Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2)

by Mark Chadbourn

  “No one can ever take this away from us,” she said.

  He chuckled throatily. “Who’da thought it, eh? You and me, no worries.”

  “I can’t believe we got out of Birmingham. Your dad-“

  “He’s not my dad.”

  “You know what I mean.” She tapped him sharply on the chest. “When that van came crashing into us on the motorway, I thought-“

  “We had a guardian angel. I told you that.”

  She rolled on her back and shielded her eyes from the sun, her fragile features framed by her long, black hair. “I reckon things are going to get good from here on in.”

  “There’s a lot of strange stuff around.”

  “Doesn’t matter. This is about you and me. All that shit’s behind us now.” She gave him a tight hug. “There’s no one to tell us what to do any more. We stand by each other, we can face up to anything. We’ve proved that.”

  He started singing Stand By Me then burst out laughing at his feeble attempt. She gave him a short punch in the ribs for teasing. “So,” he laughed, we going to get married?”

  “Could do. Sooner or later. We’ve got plenty of time for that. We’ve got a lot to see, lots to do.”

  She rolled over and kissed him passionately. Shavi felt suddenly like a voyeur and crept away quickly. But the tableau stayed with him. Strangely, it filled him with so much hope, and it wasn’t just because they were at the start of their lives, on the cusp of the great adventure and a great love. After a moment’s thought, he realised what it was. The woman had been right. The terrible upheaval, the failure of an entire way of life, none of it mattered. The truly important things were still continuing as they always had. Those things could never be beaten down. It was a simple thing, but at that time, in that magical place, it seemed like a great revelation to him and he was fired to tell the others when he got back to them.

  For the next hour he searched among the woods. Every now and then he felt a strange sensation at the base of his spine, as if he were crossing some invisible electric barrier. Eventually he became sensitive enough to it to follow the waves which progressed in a spiral pattern, growing tighter and tighter, until he arrived at the epicentre.

  He was in a grove among the wider wood. The trees rose up on either side to form an arched roof high above his head, and that deep, emerald light infused everything. A cathedral stillness lay all around. No wind touched that place, no blade of grass stirred. Even the calls of the birds sounded miles away, as if they had been muted by a dense wall. This was the Green Home, the place where the Great Oak altar had once stood, where men had worshipped the all-consuming power of nature for millennia. Unconsciously he bowed his head.

  Almost by accident his eyes fell on a chipped, dirt-engrained horn lying in the grass; he was convinced it hadn’t been there before. His palms were sweating with anticipation; he wiped them on his shirt before picking it up. It felt uncommonly light, too normal to be what he expected. He had at least anticipated some sense of great power or crackling energy that burned his fingers when he touched it.

  He weighed it in his hands, knew it was only a delaying tactic, then slowly raised it to his lips. When he blew, the sound that emanated was strangely hopeful. It washed out through the woods in a cleansing wave.

  For long minutes everything remained exactly as it was. Just as he was about to blow one more time, another horn answered, from far, far away. This one had a regal ring to it, but there was also something that sent a shiver through him. A few seconds later the wind began. It howled mournfully into the grove, forcing him to take a step back; it was chill, as if it had rushed hundreds of miles from a desolate mountaintop just to be there.

  Shavi shuddered as he slowly turned, searching among the swaying trees, his hair lashing around his face. Something was coming; he could feel it deep in his chest; a heaviness. The branches moving back and forth, the noise; distracting. And then movement. Out of the corner of his eye, the merest flicker that could have been just a shadow. He turned sharply, but it was already gone. It was his other senses that picked up the true signs: the musky odour of horses on the wind, a muffled but unmistakable whinny, the thud of hooves on the wood floor. Dark shapes flitted in and out of the boles. They were drawing closer, circling him, but still not enough of the world to be easily seen.

  Then they did break through. There was an effect like a heathaze over a road on a hot summer day; shapes shimmered, fell into relief, and suddenly he was aware of horses among the trees. The Wild Hunt had arrived.

