Destroyer of Worlds

by Mark Chadbourn

  Back on Earth, the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons closed in on Veitch, Ruth and Miller. Though Veitch was still bent on revenge, Ruth’s influence gradually began to strip away his encysted bitterness, allowing his former heroic nature to surface. In the process, the pair grew closer.

  In Egypt, many of the old gods had agreed to help the Void, and were destroyed by the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons. Only Seth escaped, vowing revenge.

  Soon after, in the Forbidden City in Beijing, the gods revealed to Church a shattering truth: the Libertarian was Church’s future self. He was given a vision of the moment when he would transform into the psychopathic killer, thus betraying Existence and ensuring victory for the Void. Church’s only hope was that in the fluid nature of time, the future could be altered and his vision would never come to pass.

  In China, the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons did claim one great victory: the connection to the source of the Blue Fire was reopened and magic flooded back into the world.

  The Second Key was hidden in New York: Jack, Caitlin’s former associate, who still carried the vast, destructive force of the Wish-Hex. Here, Veitch finally overcame his hatred and agreed to help his former comrades, though he was still treated with suspicion by all.

  Realising it faced defeat, the Army of the Ten Billion Spiders set about remaking the world, in the process closing all the gateways to the Far Lands. With hardly any time to spare, Church and the others escaped Earth on the supernatural Last Train, ready for the final battle with the Void.

  And so the pieces move into place for the final battle at the end of the world.

  Prologue

  THE WORLD-TREE

  ‘The snake came crawling and struck at none. But Woden took nine glory twigs and struck the adder so it flew into nine parts.’

  From the Anglo-Saxon ‘Nine Herbs Charm’

  1

  It is the beginning of the end.

  ‘Church! Church! Wake up - you’re dreaming! Please wake up, Church!’

  ‘Maybe it’s just time.’

  It is the beginning of the end.

  ‘Where is the meaning in life?’

  ‘What is real ?’

  ‘There are signs, certainly, but in the end, who knows?’

  ‘You don’t have to leave me, Church.’

  It is the beginning of the end.

  ‘So cold. Oh, please, why are you letting this happen?’

  ‘Everybody describes it differently . . . like a shadow falling over them, or a jolt of electricity. I wish I could be more helpful.’

  Chilled to his bones and aching, Church wakes; and then he wakes again, and there is the rhythm of the train, like the pulse of blood.

  It is the beginning. Of the end.

  2

  Snow falls. A flurry caught in the unforgiving wind blowing relentlessly across the frozen wastes that stretch to the horizon. In that wind, there are whispers, lost souls, telling of the end of the world, of all worlds. Their stories are caught in the ruddy glare reflected in the rolling snow dunes and the crested waves of ice.

  High in the silver sky, the Burning Man looks down on this place, and the shimmering city of gold and glass at its heart, as he looks down on all places, waiting to cast the final judgement. The towering outline of fire is still waiting to be filled, but it will not be long now. It is the twilight of the gods, and men, and all living things.

  Ragnarok.

  Dreaming, yet awake, you understand this as you move out from the confusion of the World-Tree’s branches and drift across the desolate landscape. The whispers have told you what was and what will be, what is real and what is not. You move on quickly. You want to see more. Worry knots your thoughts, that perhaps this time it will not be all right.

  3

  See there, at the top of the tallest tower of the City of Marvels, where Hunter looks out at the seething figure and feels its words in his heart. His quarters reveal that he is treated with respect. Sumptuous furnishings fill the chamber, furs piled across the wooden floors and tapestries hanging on the walls, while floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides give a grand perspective on the world. But though a great fire blazes in the hearth, Hunter still feels the chill.

  Like the city, Hunter’s appearance belies the true nature beneath - rakish, piratical, a flair for flamboyance concealing an iron will.

  ‘Intriguing. You still believe there is hope. Is this what it means to be a Brother of Dragons, then? Faith over reason?’ Math, the great sorcerer of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, stands beside the stone fireplace, oblivious to the heat. Sometimes Hunter wonders if there is a person inside the black robes and the brass mask that rotates every minute or so to reveal one of its four faces: boar, salmon, falcon, bear.

  ‘Reason is overrated.’ Hunter pours himself a goblet of fruity wine and downs it in one. ‘What’s the point in sitting on your arse and ruminating on the logic of what is, by any rational person’s yardstick, complete bug-eyed, screaming craziness? Life’s for living. When some git’s swinging an axe at your head, or a woman is pressing her lips against yours, you feel it and you react. You start reasoning about either one, you’re a dead man.’ He pours himself another goblet of wine, drinks it quickly.

  ‘Your drinking is a mask, like mine,’ Math notes wryly.

  ‘We’re just two peas in a pod.’

  The long wait ends as the door opens silently to admit the goddess Freyja, wearing a black dress to mark the gravity of the occasion. Her delicate features are emphasised by the thick animal fur she wears across her shoulders. For once, her potent sexuality is tightly controlled; another sign of respect for the visitor.

  ‘The Council of Asgard is convened,’ she says. ‘Brother of Dragons, and cousin—’ she nods to Math ‘—you will accompany me.’

