"I just want you to hold me here like I was some pathetic child. And I want to watch the dawn come up with you."
Silence draped across them in the deep dark, with only the occasional soughing of the wind to remind them there was a world beyond their own sphere. And there was peace for both of them.
When dawn rose in intermittent bursts of gold and red through the shifting smoke, Laura was asleep on the floor in Shavi's arms. His thoughts had been too troubled to sleep himself, but the magical colour ignited in the corridor by the light through the stained glass was enough to lift his mood.
"A beautiful day." Michell was standing in the doorway. "I'm sorry-irony doesn't go down too well at this time in the morning."
Shavi slipped out from under Laura without waking her and wandered over to greet the Professor.
"I just wanted to say thank you for what you said to everyone last night," Michell continued. "It did them the world of good. I'm a little too cynical to say I was affected by it myself."
"I am glad I could be of some help." Shavi glanced out of the one window he had left open the previous night. "Has the food gone completely?"
"There's a little left. For emergencies."
"Then I suggest you divide it up amongst them this morning."
Michell searched Shavi's face and then nodded slowly, chewing on his lip. "I'll arrange it. Do you have any plans for the day? Any sights to see? I thought I'd work on a few lectures myself."
Shavi smiled. "No. No plans."
Behind them Laura stirred and yawned loudly, eventually making her way to them, still sleepy eyed. A racking shiver brought her fully awake. "When do you think the end'll start coming down?"
"It should not be too long."
"How do you know that?" Michell asked.
Shavi pointed to the open window. Laura and the Professor peered out together.
The Fomorii stood shoulder-to-shoulder everywhere they looked, packing the main drag of Victoria Street and every surrounding street to the dim distance. The entire cityscape gleamed an oily black in the wan sunlight. None of them made the slightest sound, nor did they move an inch: an army of sable statues. And all their faces were turned up to the window where Shavi, Laura and the Professor stood.
Waiting.
chapter eighteen
down to the river to pray
re you going to talk to me at all?" Ruth had been keeping one eye on Veitch long enough to know he was fighting to ignore her.
She instantly regretted speaking when he flashed her a glance that was so harsh it jolted her. "What do you expect? Happy smiles and blowing kisses?"
"Not from you, no."
His long hair, lashed by the cold north wind, obscured his face so she couldn't read his response, but she had watched his eyes made darker by a brooding brow ever since they had picked up the last leg of the Ml. His handsome face had been transformed by the icy set of his features. Sometimes, when she saw him like that, he frightened her.
The Tuatha De Danann who rode in front, behind and on either side had added to her loneliness by alienating her ever since they had left the camp. They had taken to Veitch immediately, encouraging him to strip off his shirt so they could examine with delight the fantastic tattoos that covered his torso, so she knew it wasn't because she was a Fragile Creature. She had endured enough similar ignorance from men during her working life not to take it to heart. With what lay ahead, she could have done with a friend for support and she hated Veitch a little for not being there for her, even though she had no right to ask that of him.
At the end of the motorway they took the North Circular. It gave her a strange frisson to be riding a horse along deserted roads on which she had queued irritatedly in backed-up traffic so many times. At least the Tuatha De Danann force gave her some confidence. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands, armed with bizarre weapons that made her blood grow cold just to look at them. They stretched as far back as she could see, and fanned out slightly on either side ahead so the force resembled an arrow driving into the contaminated heart of the city. Lugh and Nuada led the way, both of them enthused with a warrior spirit that sickened her. She didn't take any pleasure in fighting, certainly not in killing; it was a job that they had an obligation to fulfil, but that was all. And she also despised the jealousy, or contempt, she felt coming off the two gods at her possession of the Spear. The weapon rested on her back in a specially made harness Lugh had grudgingly handed over, its power warming through her clothes to invigorate her spirit.
They broke off from the North Circular, passing down North End Road until they arrived at Hampstead Heath. The expanse of greenery was looking a little washed-out in the October chill, but it had been protected from the ash falls by its lofty position above the city and the direction of the wind.