  He had been sure they could only materialise in that form at night, but in that place their power appeared much stronger. Another blast of the horn close at hand; all the hairs on his neck instantly stood to attention. Away beyond the horses in the deep shadows of the wood was the terrible baying of hounds yearning to be unleashed.

  Shavi stood his ground as the horses came stamping and whinnying just beyond the edge of the grove, their eyes glowing fiery red. The riders still wore the furs and armour and carried the long poles topped with sickles he recalled from the grim pursuit across Dartmoor; he looked away from their shrouded faces. The ranks parted and a larger horse moved through, its nostrils steaming despite the heat. And on its back was the Erl-King and his face was not hidden; Shavi saw bare bone, scales like a lizard instead of skin, and eyes that glowed with an inner yellow light, the pupils just a serpent slit. His stomach tumbled in response.

  As the Erl-King dismounted, he was already changing. His body grew bigger, hunched over like an animal prowling, an odd mix of fur and leaves spreading across his form. His eyes moved further apart, his nose wider, and then stags’ antlers sprouted from his head. Finally Cernunnos stood revealed, the awe and terror of nature beating like a heart. He made a strange hand gesture and the other riders fell back into the trees.

  “Who summons the Wild Hunt?” His voice was like the sound of the winds on a mountaintop, his presence radiating such power Shavi felt like bowing before him.

  “I, Shavi, Brother of Dragons.” He lowered his head in deference.

  “I know of you, Brother of Dragons.”

  “I come on behalf of my sister, Ruth. Her situation is dire. Once, you said she could call to you in the harshest times. I am here before you now to ask for that assistance.”

  Cernunnos hunched down over his massive thighs and scrabbled at the soft loam. Gently, he sniffed the breeze. “A face of the Green lives within her, and she has carried out the Green’s True Word to the best of her abilities, even at times of great trial. The Sister of Dragon’s heart is strong.”

  “Will you aid her?”

  “I will.” He snorted; Shavi could smell his thick animal musk, even stronger than the horses’. “What ails her?”

  Slowly Shavi explained her capture by the Fomorii, the implanting of the black pearl, the suffering she was enduring as the medium for the rebirth of Balor; and as he spoke Shavi had the strangest feeling that Cernunnos already knew everything that was being said. After he had finished Cernunnos nodded slowly, grunting and snuffling. “It was only to be expected that the Night Walkers would seek to bring the Heart of Shadows back to form, but the Sister of Dragons deserves better than to suffer their corruption.”

  “What can be done?” Shavi asked. “Other Golden Ones have refused to have anything to do with it. Some have said there is nothing that can be done.”

  “Little can be done, it is true. The Heart of Shadows is a vile canker. Once established, it grows without respite. It is too hard in its corruption to be eradicated.”

  “Then what?” Shavi stared deep into Cernunnos’ gleaming eyes, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “Is it hopeless?”

  “Nothing is hopeless. We Golden Ones guard our secrets with pride, and this is mine: the Heart of Shadows can be removed without harming the Good Sister.” Shavi’s mood brightened at once. “The ritual must be carried out tonight, before the turn of the day when the moon is clear. And a sacrifice is called for.”

 
“Anything,” Shavi said without a moment’s thought. “I will do it.”

  “Anything?”

  Shavi nodded. “She is a good person. She deserves more.”

  “And you do not?”

  “If there is anything I can do to help, I must.”

  Cernunnos watched Shavi’s face like an animal surveying something which could be prey or predator. Then he turned slowly, making strange, unnatural gestures with his left hand, and when he was facing Shavi again he was holding a small, smoky-coloured bottle with a wax stopper. “Here is the radiance that will burn out the Heart of Shadows.”

  He held out the bottle. Shavi took it gingerly. “What will happen?”

  Cernunnos’ eyes narrowed until the light within them seemed like distant stars, but he said nothing.

