. A grim atmosphere wrapped tightly around them.

  Dian Cecht spoke in moderate tones; the others remained silent, but it felt as if they were on the verge of screaming. “We cannot help you or your companions, True Thomas.”

  Tom stepped forward and bowed slightly. “Thank you for the assistance you have given, High Lord of the Court of the Final Word.”

  Church couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Hang on a minute,” he said incredulously, “you can’t just brush us off like that!”

  Dian Cecht surveyed him with aristocratic coldness, his warm nature suddenly departed. “It would do well to maintain respect-“

  “No,” Church said firmly. “You respect me. I represent this world, these people. I’m a Brother of Dragons.”

  Tom stepped in quickly. “He has not learned the ways of-“

  Dian Cecht silenced him with an upraised hand. “For all your power, Brother of Dragons, you are powerless. You are a Frail Creature. Your voice may crow louder than your stature prevails, but in essence that is what you are and that is what you will always be. And even by your own meagre horizons you have failed so dramatically that you are not worthy of whatever position to which you so feebly aspire.” His freezing gaze washed over Church’s face. “You have no notion what has happened?”

  “What did you find?” Church tried to maintain equilibrium in his voice. His contempt for the Tuatha De Danann was growing; he wanted to drive them all from the land at that moment, Niamh included.

  Ruth’s hand closed tightly on his forearm. “Church. Don’t.” He ignored her.

  “The Sister of Dragons has been corrupted beyond all meaning of the word.” Dian Cecht’s stare fell on Ruth, but he seemed unable to keep it there. “She is the medium for the return of the Heart of Shadows.”

  His words fell like stones in the tense atmosphere. There was a sharp intake of breath which Church guessed came from Tom. Church watched the Rhymer’s hand go involuntarily to his mouth, but slowly, as if it were only confirmation of an idea he had not dared consider.

  “What do you mean?” Church didn’t want to hear an answer.

  “The black pearl-” Ruth began.

  “Was the essence of Balor, the one-eyed god of death, Lord of Evil, Heart of Shadows.” Dian Cecht’s face filled with thunder.

  Church’s head was spinning; he looked from Dian Cecht to Ruth to Tom, who seemed to have tears in his eyes, then back to Ruth.

  “The black pearl, the Gravidura, was distilled over time by the Night Walkers to maintain the consistency of whatever essence remained from the Heart of Shadows,” Dian Cecht continued. Church recalled the drums of the foul black concoction they had come across in Salisbury and under Dartmoor. “It is the seed. He will be reborn into the world at the next festival of the cycles.”

  Ruth turned to him, her face filled with a terrible dawning realisation. Tears of shock rimmed her eyes. “What are you saying? That I’m pregnant?” Her hands went to her belly; she watched them as if they belonged to someone else, with a look of growing horror. “Inside me?” She started to scratch at her stomach, gently at first, but with growing manic force until Church caught her wrists and held them tight. The look in her eyes was almost unbearable to see. “What will happen?” she asked dismally.

  “When the time comes, the Heart of Shadows will burst from your belly fully formed.” Church wanted to run over and hit Dian Cecht until he removed the coldness from his voice. “No Fragile Creature could survive that abomination.”

  Ruth looked dazed, like she was going to faint. Church slipped an arm around her shoulder for support. “Why are you treating her this way? She’s a victim, not a-“

  “She allowed it to happen.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous-!�
� Church caught himself, tried a different tack. “Look, you’ve got him here, your arch-enemy. If you can get the essence … the seed … out of her-“

  “We will have nothing to do with the corruption. Even to be in the same presence fills us with …” He made a gesture as if there was a foul smell under his nose.

  “But it makes no sense! If Balor is reborn he’s not going to leave the Tuatha De Danann alone for long. He’ll wipe you out like he’s going to wipe out everything-“

  The words dried in Church’s throat when he saw Dian Cecht’s face flare with rage, become insubstantial, shift through a range of alien visages. He suddenly acted as if Church were no longer in the room. “We will deal with the Heart of Shadows and the Night Walkers if they become a problem, True Thomas-“

  “Ifl” Church raged.

