World's end taom-1

by Mark Chadbourn

  "If you're trying to wind me up, you've picked the wrong subject," Ruth snapped.

  "What about you, Mr. Bi?" Laura said to Shavi. "Does he get your sap rising?"

  "He is not unattractive." Shavi smiled, but continued to lie on the grass with his eyes closed.

  "You know, I'm noticing a distinct pathology to your sexual obsession." Ruth glared at Laura, who ignored her.

  "That's just what I'd expect from you, Frosty. But I'm not a one-obsession woman. I like drugs, music and technology too."

  "Well, I never realised you were so deep." Ruth stood up and wandered around the base of the statue. "What do you think we've got to do once we get this last talisman?"

  Shavi hauled himself into a sitting position. "Perhaps everything will become obvious once we have all the pieces together."

  "Having seen just a glimpse of what's out there, it makes me feel what we're doing is so ineffectual. Do you think these other gods can really oppose the Fomorii?"

  "For me, there are more profound concerns," Shavi said. "The Danann are supposed to look like angels. Was the Christian mythology based upon them? Are all the world's religions a reflection of the time when the Tuatha De Danann and the Fomorii ruled over humanity? This may be an opportunity for us all to meet our Maker."

  "Opportunity. I like your optimism," Ruth said sardonically.

  "That's too heavy," Laura noted uneasily. "It's bad enough as it is without thinking about things like that."

  "But we should think about it," Shavi pressed. "For millennia our lives have been based around religion. If our entire system of belief and morality rests upon a lie, we are truly adrift. It would be difficult to comprehend how our society could recover from a blow like that."

  "We lose our faith in science and religion at the same time. That doesn't leave any refuge for most people," Ruth said thoughtfully.

  "Most people don't believe in anything anyway," Laura said. "Religion is just a place for sad bastards to go to hide, and scientists can't agree on anything, so why should anyone else believe them?"

  "And I thought I was cynical." Ruth looked down at the jumbled streets of the old town; from that vantage point they could almost have been in the Middle Ages. Briefly a cloud shadow swept across the rooftops and she shuddered involuntarily; unconsciously she wrapped her arms tightly around her. From nowhere the thought sprang; a portent: things were going to get worse from that moment on.

  Amidst a large group of garrulous tourists, Church and Witch spent the rest of the evening in a pub on Tudor Square finding the common ground that lay between their different backgrounds. Veitch had a dangerous edge to his character which made Church feel uneasy, but it was tempered by an encouraging sense of loyalty; and for someone who had dabbled for so long in petty crime, he seemed to have a strict moral code. Ultimately it was those contradictions which made his character so winning. Veitch showed a respect for Church which the latter hadn't experienced before.

  "I can't get my head round it." Witch's brow furrowed as he swigged down a mouthful of lager. "We were being set up for this from the moment we were born? Those dreams that gave me all that bleedin' misery?"

  "I had the dreams too, though not as bad as you. I mean, we call them dreams, but they weren't really. It was the Otherworld contacting us-though that makes it sound like they were getting us on the phone. I think it was more like we were in some way closer to their world, so bits of it kept seeping through when we were most receptive to it."

  "Bastards. I owe them for messin' with my head, whether they did it on purpose or not. But you said that woman from the Watchtower kept visiting you when you were a kid. What was she, your sponsor?"

  Church had wrestled with that thought before and he still hadn't reached a satisfactory conclusion. "I think, maybe, because the Danann knew how important we were supposed to be, they wanted to keep an eye on us."

  "Watched over by angels, eh? You lucky bastard." Veitch's words gave him pause, and after a moment he said, "I wonder what they feel about us, really. I know they look like us a bit, the Danann anyway, but they're, like, God, aren't they? God and his angels. And the other lot are the Devil and his crew."

  Church felt uncomfortable at this description; old teachings had dug their way in deep and he couldn't help a shudder at the blasphemy. "We should be getting back," he said, draining his pint. It was already closing time and the number of drinkers in the pub had dwindled rapidly. Through the window he could see them making their way across Tudor Square to their hotels and B amp;Bs, quite a number for out-of-season, but still too few for him. Increasingly, he felt the desire for the security of large numbers. Wide open spaces were simply too dangerous.

  They were halfway across the square when Veitch glanced up suddenly and exclaimed, "What's that?"

  Tiny sparks of light darted overhead, accompanied by a flutter of wings which reminded Church of the sound of bats on a summer evening. But as he peered up into the clear night sky he felt a tingle of wonder. Tiny, full-formed figures, neither men nor women but a little of both, flashed around high above on wings that seemed too flimsy to carry even their slight weight; the light was coming from their skin, which had the faint glow of phosphorus.