From the heights all they could see was the pall of thick smoke and mist that drifted along the Thames Valley. Occasionally, though, it shifted enough for the black tower to loom up ominously in the east.
A blast from a strange horn resembling a conch shell brought the force to an abrupt halt. Ahead, Ruth could see Lugh and Nuada in deep discussion. After a moment they beckoned to Veitch. It was noticeable that they were ignoring her, but out of bloody-mindedness she spurred her horse to keep pace behind Veitch.
Both of the gods kept their eyes fixed on Veitch's face as they spoke. "We are debating crossing this heathland," Nuada said. "It is a wide expanse that could be dangerous."
Veitch scanned the heath. "If there are any of the Bastards out there, there can't be many. There aren't that many places to hide."
"The Night Walkers are a cunning breed," Nuada said.
"I say we continue," Lugh said. "It would not do to waste the hours following the edge. And if there are Night Walkers, they will fall before the might of the Golden Ones, as they always must."
Veitch rubbed his chin. "Well, I don't know. I wouldn't like to be caught out there."
"I heard you were a mighty warrior," Lugh gibed. "That strangest of things, a Fragile Creature who is not fragile!"
Ruth willed Veitch not to be swayed, but after a moment's thought, he shrugged. "It's your call, then. Let's get to it."
Ruth sighed, but none of them looked towards her.
When they returned to their positions, Ruth said to Veitch, "Why did you give in to them? You know better than they do. You're good at what you do, Ryan. You should have more confidence in yourself."
He grunted unintelligibly, but renewed his effort to scan the heath. Clusters of trees dotted the rolling grassland, with thicker woodland to the north. They were aiming for Parliament Hill, where they could press down speedily into Kentish Town, and then on into Camden, Islington and finally the City. Ruth was dreading the final leg of the assault where the winding streets and soaring buildings would make any mass approach impossible. She expected a long, gruelling fight to their destination, and if the Fomorii could hold them off for just thirty-six hours it would end in failure. If only there were a better way, she thought.
The Tuatha De Danann fanned out across the heath, giving Ruth an even more impressive view of their numbers. So concentrated were they that her perception could barely cope; the gods lost their individuality, became the untarnished power that lay at the core of them, merging into one, bright glow. It reminded her of a sea of gold, licking up to an oil-stained beach. The sight was comforting and she relaxed a little. The Fomorii wouldn't stand a chance.
They moved across the heath slowly. Nuada and Lugh were leading cautiously, constantly scanning the terrain. Veitch kept his eyes on the tree line.
Briefly the sun broke through the thick cloud cover, warming Ruth's face. She closed her eyes and went with the gentle rocking of her mount, enjoying the aroma of greenery the breeze brought from the north. In her mind she pictured a perfect autumn day, walking with Church amongst a wood turning gold, red and brown somewhere peaceful, Scotland perhaps, or the New Forest. Her mind plucked a soundtrack from her memory that had been pr
essuring to come forward since the journey began.
"What are you thinking?"
She opened her eyes to see Veitch watching her suspiciously. "I can't get an old song out of my head. It's sort of gospelly, traditional, but it was in a George Clooney film a while back. It's called-"
In the blink of an eye, the Fomorii were there. They rose up out of the ground, not there, then there a second later, an opposing army created from thin air. By the time she had realised what was happening, chaos had erupted.
Ruth was caught in a hurricane. Her nightmares of the forthcoming confrontation had suggested it would be as sickeningly ferocious and bloody as any mediaeval battle, but what she saw around her was much, much worse. The Fomorii wielded their ugly, serrated swords like propellers, hacking and slashing in a relentless whirl. Limbs, heads and other body parts showered all around, filling the air with a blizzard of golden moths.
The Tuatha De Danann were just as brutal. Their weapons were unleashed in furious rounds, turning the Fomorii into a mist of black droplets or a thick sludge with only the hint of component parts. And where the fighting was too close, they resorted to their swords, jabbing and hacking as fast as their enemy. In the fury of movement and the ear-splitting din of combat, with the mud and grue covering all, Ruth could barely tell them apart.
