"They are the spirits of the dead," Baccharus interjected. "You will encounter them throughout the Western Isles."
"Ghosts?" Church moved his head sharply to try to bring one of the figures to the centre of his vision, without much luck. "Real ghosts?"
"Some of the dead are drawn here, Fragile Creatures with a yearning nature, unsettled, troubled. It has always been that way. The Western Isles are a destination for those of a questing nature." The figures kept well away from Baccharus as he spoke.
"Are they dangerous?" Ruth asked.
Baccharus chose his words carefully. "They can be. The dead bring their dark emotions with them. Many are fuelled by bitterness, resentful of those still living. Beware of them and their whispered words. They will wish to lure you to your doom."
A chill turned Church's skin to gooseflesh. Another face he half thought he knew. Ruth gripped his hand in hers, fixing her attention on the path ahead.
The layout of the castle was incomprehensible; they trailed from room to room without encountering anyone, constantly sensing a passing presence, always one step ahead.
"Maybe we should head back to the ship," Ruth said. "She's obviously not here."
"But she should be here," Baccharus said. "She may be in need of assistance."
"I thought you Golden Ones rarely helped each other," Church said.
"We are not all the same." It was a passing comment, but Church caught the briefest glimpse of something in Baccharus's face that gave him pause.
Before he had time to consider it further, one of the guards said curtly, "In the next chamber," although it was impossible to tell how he could know when the door was closed.
As one, the guards drew long golden swords from hidden pockets in their armour. They approached the door cautiously. Church's blood was pulsing loudly in his head; now he could also sense something, and although he couldn't pinpoint it, it set his nerves on edge. In the room. He saw Ruth could feel it too. Her warning hand fell on his forearm, urging him back.
Niamh made a sign to the captain and the door was thrust open. The guards surged through, with Church so close behind, he ran into them when they came to a premature halt. They were so still Church first thought they were the victims of some enchantment until he realised they were staring at the corner of the room. He eased his way through until he had a better view.
The remains of a woman were slumped over a divan, her body breaking up just as Cormorel's had done on the point of death. Her body had been torn apart from neck to crotch. There was nothing anyone could do for her: the flight of golden moths had dwindled to a handful fluttering up intermittently to the ceiling, where they passed through it like wisps of light. Church guessed it was Hellawes.
Niamh thrust past him and dropped to her knees in front of the divan, an unnerving keening sound of grief emanating from her. She kneaded her hands together, dipped and raised her head, barely able to comprehend what she was seeing. Baccharus looked away, sickened.
"Cormorel's murderer-" Church began.
"No." Baccharus eyed him forcefully. "This crime was not committed by the same."
"Who would want to kill a woman who lived like a hermit?" Ruth said.
The guards slowly moved backwards until they had formed a circle, swords ready to repel an attack from any direction.
"Remember: the mistress of this place was a Golden One," Baccharus cautioned. "To do this to her takes tremendous power, or specific knowledge." The words caught in his throat and he raised the back of his hand to his mouth in disgust, unable to hide his feelings any longer.
"Who committed this crime?" Niamh wailed.
The nerves along Church's spine suddenly sparked. "Something's coming," he said hoarsely, feeling it acutely as he spoke.
Ruth looked up at him curiously. "I don't sense anything."
His left arm began to tremble uncontrollably. He gripped it at the wrist to steady himself. "You haven't got a cocktail of alien shit in your blood," he said hoarsely. He half stumbled; Ruth caught him. "Fomorii," he wheezed. The taint of the Kiss of Frost was responding to the presence nearby.
The guards glanced at him, concerned, then at Niamh for guidance. "Listen to him," she ordered. "He is a Brother of Dragons. He understands the Night Walkers." She hurried behind their line of swords as the group began to back out the way they had come.