  Past hissing torches, she leads them down the majestic staircase to the great meeting hall of oak and glass. At one end of the room, an enormous window looks across the expanse of snow to Bifrost, the Rainbow Bridge, shimmering like the aurora borealis. Its far end hangs in tatters; Earth cannot be reached.

  The hall rings with the voices of gods bellowing at each other, or flirting, or fighting. Hunter’s senses take a moment to adjust to the combined presence of the powerful beings, faces slowly arising from a swirl of impressions: features he vaguely recalls from childhood stories or dreams; fiery red beards and wild-man hair, glittering lupine eyes that have seen seas of blood flow over the rocks and ice of the northlands, women with hair glowing like the sun and a beauty primal and terrifying and sexual. Muscles like iron and hideous, jagged scars. They carry weapons - nicked axes, great swords - or pluck on ancient stringed instruments. Everything about them speaks of blood and battle and sex and honour.

  Hunter feels quite at home.

  ‘Let the council begin.’ The crowd falls instantly silent at Freyja’s command, and all eyes turn towards Hunter.

  Freyja gestures towards the great empty throne at the far end of the hall. ‘These are dark days. The All-Father’s whereabouts are unknown. He has followed his ravens, Hugin and Mugin, to an uncertain future. And so this decision falls to us, now. Before the All-Father departed, he placed his trust in the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, and so we must give fair hearing to their plea.’

  A murmur races around the room. Support or dissent? Hunter cannot tell.

  ‘There’s a war coming,’ he begins. ‘The war to end all wars. You know it. This is the final battle foretold in all your old stories.’

  ‘Ragnarok,’ one intones gravely. Red-haired, he is taller and stronger than all the others, and from the enormous hammer that stands by his side, Hunter knows he is the thunder god, Thor. ‘It blows towards us like a storm at sea. Inevitable, inescapable. The end of us all.’

  ‘The Norns will be gathering around their well beneath the roots of Yggdrasil,’ sighs an elderly man with a long, white beard. Unconsciously, his fingers play over the strings of the harp in his lap. ‘Urd, Verdandi and Skuld, who hold us all in their hands.’r />
  ‘Hush, Bragi. This is not a time for your eloquent misery.’ Tyr stands, his scarred, hairy body now recovered from the terrible injuries Hunter had seen inflicted on it in Norway. ‘That sly trickster Loki has not been seen for a season,’ Tyr continues. ‘If we find him, and carve his body with my axe, Ragnarok will not unfold. Simple.’

  ‘It’s too late for that,’ Hunter insists. ‘Loki is already with the Enemy, and he’s not alone. A lot of others, from across the Great Dominions, are under the Enemy’s control. They’re all following the lead of Janus, two faces, neither of them pleasant.’

  ‘If it is too late, what is the point of this council?’ Bragi asks.

  With a roar, Thor crashes his hammer Mjolnir on the stone flags and sends lightning flashing across the hall. ‘The Aesir have never turned from battle, even when all hope appeared lost. We fight, and if the Norns so decide, we die!’

  Thundering his support for Thor, Tyr drives the gods to their feet with a deafening martial clamour.

  With a sigh, Hunter waits for the bravado and bloodlust to subside.

  Freyr, the Shining Lord and brother of Freyja, says, ‘Why do we need to listen to you, Brother of Dragons? What can you possibly offer the Aesir?’

  ‘Allies. The Enemy force is greater than you can imagine. However powerful you think you are, you won’t be able to hold them back. Alone. But with an army of gods, from all the Great Dominions . . . now, that would make a difference.’ Hunter gestures to Math, observing silently with his hands folded in front of him. ‘The Tuatha Dé Danaan have already agreed to stand with us. I have a message from Lugh guaranteeing the support of the Golden Ones.’

  ‘An army of gods?’ Tyr’s laughter roars to the rafters. Thor, though, remains grave as he considers Hunter’s words.

  ‘You’re facing the true, organising force of the universe. The god above gods,’ Hunter continues. ‘The Void represents the opposite of Life. And it’s slowly focusing its attention on us through that Burning Man you can see from your windows. Once that receptacle is filled, it will act.’

  ‘But until then there is an opportunity?’ Thor asks.

  ‘Not for any of us alone. Even together there might not be a chance—’

  ‘Hold!’ Pressed against the great window, the goddess Frigg looks out across the wintry wastes. ‘Something approaches.’

  The horizon is a blur in the blizzard that rages constantly around Asgard, but gradually shapes coalesce in the snow, moving towards the city. A handful at first, then a score, then hundreds. Brutish figures range speedily ahead of the main force: Redcaps wearing their clothes of human skin and organs, followed closely by the shimmering, insubstantial Gehennis tearing at their wild hair, and the shrieking, vampiric Baobhan Sith. Behind them, a great army pulls slowly out of the storm, dead yet alive, axes and swords and lances merged with their limbs, armour rusted and bloodstained. Purple mist drifts around the Lament-Brood, and even at that distance their keening song of despair is clear.

