Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2)

by Mark Chadbourn

  Before the thought had barely formed, the door burst open and it was in there with her. Terror bloomed in her face and in that instant she knew it was over.

  An age seemed to pass while the atmosphere grew charged with the overpowering force of an electrical storm; he tasted burnt metal in his mouth, felt disturbing vibrations run through the ground and into his legs. Although he tried to find that place deep within him where all his aspirations to heroism and bravery lay, when the Fomorii rose into view the cold fear that washed through him almost drove him to his knees.

  The black tide came over the edge relentlessly. Images were caught briefly in his mind, disconnected: limbs that became tentacles before turning into articulated legs like a spider’s, staring eyes that occasionally became multifaceted like an insect’s, body parts that looked like knives, wings that weren’t, other shapes he couldn’t decipher but which would haunt him forever. There was one brief moment when everything just hung. Before him stretched the glistening blackness, the upper surface tinted deep red by the rays of the dying sun, swaddled in a stifling atmosphere of heat and tension. The acute impression of decay and corruption was almost beautiful in its intensity.

  The sheer speed of their approach was terrifying; how pathetically naive he’d been even to think he could do something to delay them. They swept across the turf and then rose up until they blocked out the sun. He waited for the black wave to crash down on him, pounding him into grains, but then it separated and flowed on either side until the serried ranks of the Fomorii formed a crescent around the house. And he was suddenly smothered in the stink of them, the sound of them.

  Somehow he found the reserves to steady himself. He focused on some dim spot deep in his head so he didn’t have to look at them, forced himself not to think about what the next minute would bring, hoped he didn’t look like some weak, frightened Fragile Creature.

  And then, in an instant, everything grew still. Wherever his eye flickered, nothing moved; the Fomorii may as well have been obsidian. The only sound was the plaintive whispering of the wind as it began to growing in intensity with the dying of the day.

  What are they waiting for? he wondered.

  And then he knew. A shiver of anticipation ran through the assembled throng and a second later the last glimmering of the sun winked out and darkness fell across the land. A sound rose up into the night like the rending of metal as the Fomorii gave voice to their feelings; Church gave an involuntary shudder. A second later silence fell once again, heavy with a different kind of anticipation.

  Away near the edge Church noticed the darkness start to part, then reform, moving slowly towards him like a stingray slipping through the waves. He held his breath. The ripple broke at the front of the ranks and Calatin stepped out to face him. He was wearing a filthy white silk shift beneath unsettling black Fomorii armour and he was lightly holding the rusty sword that had killed Church at their last face-to-face confrontation.

  “Here we are again, on the eve of another festival.” Calatin’s fey voice was rich with contempt and triumph. “Is one death not enough?”

  Church said nothing, but his mind was whirling. The sun had set; perhaps there was still time.

  “You chose well, Dragon Brother,” Calatin continued mockingly, “hiding here in the blur of blue light rather than confronting us. Still betraying the tradition of the Pendragon Spirit. You recognise your abiding weakness in the face of a greater power-“

  “We caused you enough problems in Edinburgh. Destroyed your base. Stole your … ” Church paused for emphasis “… prize.”

  A shadow crossed Calatin’s face; his smile grew darker. “And you discovered high-born Night Walkers are not easily despatched.” He limped forward a few paces, the sword almost too heavy for him to carry. The effort allowed him to compose himself after Church’s gibe. He gestured up to the dark arc of the sky. “This is a night filled with power and wonder. Soon, all of existence will align harmoniously, the cycles will turn further away from the light, and the Heart of Shadows will return once again to the centre of all there is. And you and your brethren will have played a part in that glory, Dragon Brother.” Another ripple ran through the Fomorii.

  Church knew he would have to do anything to buy time. “Why Ruth?” he asked.