Before they were halfway across the next room, a guard's head split open. The blow had come so quickly no one had seen it. The Fomorii were all around them. To Church, they appeared to rise from the floor and drop from the ceiling, oil black and filled with malevolence, armed with the cruel serrated swords. His stomach knotted at the waves of evil washing off them. The air was filled with an animal stink, the walls ringing with the echoes of their shrieks and grunts. He still couldn't bear to look them in the face, so all he got were fleeting impressions: darkness and shadows, moving fast, shapes continually changing, horns and bony plates, sharp teeth, ridges and staring eyes. But most of all, power.
The Tuatha lle Danann responded with force. Their swords were a whirling golden blur, and while they had appeared delicate before, now they carved easily through any Formor who came close enough. The ferocity of the attack had obviously shocked the gods; more, the simple fact that the Fomorii had attacked at all. In their arrogance they had presumed the Fomorii would leave them alone out of fear. Now their very existence was at risk.
"What the hell are they doing here?" Church wished he had some kind of weapon to join in the fray, but the guards had formed an impenetrable wall between him and the Fomorii.
"It doesn't make sense." Ruth was preoccupied, trying to find a space to concentrate so she could use some aspect of her craft, but in the melee it was impossible.
Another guard fell, split almost in two. Church saw none of the golden moths, so he couldn't tell if the victim was dead or not; there were still so many unknowns about the Tuatha De Danann, but there was no time to dwell on the puzzle. The Fomorii surged all around, black water shifting and changing, striking with venom, desperate to prevent the gods leaving the building. Church couldn't tell how many there were-a handful; a raiding party-but there were enough.
As they inched backwards through the next room, it became clear the Tuatha lle Danann were prepared to respond with equal ferocity. Church had always seen the Fomorii as bestial and the Golden Ones as aloof and refined, but the guards hacked and slashed with a brutality that matched their historic enemies.
The Fomorii had one thing in their favour: a complete lack of selfpreservation. Insectlike, they swarmed forward, attempting to overcome the guards with the sheer weight of their bodies. The floor was slick with the foul, acidic grue that spilled from the dead Fomorii. The guards slipped, then righted themselves, tripped over severed limbs, fought as hard to keep their balance as they did to repel the enemy; and still the Fomorii drove on.
The Tuatha lle Danann paused at the threshold of the next door, blocking the Fomorii from circling behind them. The guards were an impenetrable wall, shoulder to shoulder as they lashed out, but the captain found a second or two to shout back, "We shall hold them off. Go with speed."
Niamh gave a faint, deferential bow. "Your sacrifice will not go unmarked."
Baccharus stepped through the door into the next chamber with Niamh close behind. She had gone only a few steps when she checked behind to ensure Church was following. "Come," she mouthed.
"Don't wait for us," Church yelled above the rising cacophony as the Fomorii saw what was happening.
Baccharus and Niamh were astonishingly fleet-another ability they shared with the Fomorii-and soon they had outpaced Church and Ruth.
"What are the Fomorii doing here?" Ruth gasped as they sprinted through chamber upon chamber, trying to piece together their route back to the entrance hall. The grey shapes that dogged their route had grown frantic, shrieking silently on the periphery of their vision.
"It doesn't make sense. They should be preoccupied with our world before gett
ing mired in a potential war with the Tuatha De Danann."
They paused at a junction of corridors, peering up and down in desperation. From behind came an eruption of noise: the Fomorii had broken through the guards and were in pursuit. Church swore under his breath, selected a path and set off.
It wasn't long before they realised it had been the wrong choice. They were soon passing through chambers and corridors they didn't recognise, swathed in dark colours, deep carpets, black wood, purple drapes. The noises of pursuit were drawing closer; it was as if all the cages of a zoo had been opened at once.
"We're getting nowhere! They'll be on us in a second!" Ruth snapped, exhausted.
Church skidded to a halt next to a window crisscrossed with lead flashing. The glass was of a type that let light in while preventing any view out. When the catch wouldn't open, he searched around anxiously until he found a small stool, which he heaved through it. Smashing away the remaining shards with his elbow, he leaned out. They were about twenty feet above the main gate.
The animal noises were about two chambers away. With an effort he tore down one of the luxurious drapes and threw one end out of the window. "Climb down," he barked, bracing himself against the wall.