Veitch was matching them all for ferocity. His sword whisked around with the efficiency and blurring speed of a machine, while he somehow managed to manoeuvre his horse back and forth to attack and retreat, even in close quarters. It was a staggering display of instinctive ability that left Ruth breathless. That was why he had been chosen: he wasn't just good at the role that had been presented to him, he was the ultimate warrior.
The Spear was in her right hand-she didn't recall withdrawing it-and she clutched the reins with her left. Numerous Night Walkers fell at the touch of the weapon, but she was nowhere near as good as Veitch. In fact, she felt a liability. Her own abilities were useless in that kind of situation, while the sheer senseless slaughter left her unable to think clearly.
Veitch appeared to sense this for he suddenly spurred his horse round to her side. "Let's get out of this fucking hell-hole!"
With his sword cutting down any opposition he drove the horse in as direct a line as he could to the open ground beyond the battlefield. Ruth was quick to follow in his wake, bracing the Spear against her side to take down any opposition Veitch missed. By the time they had forced their way through the final ranks, her ribs felt as if they had been beaten with metal bars.
Veitch continued until they had put a hundred yards or more between them and the fighting, then he rounded to survey the scene. "Shit. Look at that." His voice was barely more than a whisper.
From their new perspective the true horror and brutality of the fight could be seen. The Fomorii and Tuatha De Danann never turned from a confrontation, driving on from one fight to the next until they eventually dropped. The heath was thick with the essence of both of them-hundreds had already been slaughtered-but the Fomorii had a slight advantage in that they had no concern for their own preservation; one would sacrifice itself so another could gain a better position in a fight. The shimmer of golden moths over the scene added an incongruous touch of beauty to the horror, so that after a moment Ruth felt she was watching a strange, detached cartoon, shifting in a syrupy slow motion as golden snow fell languorously.
"Are they going to fight to the last man?" she said when she couldn't bear to look any more.
"They're not men." Veitch was seized with a cold anger. "They've forgotten the job. We're going to lose everything because they're locked up in their own stupid, bleedin' rivalry."
Before Ruth could answer, their attention was caught by frantic movement in the air down in the valley. Rising from the drifting smoke were black shapes that looked like flies from their perspective. "Fomorii," Ruth said. "Flying ones."
It was never easy to get a fix on the fluid shapes of the Fomorii, but Ruth was sure she could make out wings like a bat, but gleaming and rigid, as though they were made of metal. As the creatures fell down towards the heath, their insectile body plates shifted, folded out and slotted into place until they were covered with a hideous ridged and pitted armour. Numerous horns rimmed the skull while the eyes glowed a Satanic red from deep within Stygian orbits.
As Ruth and Veitch watched, a pair of the flying Night Walkers broke away from the formation and targeted the two of them. "Come on!" Veitch turned his horse in a bid to outrun them.
The flying Fomorii were like small jets, flattening their wings against their backs to build more speed. As their shadow fell over Ruth, she threw herself to one side. It was enough to avoid a killing blow from talons of black steel but she still felt a ringing impact on the side of her head, knocking her from the horse. She hit the ground hard, seeing stars, feeling a wetness seeping into her hair.
When she next looked up, the two creatures had zoned in on Veitch. They hovered, avoiding his blows, then diving in between his sword thrusts with the speed of hummingbirds. Even so, they'd only managed to land a couple of minor blows on him; blood trickled from a cut on his temple, another on his cheek.
As Ruth pushed herself dazedly to her feet, she saw Witch feint and then rip his sword along one of the creature's bellies. Thick, black liquid gushed out, steaming in the cold air. It narrowly missed Veitch, splattering on the grass where it sizzled like acid. But in the Fomor's dying spasm it had knocked Witch's sword from his hand, and the other one was preparing to sweep in for the kill.
