Darkest hour aom-2

by Mark Chadbourn

  "I thought this New Age was supposed to be a good time for women more than anything else. Feminine values and all that shit after hundreds of years of testosterone stupidity. Look at her, in that house, what she's been through. You could at least have hoped it would be Veitch or the old git-"

  "We've all suffered." He knew he was only arguing as a distraction; it wasn't even relevant. "I was tortured-"

  "Yeah? How bad? That bad?"

  "All right. What do you think we do? Wish upon a star? She's going to die anyway, when Balor comes through."

  "Oh, fuck off. I don't know. But I know she's one of the good guys and it shouldn't be her." She walked off a few paces angrily, then turned and said, "Don't ever, ever tell her I said that, even when she's acting like she's got a bug in her head."

  He had a sudden vision of when he and Ruth first met, when everything had seemed confounding, but the choices simpler. "What the hell am I supposed to be doing?" he muttered.

  "You're the leader, Church-dude. Why are you asking me?" She picked up a handful of stones and began to hurl them out into the void without a thought for where they might land. "I'm just along for sarcastic comments and pithy asides. Go with your instinct or whatever you leaders do."

  She threw the last pebble then turned and sauntered back to the house as if she didn't have a care in the world.

  The dawn of the final day broke through the ragged cottage window in pink and gold, but when Church went to get a little sun on his face he saw the sky was painted red along the horizon; the folklore warning of bad weather ahead wasn't wasted on him.

  At least the faint warmth refreshed him after the dismal night. He hadn't slept at all. Ruth had spent the long, dark hours in the grip of a delusion that had left her screaming and clawing at her face and belly until blood flowed. It had been almost unbearable to see, the cracking screech of her voice so dismaying he'd wanted to cover his ears and run from the place rather than listen to the magnitude of her pain or face the extent of her decline. But he'd stayed by her side for all that harrowing time, caring for her, doing his best to prevent her harming herself, and now he felt drained of every last emotion. Laura was huddled in a corner like a child, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted now that Ruth's ravings had subsided with the coming of the light. Several times during the night she'd had to leave the room, crying, unable to cope with what she was seeing. Church had pretended he hadn't noticed.

  The faint breeze that came with the dawn stirred the stagnant air with a hint of freshness. He stretched the kinks out, then walked back to look over Ruth. Her sleeping face gave no signs of the terrible things he had seen during the night. Her chest rose and fell with an incongruous peace. She was beautiful, he thought, inside and out; it wasn't fair that she was suffering. For a moment he drank in that innocence and then a jarring thought crept into his mind: he could do it there and then. Smother her with the sleeping bag. Strangle her, gently at first so she didn't wake. It would be perfect; he wouldn't have to look into her eyes; he could remember her this way instead of twisted by the torments that were sure to come. It wouldn't really seem like murder at all, would it?

  The thought hovered for a second and then he felt a twist in his gut so sharp he thought he was going to vomit. He couldn't do it now-he was too tired. But later, certainly; he had, at last, accepted it was an inevitability.

  As he turned away so he wouldn't have to look at her, his eyes fell on the insane scribbling that covered the wall. From a distance the minute writing resembled some intricate pattern; swirls and waves like a Middle Eastern carpet. Only up close were the hidden messages revealed, incomprehensible, but with some sort of intelligence behind them. There was something in this observation which tugged at him, but he didn't have the energy to start getting philosophical. Instead he blanked his mind and allowed himself to be drawn in by the mesmerising scrawl, a Zen meditation where obvious meaning was discarded for an overall sense. He stayed in that state where all the words blurred into one mass for what must have been minutes, feeling the stresses of the night begin to slough off him, until he gradually realised he was becoming aware of certain words rising out of the morass. It was almost as if the wall was speaking to him. And what was it saying?

  I love you.

  A nice sentiment, he thought ironically. Perhaps Ruth had been wrong about something bad happening there. The house may have been a place where forbidden lovers trysted, or was that his stupid, sentimental, romantic side coming out? He thought he'd finally eradicated that on the hilltop overlooking Skye.