  Tom moved quickly to push him and Ruth towards the door. “Quiet, you idiot!” he hissed. “You’re close to having your blood boiled in your veins!”

  “Leave now, True Thomas, and do not bring this foul thing to this place again.” Dian Cecht turned sharply and led the others from the precinct.

  The silence that lay in their wake was all-encompassing. Ruth dropped her head heavily on to Church’s shoulder. “God …”

  “Are you going to tell us your blinding revelation or what?” Laura tried to keep apace with Veitch as he marched back towards The Green Man. His face was flushed with anger and there was determination in every fibre of his being.

  “I’ll do more than tell you.”

  Laura glanced back at Shavi, who shook his head dumbfoundedly.

  Veitch burst into the pub like he was looking for a fight. Most of the action group had already gathered there, hunkering in serious conversation at the bar. They looked up in shock as Veitch marched up. He muttered something to one of the group which Laura and Shavi couldn’t hear and then he spun round and was heading out of the door again. Laura thought about catching his arm to slow him until she glimpsed his expression. She dropped back several feet and let Shavi move ahead to keep up with the Londoner.

  Night had almost fallen by the time they had reached the area of large, old houses at the top of the High Street. Only a thin band of pale blue and gold lay on the horizon and that was disappearing fast. Veitch ranged back and forth along one of the streets, his fists bunching then opening, his breathing ragged. Eventually he found the house he was looking for. One boot burst the wooden gate from its hinges and then he was racing up the path.

  The door was locked. He hammered on it so loudly the glass in the front windows rattled. “Open up!”

  A hollow voice echoed somewhere inside.

  “I said open up or I’ll kick the fucking thing down and then you’ll have nothing to protect you!” he raged.

  Footsteps approached quickly and they heard the sounds of bolts being drawn. The door had opened only a crack when Veitch kicked it sharply, smashing it into the face of whoever was behind it. There was a groan as someone crashed back against the wall of the hall. Veitch pushed his way in with Laura and Shavi close behind. They didn’t recognise the man who was desperately trying to staunch the blood pumping from his nose; it had streamed down over his mouth so that he resembled a vampire from some cheap horror movie. He was in his fifties, balding and overweight, with large, unsightly jowls.

  But instead of berating him, Veitch marched past, glancing into the first room he came to before moving on to the next. He stopped at a large drawing room at the rear of the house. French windows looked out over a garden so big they couldn’t see the bottom in the dark. The room was decorated with an abundance of antiques on a deep carpet; large, gilt-framed paintings hung on the walls and a log fire crackled in the grate, despite the warmth of the day. A piano stood in one corner.

  Several people were gathered in the room, their apprehensive, pale faces turned towards Veitch, Shavi and Laura. There were four women, one in her forties with blonde hair so lacquered it resembled a helmet, the others in their sixties or older, but still well turned-out. The rest were men of different ages and shapes, but they had one thing in common which only Veitch could see: the vague air that the world belonged to them.

  “I say, what do you think you’re doing?” Sir Richard stepped forward from the back of the group, a glass of brandy nestled in his palm. His cheeks were slightly flushed; Laura couldn’t tell if it was from the fire, the brandy or the interruption.

  Veitch stepped forward and smashed the glass from his grip with the back of his hand. It shattered on the floor.

  “Good Lord, are you mad?”

  “I fucking hate toffs and rich bastards,” Veitch spat. There was a note in his voice which made Laura’s blood run cold.

  Shavi stepped forward. “Ryan, are you sure-“

  He whirled. “Yes, I am fucking sure! You two wouldn’t even have thought of this because you’ve got a good outlook on life. You were brought up right in a modern world where everybody treats each other at face value, and that’s how it should be. But there are still people out there, even in this fucking day and age, who think they’re better than others, because they were born that way or because they earned a bundle of fucking cash.” He turned back to Sir Richard. “Am I right?”