Though her head felt like cotton wool, Ruth acted on instinct. She snatched up the Spear from where it had fallen and hurled it with all her strength. As the creature dived down, the Spear rammed through its skull, neck and out of its belly. It dropped to the ground like a stone.
Veitch snapped round towards her. At first his face was unreadable, but then a grin crept across it. "So you can be as big a nasty bastard as the rest of us."
After reclaiming the Spear and Ruth's horse, they only had a second or two to consider their options before they realised a section of the Tuatha De Danann force was rushing towards them. The flying Fomorii were wreaking havoc amongst the outer reaches of the Golden Ones, but hadn't yet progressed to those fighting in the thickest of the melee. It was obvious they had tilted the balance firmly in the direction of the Fomorii.
Lugh and Nuada patently recognised this for they were in the forefront of the retreat. The conch-like horn sounded insistently above the clash of battle and the bloodthirsty screeches of the Fomorii. The Tuatha De Danann attempted to extricate themselves from the thick of the fighting. Many fell in the course of the retreat.
Soon Ruth and Veitch's horses thundered across the heath. The airborne creatures continued to harry those at the rear, but away from the battle there was more room to use Goibhniu's weapons. Once a handful had plummeted from the sky the other Fomorii hung back, waiting for the right opportunity. Dropping back further, the Night Walker forces regrouped to drive the Tuatha De Danann eastwards; once the gods hit the built-up areas, their retreat would fragment.
Ruth could see this was not lost on Nuada. His face was drained of the arrogance that had turned his earlier smiles into a sneer; a stony cast hid his concern.
Veitch knew it too, was probably aware of it before anyone else. "We can't keep running!" he yelled above the pounding of a thousand hooves.
"Then what do you suggest?" Nuada snapped.
The thoughtful expression that crossed Veitch's face brought a smile to Ruth's lips; she recognised it instantly. "There's one route that'll take all this lot, horses and all, right into the heart of where we want to go," he said.
"Then why was it not proposed earlier?"
"Because it's probably bleedin' dangerous." Veitch turned to Ruth. "The tube."
Ruth was struggling to keep up, but Veitch's suggestion gave her added impetus. "Of course! The whole city's got tunnels running under it everywhere!"
"Not just the train tunnels.
There's other shit down there. Secret passages for the Government and the army. Disused lines and everything."
Nuada reined in his mount; they had reached the eastern edge of the heath. Within a couple of minutes, the rest of the Tuatha De Danann would be milling around them, jammed into a bottleneck and ready for the slaughter.
"Make haste! There is little time!" Ruth thought she sensed a hint of respect in Nuada's voice.
"Okay, here's the deal. If we all head to the nearest station the Bastards'll follow us down and pick us off. But what they really want is you, Lugh and the other top dogs. Me too, probably. We're going to draw some of them off, try to lose them. Ruth's going to lead as many of your lot as she can to Archway station and then move up with some more to Highgate." He winced. "The rest are going to have to fend for themselves."
"Agreed. They can honour themselves by holding off the Night Walkers until we reach our destination." He made to go before turning back to Veitch. "You are a true champion of your kind, Brother of Dragons." And then he was away, passing on the plan to his lieutenants.
The flush of pride rose up in Veitch's cheeks and he tried to turn away before Ruth could see. She rode up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder so she could pull him closer to whisper in his ear. "You're the hero, Ryan. Everybody knows it."
He looked deep into her face, unable to find any words that could express his thoughts. Instead he pulled her closer to kiss her just once, on the cheek; it was a kiss for old time's sake. And then he spurred his horse to round up the men he needed.
Veitch, Lugh and Nuada led a band of about thirty eastwards through the pleasant streets that bordered the heath. Within a couple of minutes they were at the place Veitch had identified from his encyclopaedic strategic memory. Highgate Cemetery brooded behind stone walls and chained iron gates, a maze of paths amongst the crumbling Victorian monuments to the dead, festooned with ivy, shadowed by clusters of dark, overhanging trees.
Always Forever Page 51