  Church.

  His breath stung the back of his throat, hung there, suspended. The word seemed to glow, then fade, so that he couldn't quite be sure it was his name he'd seen.

  Marianne.

  This time he felt sick. His head began to whirl and he thought he might pitch forward. Marianne, speaking to him. A tingle ran along his spine, warning him not to analyse what he was seeing too much or the spell might be broken. Just wait, he told himself. Be open to it.

  For a moment or two he saw nothing else. His eyes started to burn from the effort of not concentrating on what was before him. He had that queasy feeling he always got when he looked at Magic Eye pictures.

  Then: Be brave.

  Be wary.

  The end is

  coming soon.

  There was a cold sweat stinging the back of his neck. He wanted to ask questions, make some kind of direct contact, but he was afraid it would break the moment.

  You have it

  within

  you, I always knew

  that.

  Don't fear for me. Don't

  hold on to me.

  Face the future.

  Go forward.

  Church wondered how long the words had been there, hidden in the garbled, idiot pattern, and he had never seen them till now; by accident. At the moment he needed them most. He knew what Tom would say: no accidents, no coincidences; there was meaning in every little thing. But if only he had seen it before, how much strength he might have drawn from it during the long, painful days they had waited there.

  I

  can see you even

  when you

  can't see me. We all

  can.

  There's a

  reason

  for everything, Church.

  You just

  have to see

  it.

  In that moment he wanted to break down and sob, all the repressed feelings of the years since she died, all the strangled emotions of the last few months, ready to burst out in one rush. But all he managed were a few, brief tears that burned his eyes and were easily blinked away.

  I may be

  trapped,

  but they can't

  hurt me.

  And I'm happy now

  they can't

  use me to control

  you.

  Don't worry, Church.

  I love you.

  The message began to repeat like one of those tickertape electronic messages that run around buildings in New York. He stayed a few minutes longer, just to be sure, and then walked out into the pale sunlight, his cheeks still wet.

  Her words had been few, but there was so much to take in; an entire worldview. He was overjoyed that she wasn't suffering, that the resilience he had admired was still there, but more than anything that she was still around, like an old friend, keeping an eye on him. And not just her; she had said.

  We all can.

  What did we all mean? He walked towards the edge and looked down at the flickering shadows moving across the landscape. For him, right there, at that particular moment, it meant the world. Never give up.

  There's meaning in everything.

  There's a reason for everything.

  He only had to see it.

  Church skidded over the grass and rock down the tor. He felt consumed by a renewed sense of purpose, almost courage, although he had never considered himself brave. Risking your life meant nothing when everything
was meaningless; but now there was meaning. The clues had been around him from the start-even before-but he had never pieced them all together to accept the sublime patterns. Even the Fomorii, the antithesis of it, proved its existence. Tom had subtly attempted to guide him towards that illumination, Church realised, and now he had it, he realised why: the world looked different.

  Now they couldn't afford to lose; not just for humanity, or life as they knew it, but for something so big it made even that seem insignificant. An awareness of that responsibility would have crushed most people; Church felt enlivened by a new sense of direction.

  Halfway down the tor he paused at a huge boulder and slowly crawled out on top of it so he could survey the countryside beneath. To most eyes, the rolling fields would have looked a little darker than usual. Strange shadows flickered on the edge of vision, but beyond that everything appeared normal. Church's heightened perception, however, picked out the Fomorii's half-seen shapes for almost as far as the eye could see. It was as if an army had massed at the foot of the tor, ready for a siege on some mediaeval castle. For a moment he blanched at the prospect of what lay ahead; then he drove all thoughts from his mind and hurried down the tor.