"What about you?"
"I'll be able to hang, then drop after you. If you get a bloody move on!"
She reflected for only a second and then clambered out of the window, lowering herself as quickly as she could down the heavy cloth. Church grunted as he took her weight. She dropped the final few feet to the ground, then beckoned anxiously for him to follow.
The cold hit him in a wave, frosting his skin with tracings of white. He sucked in a deep breath of air and his lungs were seared. Winter had stormed into the chamber. Shaking so much he could barely control his limbs, he turned to look towards the doorway. The Fomorii were surging through the next room, a black river sprouting limbs and fangs. One had separated from the mass and was gesturing towards him with strange movements that occasionally vibrated so fast he couldn't see them. More cold hit him with the force of a truck. His fingers contorted into talons; there was ice in his hair. He knew some of the Fomorii had control over temperature, but he had never experienced it himself. It was unbearable; his body was telling him to sink to the floor and seek respite in sleep. That was where warmth lay. Another shiver made his teeth rattle.
"Church!" Ruth's plaintive cry shocked him alert. A wave of darkness was sweeping towards him, rising up, ready to strike. No time to climb out; his limbs could scarcely respond anyway. Somehow he found the strength to shift his body weight, and then he was toppling out of the window, the air rushing past him, the cold dissipating as quickly as it had come.
He heard Ruth scream and then he hit the ground hard. There was a sickening crack and pain shot through his leg into the pit of his stomach. It was too much; he blacked out.
He came round only moments later to find Ruth shaking him, her eyes filled with tears. Pain filled his body. He looked down to where the worst of it writhed like a nest of snakes and saw a white bloody bone bursting from midway down his shin; another joint where one had not existed before. The sight almost made him black out again.
Ruth shook him harder. "Church! You can't stay here!"
Above him he saw insectile swarming at the window. There was some kind of disturbance; he guessed the last of the Tuatha De Danann were making a final stand. At least it would hold up the Fomorii for a little longer. "You'll have to help me." Every word was like a hot coal in his throat.
He didn't know how he got on to his good leg, but then he was hopping like crazy, one arm round Ruth's shoulders, trying to stay conscious when spikes were being rammed through his body. With his head spinning and the sea and sky becoming one, they reached the top of the vertiginous stairs. He felt Ruth's tension through her arm, knew exactly what she was thinking: they would never make it down the stairs together, there wasn't enough room, they had to go one at a time.
"You go first," he gasped.
"Don't talk so beered up." She tried to ease him ahead of her, but he grabbed her and shoved her down the first few steps. She cursed, then said, "I'll help you. Give me your hand."
"No. I can do it. Go on. Go on!" He could hear the Fomorii at the gate, only seconds away. He clung to the rock face and began to hop down a step at a time. It was easier going down, until he made the mistake of steadying himself with his broken leg and felt pain like he had never before experienced. Somehow he kept going. He found a rhythm that kept him moving quickly, focusing on Ruth's pale, concerned face so that he didn't overbalance. How he did it, he had no idea; it was all down to his subconscious.
Through the pain he could hear the Fomorii just a few steps behind him. At least the path was so narrow they were also forced to advance cautiously, but he couldn't afford to slow up for even a second.
"Not far now, Church," Ruth shouted encouragingly. "Halfway down. More than halfway."
His lungs and muscles burned from the exertion. He glimpsed the sky, brilliant blue through the clouds, the sea, a queasy green; spinning, merging.
"Church! Keep going! Concentrate!"
He looked back, saw something black snaking around the rock face towards him, attempted to push himself away from it, realised that with his damaged leg he had no sense of balance whatsoever. And then he was moving away from the rock, reaching out frantically for the dry grass, feeling it burn through his fingers. And then he was toppling backwards, over the edge, scrabbling for purchase, but he had only one good heel and that was not enough. Ruth was screaming and the air was thick with beast smell and jubilant shrieking. And he was falling.