  “She is a powerful and resilient vessel, Dragon Brother. Stronger even than you.” Calatin smiled, as if this were the ultimate insult. “The birthing cauldron must be able to contain the significant forces at play. She had that strength. It was not my initial belief, but when she was delivered to me the thought of a Sister of Dragons bringing about the return of the Heart of Shadows was so richly imbued with meaning, it had to be.”

  Church tried not to let himself become angered by Calatin’s words. “You’ve been planning this-“

  “This has always been our design. In the Far Lands, we were bereft-that was part of the pact agreed with the Golden Ones after the Sundering. But that could never have been our state in perpetuity. Without the Heart of Shadows, the Night Walkers are …” he made a strange floating movement with his hand “… insubstantial. And so we built the Wish-Hex to break the barriers and propel us out into this world once the cycles turned. And once here, we simply had to wait for the right alignment to set events in motion.” The light of someone seeking glory began to burn in Calatin’s eyes. “And it will always be remembered that I was the one who brought the Heart of Shadows back into existence. My tribe will hold the highest place. None of the others. Mine.”

  “Balor isn’t in your hands yet.”

  Calatin stifled his tinkling laughter with the back of his hand before it broke into a hacking cough. Then he rested on the sword, one hand drooping over the handle, his chin almost hanging on top of it, while he surveyed Church with languid eyes. “What goes through your mind now, Dragon Brother? Regret? Self-loathing at your inability to meet your responsibilities? What?”

  “I’m not the person you met three months ago, Calatin. Now all my emotions are focused outwards. I feel contempt, for you and your kind, for all you outsiders who think you can come here and tell us how to live our lives. I feel a cold, focused anger for the pain you’ve inflicted on our lives. And for what you’ve done to Marianne-“

  “Ah, yes!” Calatin made a flourishing gesture. “Another failure on your behalf. I expected you to seek me out for vengeance, at the least. But you chose to abandon the one who occupied your heart while you entertained yourself with brief dalliances with others.” He punctuated his sneer with a sly smile.

  Church knew it was designed to hurt, but it drove home nonetheless. “Not chose, Calatin. I have learned to accept my responsibilities, whatever the cost to myself.”

  Calatin laughed.

  “You don’t believe me?” He motioned towards the house. “She’s dead. I killed her earlier. And your god has died with her.”

  A shiver ran through the breadth of the Fomorii, accompanied by a sound like knives being sharpened; there was a timbre to it that sent a corresponding shiver through Church. An incandescent fear alighted briefly on Calatin’s face before he brought it under control. “No! The resonance would have torn through us!” A tremor ran through his body; it looked like it wasn’t going to stop. He couldn’t prevent himself glancing towards the house. Then he half turned towards the wall of darkness at his back. “If the Heart of Shadows was gone, we all would know.”

  Now it was Church’s turn to laugh.

  Calatin rounded on him angrily. “Besides, you do not have it within you. I have looked inside you, Dragon Brother, and you truly are too much of a Fragile Creature.”

  “The only way you’re going to find out is by going in there.”

  The expression which rose on Calatin’s face showed this was a prospect he relished; his smile froze cruelly. He raised one hand to bring the razored might of the Fomorii down on Church.

  “What? You’re not going to do this one-on-one again?” Church glanced towards the distant sky; still nothing.

 
; “You remember-“

  “Last time you’d hampered me with the Kiss of Frost. It wasn’t a fair fight, it was a big cheat. You knew you’d win. Without that, I could beat you easily.”

  Calatin’s gaze wavered; Church could almost see every thought passing across his face: the reputation of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons had sifted into Fomorii myth in the same way the Night Walkers and Golden Ones had entered human mythology; he couldn’t quite be sure there wasn’t some weight to it, that Church really could destroy him in an instant.

  Church’s palms were sweating as he gripped the handle of the sword. Things had reached a head. Every part of his rational mind told him it was time to throw in the cards, to run into the house and slay Ruth with one swing of his sword. But whenever he thought about it, his legs felt like lead.

  And there was still time, he thought, still hope.