  His target was relatively easy to find in the stillness of the countryside where no cars moved, no birds sang. Waves of golden light washed upwards like some strange aurora borealis, gilding the surrounding trees; occasionally strange booming noises echoed among the hillsides as if a jet had passed over. Church kept beneath the level of the hedgerows as he progressed along the lanes towards the epicentre. He had judged rightly that there would be little or no Fomorii activity in that area. The fact that even they were scared should have given him pause, but he kept driving forward, working at the plan that had started to form in the back of his head. The risks were great-even being there was ridiculously dangerous-but at that stage bold action was the only thing that could work.

  Close to the golden light the air was filled with an unpleasant charred taste. He dropped to his belly and wriggled forward until he could peer through a break in the hedge, every muscle tensed to flee in case he was seen.

  Maponus roamed around the field, his path apparently random, but, on closer inspection, forming strange geometric shapes. A scattering of bloody bones radiated out from him in what looked like a blast zone. Church guessed when Niamh had plucked up the Good Son and deposited him here she had brought some of his victims in the backwash. Church watched intently. Sometimes Maponus dropped to his knees and scrabbled wildly at the turf. Other times he stopped to throw his head back and howl soundlessly. The chaotic rhythms of his madness were eerie to see: oblivious to the outside world, trapped in a repeating loop of thoughts. Occasionally they became so intense his face would dissolve into a swirl of wild activity in which Church saw snapping jaws, writhing things, razor-sharp blades glinting in the sunlight, then just a globule of unbearable light.

  He looked away, suddenly queasy. Maponus' insanity was destabilising; it sucked at him, threatening to drag him in.

  Cautiously he began to move around the perimeter of the field. How long would he have to search before he found what he was looking for? Could he have guessed wrongly?

  He needn't have worried. Something hit him with the force of a wild animal, knocking him painfully across the road, pinning him beneath its weight. Stars flashed across his vision, but when he looked he felt a wave of relief. Yet the Bone Inspector's features spoke of a madness waiting to break out: he looked anxious, hunted, a man driven to the edge of survival.

  Despite his age, his strength was almost superhuman. Church couldn't begin to wriggle out from beneath the wiry arms that held him tight. The Bone Inspector's eyes ranged crazily, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a feral grimace. For one moment, Church thought the custodian of the old places was going to dip down and tear out his throat.

  "It's me!" Church gasped. "A Brother of Dragons!"

  The Bone Inspector's eyes cleared gradually. A long drool of spittle dripped on to Church's cheek. "I know who you are, you bloody idiot!" he hissed. Cursing beneath his breath, he rolled off Church, instantly adopting the posture of a cornered animal, ready to fight or run. "What are you doing here, you fool? Do you want to throw your life away?" His voice was strained with tension, but it barely rose above the sound of the wind rustling the leaves of the hedgerow.

  He gave a sharp nod with his head, directing Church to a field on the other side of the lane. They scurried through an open gate and rested against a metal trough filled with stagnant water. The Bone Inspector closed his eyes for a moment, his lined face suddenly looking a hundred years old. His shirt was in tatters and a filthy, bloodstained rag had been tied roughly around his left hand. There were numerous gashes across his lithe, suntanned torso. A brief shiver ran through him and then his eyes filled with his old clarity. "I've followed him up mountains and across rivers. I've waded through a swamp of blood, seen whole villages burning. I've lived on raw squirrel meat and drunk stagnant ditchwater. I've seen the kind of pain and suffering you can only imagine." His voice was filled with a passion that bowed Church. "And why? Because your idiot brethren dabbled with something they shouldn't! What did they think they were doing?"

  "It had to be done-"

  "Had to be done?" The Bone Inspector's eyes blazed furiously; Church thought the old man was going to hit him. "All that death and grief was a decent price to pay?"

  "That's not what I meant." His anger grew hard. He thought of Ruth and the decision he had to make, of the world he used to inhabit where there was a clear distinction between right and wrong, and then came a sudden rush and tumble of regrets and bitterness. "You can't criticise me."

  The Bone Inspector seemed taken aback by what he saw in Church's face.

  "We're all wading through shit trying to put this nightmare right. Nobody has the higher ground. Nobody," Church said coldly.