  The bottle felt odd in Shavi’s hand, not like glass at all. He slipped it quickly into his pocket. “On behalf of Ruth, I offer my great thanks for your aid. On behalf of all the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons.”

  “Go with speed, Twilight Dancer. I have always entertained your forebears well.”

  Shavi turned to leave, then paused, wondering if he dare give voice to what was lying heavy on his mind. “When the Wild Hunt has been summoned, someone must die. Is that correct?”

  Cernunnos said nothing; in the background the Hunt was growing restless.

  “There are a young man and woman nearby. Do not take them.”

  Cernunnos eyed him curiously for a moment, then nodded slowly in agreement. He looked towards the sun, now moving towards the horizon. “When night comes, the Wild Hunt will ride.”

  Though he had saved the young couple, Shavi felt the weight of his guilt: there would be yet another death on his conscience. Even the friendly powers that had colonised the world had no real respect for humanity; they agreed to whims with the gentle weariness of patrons who could turn suddenly if the mood took them. There would be no freedom until they were all driven out.

  He bowed slightly, although it was a little curter than his greeting. Cernunnos made some strange animal noise, then moved back towards the riders, his shape slowly metamorphosing back into that of the Erl-King. After a few paces, he turned back towards Shavi, an enigmatic expression on his face. “I hail your sacrifice, Twilight Dancer, and I wish you well in the Grey Lands.” And then he was gone, twisting and changing like sunlight on water. The horses moved away into the trees, the baying of the hounds more insistent; terrifying.

  Shavi’s shoulders sagged briefly, but then he pulled the bottle from his pocket. Here was confirmation that things were not all bad; that there were miracles among the nightmares. All he had to do was to reach Ruth before midnight. He checked the angle of the sun, then started to run across the parkland towards the nearest road. He would ride like the Devil was at his heels.

  chapter twenty

  venceremos

  hutch didn’t know how he made it back to the house. The sword was his support over the rough ground, levering him up over rocks which were too much for his battered body to surmount. There was so much pain in every inch of him that he no longer focused on it; he simply floated in a cloud untouched by his senses. The most sensible thing would be to black out and rest where he fell, let his body heal a little. But night was not far away, and Lughnasadh was rising after that. Everything depended on the next few hours; a moment’s weakness would doom them all.

  Laura was waiting for him as he crested the last ridge, a look of such contempt on her face he thought she was going to punch him. “Suicide boy,” she sneered. “Looks like you got unlucky.” Then she saw the pain that was racking him. “A close thing, though. Maybe next time, eh?”

  He expected a supportive hand, but she marched back to the house, leaving him to make his own way.

  By the time he reached the house he was feeling much better than when he had started his journey; the Pendragon Spirit was helping, coupled with whatever earth energies were focused within the tor, but he knew it would take many days to get back to full form; longer for his hand to heal properly. He had attempted to bind it with his handkerchief-the agony had almost made him black out. He would need Laura’s help to fasten it up tightly enough for the bones to start to knit without any disfigurement.

  But the moment he stepped into the house all thought of his own pain disappeared. Ruth was huddled in one corner, her belly distended and mottled grey, green and purple, as if it had been beaten with a stick. Her skin was drained of blood, the crescents under her eyes and the hollows of her cheeks so dark she looked as if she were close to death by starvation. There was no longer any ranting or delirium; her eyelids barely flickered and her breath was so shallow it was almost imperceptible. It was obvious the end was near.

  Laura refused to look at her; she kept staring out of the windows or at the walls, as if there was something more interesting to see. “So when are you going to put her out of her misery?” she said bitterly. “I see you’ve found something for the execution.”

  “There’s still time,” he replied wearily; he didn’t have the energy to deal with her baiting.

  He knelt down and brushed the hair from Ruth’s forehead; her skin was clammily unpleasant to the touch. Hesitantly he moved his hand down, hovering over her belly for an instant before he laid it on her skin. The instant he touched it something moved beneath. He snatched his hand away, stifling a cry of disgust. It had felt like a dog had snapped at him.