  He raised his sword and prepared to face Calatin. And as he did, the strangest thing happened. Confusion, disbelief, then shock crossed Calatin’s face, he took a shaky step back. Another unnerving sound reverberated among the Fomorii, almost querulous this time.

  “That sword …” Calatin pointed a tremulous finger.

  Church eyed it curiously, then shrugged. “Come on,” he said with a confi- dente that belied his thoughts. His hand was afire with pain and his body was racked with aches. “Or are you going to back out now you know I’m ready to take you?”

  Calatin raised his chin nobly, but his eyes flickered from side to side as if he were searching for a way out. There was an instant of brief despair that was so profound Church was taken aback, and then Calatin raised his own sword and advanced.

  They circled each other warily; if either of them had expected an echo of their previous confrontation, they both soon realised the dynamic had changed. Calatin was cautious, his step unsure, afraid to come within Church’s circle; that in turn gave Church confidence, although he couldn’t grasp quite why things had altered.

  Church knew his only hope was to eliminate all the negative impressions bearing down on him: the pain he felt from his many injuries, the physical and spiritual accumulation from weeks of striving, suffering and numerous setbacks. The upsetting wash of threat and evil that came off the Fomorii had to be put on one side, however much it felt like pins stabbing his flesh; but he had trouble shaking the rumbling paranoia that they were moving in to strike every time he turned his back to them. He fixed his attention on Calatin’s face, a cauldron of conflicting emotions the Fomorii leader would have done better burying deep. In there, for the first time, Church saw hope.

  The tension rose as they continued to move, feinting but never quite striking. And with each faux beginning to the battle Church could see Calatin’s anxiety rising; he was afraid to attack, and just as afraid to continue dodging the battle for fear of losing face.

  Eventually his twisting emotions proved too much for him. He lashed out, but even in his unfocused blow his remarkable skill came to the fore. All Church saw was the rusty, stained blade suddenly become a blur, whirling in circles before licking out. He ducked at the last minute, but the serrated edge still took a jagged slice out of the meat of his cheek; an instant’s hesitation and he would have lost his head. He cried out in pain and a brief cruel smile leapt to Calatin’s lips. The Fomor felt a surge of confidence from first blood, and pressed his attack with a rapid scything motion.

  Church barely saw it, but his sword leapt up to block and Calatin’s blade slid off with a bone-jarring clang. A coldness washed through Church’s limbs; his sword had blocked it of its own accord. By rights he should be dead; in his paindulled state he hadn’t seen enough of the attack to make any move himself.

  He took his eye off Calatin to survey the grim, black sword. Calatin saw this opening and attacked again, lunging in an attempt to disembowel Church. The sword forced Church’s arm to parry and then came up sharply, ready to attack if Church gave it the lead.

  Church felt sick from the sensation; it was as if there was something alive in his hand. It no longer really felt like a sword at all; it was almost slimy and resilient in his grip.

  When Calatin attacked again, this time swinging low in a bid to take off a kneecap or two, Church blocked it with ease. And at the same time he allowed the sword to guide him, putting his weight behind the attack. It passed through Calatin’s defences easily and ripped open his forearm. Calatin howled wildly in pain. When it had passed Church saw the hesitancy of true fear in his flickering eyes. Church expected the ranks of Fomorii to show some sign of emotion at this weakness, but there was only utter silence; and that was more damning.

  Church took a step back to inhale deeply; sweat was soaking through his clothes. He was ready for Calatin to seize the opportunity, but now his opponent was even more wary than when they had started.

  Calatin moistened his dry lips, couldn’t take his eyes off the sword. “He gave it to you, did he not?”

  Church ignored him, still breathing deeply. He was surprised to notice the perception of the blue fire Tom had taught him was now almost operating independently. Across the landscape he could see the thin azure lines growing brightly in the deep darkness. Some were broken, others intermittent; the land still needed to be truly awoken. But they were growing stronger. And there on the tor the earth force was strongest of all. He had a sense of being engulfed in a brilliant blue light shining up out of the ground; it was awesome and transcendent, and he could feel it seeping into every fibre of his being, refreshing him, starting to heal him. Above all, it gave him a deep sense of connectedness that added meaning to his existence, and from that he drew a deep, abiding strength. He was ready.