The world rushed by. He hit the water hard, gulping in a massive mouthful of salty, sickeningly pungent liquid that felt more like oil. His precarious consciousness fled once again, but the cold shocked him awake when he was several feet beneath the surface, wrapped in bubbles, feeling the sea flood his nose and ears. Panic washed him in its wake and he tried to strike out for the surface, but he was hampered by his leg, and anyway, he couldn't tell which way was up. The Otherworld sensations were too potent, the smell of the water too strong, the feel too greasy. His mind fizzed in protest. He was drowning, sweeping down towards the dark water below. And that wasn't all. Whatever thinking part of him remained alert had caught sight of movement in the water, heading towards him. Something as big as a car, with fins and trailing tentacles, undulating with the speed of a torpedo, a large black maw opening and closing in hungry anticipation. Beyond it, other terrible shapes darted in the green depths, smelling blood, sensing food.
Strength returned to his arms enough to make a few feeble strokes in what he hoped was the right direction, but the predator bore down on him relentlessly.
Just as he anticipated those enormous jaws crunching down on his legs, rending and tearing and dragging him down into the dark depths, his collar was gripped and he was hauled out of the water. Face down on wet boards, he felt the boat rock violently as the creature passed just beneath. Then Ruth was at his side, caring for him as he coughed up seawater, and, as he looked up, he saw Niamh watching him worriedly.
Baccharus was beside him, his sleeve wet where he had rescued Church. "Quickly, now. You must help me row. The Night Walkers are close."
Barely conscious, Church let Ruth help him into a seat where he clutched an oar feebly. Ruth and Niamh both joined them and soon the boat was moving slowly away from the island.
"I don't understand why they aren't following us," Ruth said, glancing over her shoulder.
"They know we can be seen from Wave Sweeper. Any further pursuit would be futile." Baccharus turned to Church. We will find treatment for you on Wave Sweeper, Brother of Dragons," he said with surprising tenderness.
"Thanks for saving me."
"I could not let such an honourable being die, Jack Churchill." His words and tone were unlike any Church had heard from the Tuatha De Danann before. Closing his eyes, he leaned across the oar and reflected on what it meant as they
drifted back towards safety.
Church woke in his cabin, the window thrown open to reveal the last sunlight of the day, mellow gold in a pastel blue sky, coolness on the wind. His leg ached with a rude heat beneath the rough blanket, but there was none of the agony that had consumed his body immediately after the break. Cautiously, he peeked under the sheet.
"It's still there."
Ruth was sitting just out of his line of vision, keeping watch over him. "Yes, but will I still be able to play in the Cup Final?"
"I'm glad you've retained your sense of humour. I lost mine when I saw that bone jutting out. Almost lost my lunch too." She sat on the edge of the bed.
There was a splint fastened hard around his lower leg; it bit sharply into his too-taut flesh as he shuffled up into a sitting position. "When I saw it I was convinced it was an amputation job. Luckily I didn't have much opportunity to think about it after that."
"You were luckier than you think. Most ships of this kind have some old sawbones. But this being the gods and all, you get operated on by some selfproclaimed deity. Geltin, I think his name was. And did he work miracles! His hands disappeared into your leg like it was water, popping the bone together and fusing it. He slapped some poultice on and Bob's your uncle. With that and the Pendragon Spirit you'll be back to normal in a day or two. Even beats BUPA." She took his hand. "I was worried."
He gave her fingers a squeeze.
She leaned over and kissed him gently on the forehead, lingering a moment, her lips cool and moist. When she withdrew she hastily changed the subject, as if embarrassed by her actions. "They've been in conference ever since you went under. This murder, coming so hard on Cormorel's, has really shaken them up. I think they thought they were inviolate before. Now it's like any old enemy can knock one of them off whenever he feels like it."
"And now they know how the rest of us feel." Church instantly felt guilty for the harshness in his voice. "I know it must be hard for them-"
"No, you're right. It's hard to feel sympathy when they have such little regard for other living creatures. It has really shaken them up, though. And just as much because this murder was committed by the Fomorii."
Always Forever Page 17