  The Bone Inspector looked away at the waves of golden light. "Pretty, ain't it? I can't see how we're going to put it right. When he was first bound under Rosslyn there was a whole load of my people carrying out the ritual. There's no way I can do it myself. I thought it was all sorted when those golden bastards came for him-"

  "What happened?"

  "There were six of them. Some of the big-shots, all light and thunder and faces you couldn't see. You could tell they were desperate to get him back. `Finally,' I thought, `they're going to start sorting out their own shit.' They'd got him cornered up near Aberdeen in what was left of a village. I was down among the ruins, trying to pull out some kid, but the poor bastard was already dead. And he'd seen me, and he was coming for me." The Bone Inspector looked down at his hands; they were trembling. "They'd opened up some kind of doorway in the air and they were going to drive him through. And then that bitch came out of nowhere. Crazy. As mad as he is." He jerked a thumb towards the wash of light. "There was a big flash, felt like I'd been hit by a shovel, next thing I knew I'm here."

  Church felt a pang of guilt; he wondered if the Tuatha De Danann would punish Niamh for her actions.

  The Bone Inspector looked up at him piercingly. "So what are you doing here?"

  "Looking for You." The Bone Inspector's brow furrowed; Church smiled. "Listen, this is what's going to happen."

  As Church moved speedily along the lanes back to the tor he was gripped with fear that in his absence the Fomorii would have swept up the mountain and taken Ruth and Laura. But as he neared he could see the slopes were still clear.

  The hardest part of the return journey was a wide-open space at the foot of the tor and the lower reaches of the climb. Even though the power in the mountain kept them hidden from the Fomorii senses, plain sight was still a problem. He couldn't believe he had made it to the Bone Inspector and back without discovery; it left him wondering how powerful those Fomorii senses truly were. Perhaps they didn't need to hide on the mountain at all. Was it possible that they could creep away under cover of darkness and find another hiding place far away?
/>   The blow came from somewhere behind him, lifting him high into the air. His body exploded in excruciating pain; there didn't seem to be any oxygen left in his lungs. He slammed down on to the grass verge and bounced into a barbed wire fence. The twisted talons snagged his flesh and tore. For a second he hung there suspended like a scarecrow, thought processes fragmented, aware only of the agony that fried through him. His awareness came back in jerking fragments. A deep, dark shadow was moving across the road. He looked up for the cloud, the low-flying plane.

  It hit him so hard the barbed wire burst as it yanked out of his flesh. He skidded into a cornfield. The sharp stalks stabbed his back, the dust clouded round him. Next to his face on the ground a large black beetle scurried away from the disturbance.

  Full realisation only came when he rolled on his back, trying to scrabble to his feet. The Fomorii warrior loomed over him. At first there was no sense of solidity, just an impression of an immense, sucking void about to enclose him. A perception shift came as if someone had grabbed his mind and twisted it through forty-five degrees. Suddenly there was bulk, the sound of armour plates clanking into place as if they were a part of it, that familiar, sickening zoo-cage smell. Still couldn't quite get a full fix on it. It was an enormous insect with dripping mandibles and multiple legs, something that was covered with fur, with glaring red eyes, talons poised. And at times chillingly human-shaped, though as big as a tank, with the blackest armour.

  Church jumped to his feet, started to run. What could have been a powerful arm lashed out, catching him full in the stomach. The pain was so great it felt like his internal organs were rupturing. He came down hard again, deep in the swaying corn. He had been so arrogant, thinking he had escaped detection. It must have been stalking him, checking he was defenceless.

  His thoughts fizzed out as he suddenly found the energy to roll and run. The beast thundered like a bull, missing him by an inch. And then he was away, leaping wildly through the corn, knowing that he couldn't outrun it for an instant. The vibrations from its pounding feet felt like a mini-earthquake beneath him, but at least it allowed him to tell when it was almost on him. He threw himself to the side, and it crashed past; its size and momentum prevented it turning easily.