  Laura must have seen something too, for there were tears in her eyes born of incomprehension and horror. “How can that happen?” Her voice was a small child’s. “It can’t really be inside her. Nothing’s inside her, is it?”

  Church rubbed a hand across his face, composed himself, then stood up and walked to the door. “We’ll give it till nearly midnight,” he said without looking at her. He had to find some place to rest so he could find the reserves he prayed were buried deep within him. “We’ve got to have hope. There’s still a chance one of the others could make it back.”

  He felt her eyes heavy on his back, urging him to go back to her, comfort her. He paused briefly, then walked out into the afternoon sun, mentally preparing himself for what the night would bring.

  The sun was uncomfortably close to the horizon when Shavi made it across the park to the nearest road. He was slick with sweat, his throat burned and his stomach was in knots, but none of it mattered; he knew instinctively he was the last hope for Ruth, for all of them. There was still time to make it back with Cernunnos’ mysterious potion, just as long as he found a vehicle quickly.

  Desperately he scanned the road in both directions. Normally there would have been a constant flow of traffic in both directions, but in the twilight of society’s dissolution there was no sign of anything.

  “Please,” he whispered. “Whatever gods are listening-“

  A white Renault Clio appeared from around the bend. Stifling a wave of exaltation, he took a step out into the road, furiously trying to think how he would convince the driver to hand over his vehicle, knowing he would take it by force if he had to.

  As he neared he saw the troubled face of a white-haired old woman leaning over the wheel, peering ahead anxiously as if she expected a sudden rush of juggernauts. Suddenly she glanced in his direction and her expression froze in horror, her mouth a growing 0.

  What is wrong with her? Shavi thought.

  He took another step into the road. She put a foot on the accelerator.

  “No!” Shavi shouted. “I need-!”

  From somewhere nearby there came the strangest sound. It could have been the wind blowing across the park, but it sounded very much like howling. Sirens went off in his mind; there was something important he hadn’t remembered. A second passed. And then he had it: the ritual in the woods with the travellers. The spirit construct hanging in the air, warning him, something about howling. Then he had it: turn quickly.

  The pain in his back felt like a red-hot poker had been rammed through his skin. His thoughts fractured. He hung o
n to the image of the woman’s face, her mouth growing wider and wider until he thought it was going to swallow her head; the car speeding up, rushing by, taking hope with it.

  No, he tried to call, but his voice had gone with the car.

  The howling, like a wolf.

  And then suddenly he felt an arm round his chest, dragging him back, across the road, into the park, into the trees. He tried to fight, but in his shock his limbs felt like jelly, his thoughts in disarray.

  Roughly he was thrust backwards, hitting the ground hard. His shirt felt wet near his shoulder blade. He could smell the meaty odour of the blood. Quickly his fingers slipped behind him. When he withdrew them, they were dark and wet.

  The shock of the image kickstarted his thoughts into life and he threw himself on to his elbows, ready to drive up to his feet.

  A boot cracked sharply on his right elbow and he fell back to the ground in pain. Before he could move again a figure was over him, brandishing a knife at his face. Shavi’s immediate impression was of an enormous wolf and he knew at once that this was the creature that had stalked them from the Highlands. But gradually his perception fought back, struggling for the truth, and it was as if a mist was shifting from before his eyes.

  The wolf began to grow smaller, the yellow eyes becoming less and less intense, until it coalesced into the shape of a man. At first, details were hazy, but as the veil was drawn back a feeling of revulsion slowly engulfed Shavi. The veins of his attacker stood out in deep black on his pale skin, as if they were filled with ink instead of blood. His eyes were lidless, the unchanging stare charged with a mix of insane fury and crazed despair. His teeth were rotting and blackened too, which made his mouth look like the gaping maw of an alien beast; although he couldn’t possibly survive in that form, whatever the Fomorii had done to him kept him going.

  It was almost impossible to consider him a man; yet in the straggly mane of silver hair and the shabby, dark suit, Shavi recognised him.