  "What are they?" Veitch asked curiously.

  "I would say the analogue of nature spirits. Whatever made our ancestors think the trees and rivers were alive."

  "No trouble, then?" Veitch's hand was inside his jacket where he kept his gun. Church wanted to tell him it would be worthless in what lay ahead, but he supposed if it gave Veitch comfort then it had some use. The hand didn't come out and Church could tell Veitch was weighing up whether he could get away with taking a few potshots.

  "They look harmless," Church warned. "Leave them be. They might even be helpful to us at some time."

  "I don't want help from any of them," Veitch said harshly. "I want things back the way they were."

  "It's not all bad," Church replied. "We've got the magic back. We were missing that in all our lives."

  Veitch didn't seem convinced. "Why are they flying around like that? Most of these things seem to stay out of the way when people are around."

  Now that he mentioned it, Church did think it was curious. He examined the fleeting trails of the creatures once again, and when one swooped low enough so he could see its face, the answer was unmistakable. "They're frightened," he said. "Something has disturbed them."

  Veitch traced their path back across the sky. "They came from over there," he said, pointing to Castle Hill, where Shavi, Laura and Ruth had lazed earlier.

  "We could go back," Church mused. He was torn between the knowledge of what terrible things now lurked out in the night and the desire to know what might present a problem to them in the future.

  Veitch was already striding down St. Julian's Street. "We'll be fine if we keep on our toes. We've got to check this out."

  The quay was awash with the reflected sodium light from the town dappling the gently lapping waves. Tranquillity lay across the area, in direct opposition to the hubbub of the day. The boat trip booth was shut, as was the ice cream shop and surf store on the ramp down to the beach. A few lights glimmered in the holiday apartments overlooking the harbour, but as they passed the old bath house and joined the path which curved around the headland, all signs of life disappeared. Away to their left, the sea rolled in calmly, the breakers crashing on the rocks under the lifeboat station. On their right the bank rose up, too steep to climb, to the top of Castle Hill.

  Church and Veitch advanced along the path cautiously. Although it was a clear night, it was dark away from the town's lights and the susurration of the sea drowned out any nearby sounds.

  "What do you reckon?" Veitch asked at a point where the path wound round so it was impossible to see far ahead or back.

  "Doesn't seem-" The words were barely out of Church's lips when the night was disturbed by a throaty bass rumble, deep and powerful, rolling out from somewhere close by.

  "What was that?" V
eitch hissed.

  Church felt the now-familiar shiver of fear ripple down his back. He glanced down the path behind them, then ahead, and finally up the steep bank. Another sound echoed out. "Up there," he whispered.

  They stood stock-still, trying to peer through the gorse and willowherb, their breath burning in their throats. Finally they caught a glimpse of a black bulk moving against the sky on the ridge above them. Veitch went to speak, but Church silenced him with a wave of his hand. The silhouette moved slowly, dangerously, and then it turned its head and Church caught the terrible glitter of red eyes, burning like embers.

  "Black Shuck," he muttered.

  He thought his words had been barely more than an exhalation, but the creature suddenly froze. Another throbbing growl rolled out menacingly. Slowly, the eyes moved, searching.

  The dog disappeared from view and a second later they heard crashing through the undergrowth as it thundered down the bank to the path.

  "Is it in front or behind?" Veitch asked, glancing around anxiously. Church shook his head. They vacillated, desperately hoping for some sign, but they knew once they had one it would be too late.

  Finally Church grabbed Veitch and forced him onwards around the corner. They breathed easily when they saw the dog wasn't there, but its growls were still reverberating loudly and seemed to be drawing closer. Church nodded to a point where the bank wasn't so steep. "If it's down here, we should be up there."

  "Yeah, but we have to come down sooner or later."

  They launched themselves at the bank and scrambled up, digging their nails in the turf and weeds to haul themselves along. At the clipped lawn on the summit, they rolled on to their stomachs and peered back down. Church caught a glimpse of the dog prowling menacingly back and forth along the path.

  "It knows we're here," Veitch noted in a hoarse whisper. "It can smell us."

  "Something more than that, I think."

  "Okay, but from what you've told me, if the dog's here, the Hunt can't be far behind, right?"

  That was the one thing Church had been trying not to consider. "We have to get back to the others," he said.

  Shavi, Ruth and Laura sat in Tom's top floor room looking out across the rooftops. Tom lay on the bed, his face pale and drawn.