  Sir Richard flustered indignantly. “If you’re implying that I-“

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Laura watched the scene with a terrible fascination. The sense of irrational, uncontrollable threat that Veitch was radiating scared even her, so God knows how frightened the great and good of the village felt. She looked round and saw the dismay and worry marked in their faces; they looked as if Veitch was about to shoot them, then rob them; and with her hand on her heart, Laura couldn’t say that he wouldn’t.

  Veitch turned to Shavi, but he was obviously talking to the whole room. “Let me tell you what happened. When the rich old lady was the first to catch it, this lot were horrified. They thought they were fucking untouchable here in their little sanctuary. But that was a big alarm: anybody could get it now the whole world had been turned on its head, and they had no special fucking privileges to protect them. And then when the drunk got it the little lightbulbs started popping over their heads. He was a fucking undesirable, a piss-head and a burden on fucking society. Maybe it wasn’t even so bad that he got it. The village would look a lot prettier without his piles of puke in the gutter. And then they thought, it didn’t have to be them who ended up as dead meat. There were a few more that the village could do without. Lazy layabouts without a job for a start.” He put on a mock high-class voice, but it was still laced with venom. “Wasn’t there a little pocket of them down in that part of the village we never went to, where those cheap, dirty little houses were?”

  “Now hang on a minute! Those were our neighbours!” a tall, thin man in a dark suit said sharply. “We always got on well with them.”

  “You tolerated them because you were on top,” Veitch snapped. “But when your backs were against the wall, you didn’t have far to look for sacrifices. You knew those fucking creatures left you alone for a bit after they’d eaten. But you knew they couldn’t get into a house without the door open. So what did you do? One or two of you fucking cowards went down after dark and jimmied a door open.”

  Laura suddenly realised why Veitch had been examining the door frames; he’d been looking for splinters where the locks had been forced. And she guessed from his past experience he had a perfectly good idea what a jimmied door looked like.

  “So you consigned those poor bastards to be meat for another scavenging class we’ve all had dumped on us.”

  Shavi was looking from Veitch to the faces of the assembled group and then back; the truth of Witch’s account was in the guilt that was heavy in every feature. But Shavi was still puzzled. “I do not understand. If all the doors were locked, the creatures would not have been able to get to anyone-“

  Veitch shook his head. “You’re too much of a good bloke, Shav. You’ve got to think like these bastards. They like cash. They�
��ll do anything for cash. It’s their fucking god. They hated being prisoners in their own homes. Couldn’t make any lucre. But if those creatures laid low for a few days they had a chance to see if they could get their businesses going. Working their fucking big farms or trying to keep their fucking wine-importing business going or whatever the fuck it was.” He turned slowly around to them. “That was it, wasn’t it?”

  Sir Richard began to protest. Veitch stepped forward and hit him sharply in the mouth; his lip burst open and blood splattered on his clean, white shirt. A gasp rippled round the room, and Laura realised she had joined in, so shocking was the image.

  One of the old women started to cry. “I’m sorry-“

  “Bit fucking late for that. Thought you’d get rid of a single mum last time, didn’t you? Instead you got a poor kid.”

  “We didn’t mean-“

  “Shut up. Whose idea was it?”

  There was a long silence while everyone in the room tried to read what his next actions would be. Finally Sir Richard stopped dabbing at his lip. “It was all of us. We discussed it together.” There was an unpleasant defiance in his face that gave the truth to everything Veitch had said.

  “Yeah? Fair enough.” Veitch nodded reasonably. Then he slowly drew the crossbow out of the harness, loaded it and pointed it at the thin man in the dark suit; his face turned instantly grey. “We’ll start here then.”

  “No, Ryan,” Shavi cautioned. Veitch ignored him. He slowly tightened his finger on the trigger.

  “No!” The thin man pointed a shaking finger at Sir Richard. “It was his idea! Yes, we all went along with it! But it was his idea!”

  “You know what? I fucking thought as much. I’m a good judge of character like that. I know scum when I see it. And I knew you slimy fuckers would all be jumping to save your own skin when the shit hit the fan.” He motioned to Sir Richard with the crossbow. “You’re coming with me, matey.”