  ‘They attack us here, in our home?’ Thor intones incredulously.

  ‘We fight!’ Tyr bellows. ‘Now.’

  ‘I don’t want to pour cold water on your war party,’ Hunter says, ‘but this is where I advise you to run.’

  4

  Across the Far Lands, ashes drift in the wind. In your dreams, you taste the bitterness on your tongue. Listen. There is a sound like a heartbeat throbbing behind the breeze, under the rustling of the leaves, deep in the land itself. It is the sound of war drums, it is the sound of a heart. It infects your dreams so that you cannot sleep peacefully, for you know what it is, and from where it comes.

  Against one of the foothills of the great mountain range sprawls an enormous walled city. You stare in awe at its jumble of buildings, its winding streets, its towers and turrets, gambrels and chimneys, ramparts and spires. Once you would have been troubled by its claustrophobia, the darkness beneath the upper storeys of the buildings overhanging the cobbled streets. But no more. Now the streets are flooded with light, and a new mood of hope fights to establish itself; the Court of the Soaring Spirit has a new lord. You see his long dark hair and the note of irony in his dark eyes, but most of all you see the unfathomable sadness in his heart. Despite that, Mallory, Brother of Dragons, possessor of Llyrwyn, one of the Three Great Swords of Existence, projects only optimism, a necessary quality, for his city now lies on the brink of destruction.

  The Palace of Glorious Light lives up to its name. Golden illumination shining from every window, it is a beacon that can be seen far and wide across the Far Lands, and it rings with beautiful music, earthly songs that Mallory has taught the strange band of musicians drawn to him from across the city. He hoped it would ease his emptiness. It has not. But all the other residents will never forget its joy.

  Yet still it faces destruction.

  At the heart of the palace is a formal garden, tranquil amongst its honey-scented alyssum, spicy lilies and sweet, strong jasmine, its sparkling fountain, its elegant statues and winding walkways. Amidst the fluttering butterflies and the lazy drone of bees, Caitlin Shepherd, Sister of Dragons, practises a relentless series of martial routines with her axe.

  From the upper cloisters, Mallory watches her brown hair flying, her fragile features tense and determined. ‘No peace,’ he mutters. ‘Ever.’

  As if to underline his words, Decebalus, the Dacian barbarian, marches up. ‘Another attack is imminent,’ he growls. ‘I have ordered the sounding of the alert.’

  Mallory curses. ‘We need to get everyone indoors. Man the defences—’

  ‘Already done.’ Decebalus nods towards Caitlin in the garden below as they march to the stairs. ‘You are concerned about her?’

  ‘It’s just difficult to get used to the new Caitlin. There was always something gentle about her. A healer, not a fighter.’

  ‘Gentle she remains, deep inside. But she is so much more now. So many people in one small body.’

  ‘Five personalities. It’s not the human ones I’m concerned about - Caitlin herself, Amy, Briony, even that old crone Brigid with her doom-mongering and predictions.’

  ‘It is the Morrigan.’ Decebalus nods. ‘A human possessed by a god. What good can come of it?’

  ‘Not just any god. The Morrigan is terrifying. Blood and death—’

  ‘And sex and life,’ Decebalus interrupts with a wink.

  ‘No. I love her dearly, but not like that. She’s a friend.’

  As they hurry along the cloisters where beams of sunlight and deep shadow form a complex interplay, they pass Brothers and Sisters of Dragons hurrying towards the rooftop defences, an Army of Existence brought to the Far Lands from their own long-gone times. To a person, they look to Mallory with hope and respect as he passes.

  ‘The Brothers and Sisters of Dragons are ready for the fight ahead,’ Decebalus observes.

  ‘They shouldn’t be. They don’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Do not let them hear you say that,’ Decebalus cautions sternly.

  ‘I’m not stupid. But I’m really not comfortable sending them all to their deaths.’

  ‘This is their sole reason for existing. More than two thousand years of history . . . the shaping of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons . . . it has all been leading to this point. Live or die, this is what they were made to do. It is their destiny.’

  ‘I don’t believe in destiny.’

  ‘You are a strange and troubling little man. You do not believe in anything. I am a poor, uneducated barbarian, yet even I have learned to understand the thing you call “reason”.’

  ‘It’s overrated.’

  Decebalus curses under his breath, but his mood is too vibrant to be constrained. ‘You should see them when they train,’ he says, a twinkle in his eye. ‘The very air of the room becomes alive . . . the iron smell of the Blue Fire, so powerful.’ He smacks his lips. ‘It makes my skin tingle and my heart sing. Existence chose well, all of them. And it is not just the Pendragon Spirit! Their hearts are
strong. They will face any odds. They will risk their lives for what Existence requires of them. You should be proud to be a part of it, Mallory.’

  ‘Yeah, they’re heroes. So who’s killing them, Decebalus?’

  High overhead, the alert sounds, a lone, tolling bell that ignites in Mallory the chill of dread every time he hears it.

  ‘Two dead,’ he continues. ‘Holes punched in the centre of their foreheads. Church didn’t save them from slaughter in their own time only for them to be murdered here.’