Lying back beneath the sweep of stars, there was some sadness that they would soon be going their separate ways. But though they might not meet again, they would never forget all that they had shared, and everything they had learned: in the midst of hardship they had discovered the best that life had to offer, both in the world, and in themselves.
And though there were undoubtedly hard days ahead, they had been forged in the worst of times, and with hope and optimism in their hearts, the road would always rise before them.
Church woke on a hard, cold floor surrounded by the smell of wood smoke. A deep ache suffused his limbs, though slowly fading; his stomach turned queasily. Strange dreams had paraded through his head, of people in dark suits and army green, but the last vibrant thoughts he had were of the dying light in poor, tormented Veitch's eyes, of the desperate love in Ruth's face, and of plunging into nothingness in the company of a deep shadow. He was still clutching Caledfwlch tightly. His free hand moved to his side where Veitch had torn him open, but there was no blood, no wound. It made no sense.
He levered himself up to see he was in a dark, round room constructed from wood. The only light came from a fire smouldering in the centre, the smoke drifting up to disappear through a hole in the turf roof. It was undeniably primitive, filled with the aromas of animals and damp vegetation.
His thoughts careered. Where were the others? Where was Balor? As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he realised with a start that he was not alone. Jumping to his feet anxiously prompted a shriek from the dark shapes huddling across the other side of the room.
Moving past the fire, he could see a woman was protecting her two children. She had long dark hair that framed a face hardened by harsh living. The children, a boy and a girl of around seven or eight, had the same dark hair and eyes. They were all terrified.
"Don't worry. I won't hurt you," he said gently, but his voice only agitated them further.
The woman jabbered in a language he didn't understand until he caught one word: Samhain.
As he repeated it, the woman froze, her eyes widening. "Samhain," she said again.
And then the elements began to fall into place: the house, the basic peasant clothes of the woman and children, the language. Somehow the gate had flung him into the distant past, amongst one of the tribes that modern scholars had lumped together under the catch-all title of Celts.
He closed his eyes and rested on his sword as he fought the rising panic. His first thought was that it couldn't be true, but everything he saw, heard, smelled, told him otherwise. Then the impressions came thick and fast: isolation, utter loneliness amongst people who would consider him an alien or a madman, the brutality of life in those times, of Ruth, whom he would never see again, of his friends, and his world. Slowly, he went down on to his knees, unable to bear the weight.
His torment was disturbed by the woman gradually advancing. She pointed tentatively. "Nuada?"
She was indicating the Sword. He held it up, nodding. "Nuada Aigetlamh." It was the god's sword; of course she would be familiar with it.
She suddenly pointed towards the open door and jabbered once more, excitedly this time. There was little else for him to do but follow her direction.
Outside, a wild electrical storm lit up other roundhouses clustered nearby. Frightened horses and cattle added to the deafening cannon-fire of thunder. A terrible wind tore across the landscape, though there wasn't even the faintest hint of rain; in the gale was the familiar stink of corruption that had surrounded Balor.
He looked round, overcome with the strangest impression someone familiar had only just left the vicinity. Despite the grinding sense of disconnection, he felt uncannily good, and he knew why. His deep perception showed him the Blue Fire was stronger in the land, and the buildings and the animals than he had ever seen it before. That was why the wound in his side had healed. As a Brother of Dragons he had tapped into it.
And with that realisation came another thought: he recalled Tom telling him there were no coincidences, no accidents. Then why had he been saved? There was no obvious answer, but he had the strangest feeling that somebody had wanted it to happen for him.
As he tried to decide what his next move would be, he became aware of a faint golden glow approaching across the dark, storm-torn countryside. It was Niamh. His shock was palpable until he accepted this was long before she had sacrificed herself to save them all.
She came up to him sharply, an unfamiliar contemptuous expression inscribed on her face. "Fragile Creature!" Her words were the arrogant bark of someone used to complete deference. "Is that the Sword of my brother?" As always, he understood her words in a way that transcended language.
It was intriguing to see the difference in her. Here she was more like the worst of her kind, cold and aloof with a hint of cruelty. "It was once. It's my Sword now."
Fury tinged her features. "How can a Fragile Creature dare to touch so powerful an object? How can you dare to take it from my brother, and now, when he needs it most?"
"I'm a Brother of Dragons."
This puzzled her a little. "I have not seen you amongst that dismal brood."
His spine prickled as connections began to be made. "What's happening?" he asked, listening to the noise that was almost masked by the storm.
"You do not know? It is the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh. This night the future of the Golden Ones will be decided, when the Night Walkers are finally driven into the sea after their bitter rule."
"And the future of the Fragile Creatures," he added wryly.
She didn't deem his comment worthy of any acknowledgment.
And then everything fell into place, with a frisson that was so acute it shocked him. The mysterious comments that he would not find rest at the end of his struggle. The hints that he had a wider role to play in leading humanity towards the next level. Tom telling him to use his memories as a source of warmth in troubling times.
He steeled himself, letting the obligation settle into his bones. Then he said: "Take me to the battle."
"You mean to fight?"
"I intend to do what I can. And to be there when Balor is finally destroyed."
She appeared quite taken aback by his bravado; a little warmth broke into her frosty features.
"My name's Jack." His heart was already soaring as he realised the solution to his predicament. "I think we're going to become good friends."