  “I should have destroyed him,” Calatin said bitterly.

  In desperation Calatin drove himself forward, hacking and slashing like a wild man. There was no sign of the decaying, fey persona he normally exhibited, just a driven, cruel ferocity.

  But it was not enough. Infused with the blue fire, with the black sword dancing like a beast in his hands, Church moved sleekly to block every blow, returning each with a harder strike that drove Calatin back and back. A lunge came through and ripped open the Fomor’s breastplate. Another sliced across the bridge of Calatin’s nose; he howled again, flicking black droplets from the wound as he shook his head.

  And still Church moved forward. A blow came down so hard that Calatin went to his knees to block it. He wriggled out and danced away as Church’s next attack missed him by a whisker. But Calatin had nowhere to turn. The Fomorii forces were pressing too close, as if they were refusing to allow him to retreat; nor were they giving him any aid. And that was just how Church expected them to see it: in a race without any compassion, the weak should be allowed to perish so that the collective would grow stronger.

  Although Calatin knew his end was coming, to his credit, he never gave in to his fear. It was only visible in his eyes, but to Church it shone out like a beacon.

  Church bore down on him with the last reserves of his energy, all his joints aching from the explosive vibrations of sword on sword. A flurry of thrusting and slashing smashed through Calatin’s defences, knocking his sword hand to one side. His chest was wide open for the killing strike, but Church knew there would be only a second before Calatin brought the sword back to block the blow. It was his moment of victory, yet he couldn’t take it. Although Calatin was a god, there was too much humanity in his eyes.

  Not a god at all, Church thought.

  But the sword would not be deflected. With cruel efficiency it attacked, almost leaping from his fingers as it propelled itself into Calatin’s chest, burrowing deeper like a worm in sand. There was too much black blood; Church had to cover his face with his free arm. Calatin bucked and writhed like there were thousands of volts going through him. As Church looked back he was struck by the expression on the Fomor’s face: utter desolation that was almost painful to see. Calatin knew he was dying, finally and irrevocably, and for a being that thought he was an inexorable part of existence
it was an ultimate terror that Church couldn’t begin to grasp.

  Sickeningly, the sword continued to vibrate in Calatin’s chest, seeming to suck the life out of him, everything out of him. His cheeks grew hollow, his clothes and then his flesh began to fall in drapes on his bones, and then even the skeleton itself was pulled out of him. Church let go of the handle, but still the sword continued until there was nothing left of Calatin but a smear on the ground, and soon even that was gone.

  But that wasn’t the end of it. As the sword clattered on to the stone and turf, it began to change shape, growing smaller, sprouting legs like a scorpion, until it scurried off rapidly across the ground to disappear in the enclosing dark. And Church knew then that it was not a sword, but Mollecht’s own Caraprix, the strange, symbiotic creature that all the gods carried. But the vampiric qualities it had displayed in its final attack gave Church pause; he wondered whether the odd little creatures really did act at the behest of the gods, or if the gods were their puppets.

  He didn’t have time to consider the notion any more. The moment Calatin passed on, the Fomorii had begun to move warily, but now they had seen the Caraprix depart they were advancing on him menacingly. He wanted to fight them too, but all he could do was drop feebly to his knees, every last reserve of energy drained out of him.

  This is it, he thought, more with weariness than despair. He’d done his best, more than he thought he ever could do. If he had failed, that was all he could truly ask of himself.

  The Fomorii rose up in front of him, an enormous wall that must surely have been death. And up and up it went, his perception giving up as it tried to comprehend the eternal permutations of form. It hovered over him, like a tidal wave waiting to smash down on a coastal village, and he was cast in the coldest shadow he had ever experienced.