"Friends? With a Fragile Creature?" she snorted.
After the battle he would return to the home of the gods T'ir n'a n'Og, where time could pass much slower than it did in the real world. And while he aged only slightly, the centuries would tumble by in a mad parade until he could once again step back into the world to take Ruth in his arms and meet their future together. The paradox made his head spin. For a while he would exist in two places at once: in the real world, where he would be born and grow to maturity; and in Otherworld, waiting for the culmination of the confrontation with Balor so he could step back into the Fixed Lands to reclaim his life. Could he sit idly by in Otherworld, knowing the suffering that would be inflicted on humanity during the Age of Misrule? Could he wait there when he might be able to save Witch's life? Or would he cross over earlier, to meet his younger self and change the course of history? Was that at all possible, or would existence come crashing down around his ears? It was a conundrum that would have to wait.
Now he knew why Niamh had appeared in his childhood bedroom, guiding him along the path he had eventually walked, why she had been filled with such a deep love that had made no sense for the little time they had known each other. Between now and then, they would become friends, and he would bring humanity to her, and she would in turn convince other members of the Tuatha De Danann to come over to the Fragile Creatures, something that would have such great import so many years down the line. And eventually, although he would aim to prevent it, she would learn to fall in love with him.
In the meantime he had so many things to do: establishing the r
eputation of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, convincing them to prepare for the return of the Fomorii, ensuring the first steps were taken on the path to godhood.
And then one other thought came to him that filled him with warmth. In just a few brief centuries' time he would see Tom again. Tom, who had kept so many secrets, hidden his character and his emotions for the sake of those around him. They would become the best of friends and he would finally pay the Rhymer back for saving his life.
"Come on," he said to Niamh, "let's go to war."
His one hope was that the world he eventually returned to would not have been bequeathed to the worst of humanity; that the old, bad ways had simply slotted back into place. "I'm wishing," he whispered aloud, his eyes closed. "I'm wishing for a place where the good things have the upper hand: love and honesty and friendship and wonder and hope. I'm wishing enough to change the world."
In a bleak room filled with hard men, a cold wind blew. For as long as anyone could remember they had dreamed the world their way; and it was a world filled with lies and power and money, of subtle manipulation and limpid promises, where Fragile Creatures were held in place by a little of this and a little of that, but never anything that mattered. Yet beneath their arrogance lay fear, for sooner or later the scales might fall.
A lie was needed to cement their rule. A Big Lie. Lives were shattered in the telling of it, families torn apart, good men and women twisted out of shape. But the hard men were right to be afraid, for even in the worst of all worlds, good men and women aspire; and inspire.
With that same arrogance, the hard men believed no one could be moved by a world without money or power; dreams were for children; dreams had no power. And so they released the means to their downfall. The Lie proved more seductive than the world they had wished; it was filled with love and wonder and friendship and hope and faith; and meaning; a world where anything could happen.
A wish was all it took; because if you wish hard enough you can change the world.
The Lie became the Truth, and everything that hadn't happened, had happened. Five people quested through untold hardship; they plumbed worlds beyond imagination, rubbed shoulders with gods and beasts; and in the end brought the magic back home.
This is how it was, and is, and will be.
The cold wind blew the bad things right away. The hard men no longer existed. The hard men never existed. Their world was just a bad dream; and only bad dreams have no power.
The Blue Fire is in everything.
And the world turns slowly towards the light.
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Many online resources were a valuable source of reference. Since my research, some have closed, the ones remaining are:
Celtic Deities and Myth-www.eliki.com/ancient/myth/celts/
Kaleidoscope-Celtic Mythology-www..softanswer.corn/pans/celtic/mythology.html
Knights Templar-www. brjeffreys. freeserve. co. uk/knights/knights. htm
Knights Templar Index-http://homepages.enterprise.net/paulmagoo/index.htm
London Underground History-www.starfury.demon.co.uk/uground/
The Megalith Map-www. megalith. ukf. net/bigmap. htm
Mythology-www. exotique. com/fringe/mythology. htm
Neopagan-www neopagan. net
The Official Rosslyn Chapel Site-www.rosslynchapel.org.uk
I am indebted to all of the people behind them.
about the author
two-time winner of the prestigious British Fantasy Award, Mark Chadbourn has published his epic, imaginative novels in many countries around the world. He grew up in the mining community of the English Midlands, and was the first person in his family to go to university. After studying Economic History at Leeds, he became a successful journalist, writing for several of the UK's renowned national newspapers as well as contributing to magazines and TV.
When his first short story won Fear magazine's Best New Author award, he was snapped up by an agent and subsequently published his first novel, Underground, a supernatural thriller set in the coalfields of his youth. Quitting journalism to become a full-time author, he has written stories which have transcended genre boundaries, but is perhaps best known in the fantasy field.
Mark has also forged a parallel career as a screenwriter with many hours of produced work for British television. He is a senior writer for BBC Drama and i
s also developing new shows for the UK and US.
An expert on British folklore and mythology, he has held several varied and colourful jobs, including independent record company boss, band manager, production line worker, engineer's "mate," and media consultant.
Having traveled extensively around the world, he has now settled in a rambling house in the middle of a forest not far from where he was born.
For information about the author and his work:
www.markchadbourn.net
www.jackofravens.com
www.myspace.com/markchadbourn
Always Forever Page 62