  "Where've they got to?" Ruth paced around anxiously. "You're sure they're going to be all right?"

  "I told you. I've done all I can. A simple direction of the energies, a masking." The snap of anger in Tom's voice was born of exhaustion. "If they're not in plain sight, they should be fine."

  "What if they're pissed and lying in a gutter?" Laura asked. "You know how boys like to play once they get together."

  "You'd think they'd have thought to get back here by nightfall," Ruth moaned.

  "They never call." Laura's singsong voice dripped with mockery. "Listen to you. You sound like their mother."

  "Why don't you-"

  "Listen." Concern crossed Shavi's face. From the street without came the gentle clip-clop of horses' hooves, an everyday sound, but it made their blood run cold.

  "Can you see?" Ruth knew she was whispering unnecessarily, but she couldn't bring herself to raise her voice.

  Shavi pressed his face up close to the glass and attempted to look down. He shook his head. "Only if I open the window."

  "Don't do that!" Laura snapped.

  "I was not about to."

  They listened as the sound of the hooves slowly moved away and only when the sound had finally disappeared did they speak again.

  "Maybe it wasn't them," Ruth said hopefully. "Earlier I saw a guy who takes tourists on tours of the front in a horse-drawn carriage."

  "It was the Hunt." Tom's voice had an edge of fatalism.

  "How fast does it move?" Veitch panted. They slipped and slid down the grassy bank on the other side of the hill until they reached the museum.

  "Faster than you could ever run, even on a good day." Church dropped on to a path and peered over the old castle walls. If the tide had been out, they could have taken a short cut across the beach and up the vertiginous seafront steps to the street where the B amp;B lay, but the waters crashed against the cliffs on which the town perched.

  "Hey, I'm fit. You're the one who spends his time sitting on his arse writing about old bones."

  They hurried under the crumbling stone arches of the castle's defences and quickly arrived back at the quay. Disturbingly, the dog's growls didn't diminish. Church glanced back and thought he could see the eyes burning in the distance.

  "It's got our scent," he said. "Or whatever. We might lose it up in the town where there are too many other distractions."

  But as they turned to run back up St. Julian Street, the threatening blast of a horn echoed out across the quiet town.

  Church's heart skipped a beat. "The Hunt. They're in the old town."

  As they waited uncertainly, with the dog's growls growing louder behind them, they heard a horse approaching slowly down St. Julian Street. A street light threw an enormous angular shadow across the front of the pastel houses in which Church could make out the cruel pike-weapon he had seen used so effectively on Dartmoor.

  "Just one?" Veitch said.

  "They're trying to flush us out."

  They turned and ran instead around the harbour, diving into an alley that led up to the Tudor Merchant's House tourist attraction. Church could feel the thundering of his blood in his ears. For a long time there was just the lapping of the waves. They both held their breath, listening. Church glanced at Witch, both ready to make their move; he held up his hand for one more listen. The faint clip-clop of hooves echoed somewhere nearby.

  Church cursed under his breath. "Good job there're lots of tiny streets and back alleys to hide in."

  "And to get cornered in. Bleedin' hell. How did I get caught up in all this?"

  Keeping to the shadows, they crept quietly up some old, weathered steps and headed along another alley. At the end of it Tudor Square lay deserted and brightly lit. They listened again; silence.

  "We could make a run for it," Veitch suggested.

  "If they catch you out in the open, you won't stand a chance." Church edged forward to get a better look, but just as he closed on the light, a horse and rider loomed up in the entryway. He could smell the unearthly, musky stink of the beast's sweat, see the light glint on the rider's metal buckles and arm rings, and the odd, lambent shimmer of his greenish skin.

  Just as the rider started to look down the alleyway, Veitch grabbed Church's jacket and dragged him back into the shadows of a doorway. The rider stared for a moment, as if he had seen something, and then, just as Church thought he was going to investigate, he spurred the horse and it trotted away down towards St. Julian Street.

  "I thought he'd marked us then," Veitch whispered.

  "There's an alley on the other side of the road next to the bookshop I saw earlier. If we can reach that, we might be able to wend our through the backstreets to base."

  Cautiously, they crept back to the end of the alley to survey the scene. The square was empty once more.

  "He's probably waiting just around that corner," Church noted.

  "What we need is a diversion." Veitch pulled out the gun and held it at his side; he seemed to carry it easily.

  "What are you going to do with that?" Church asked uneasily.

  Veitch moved in front of Church, raised the gun, pointed it at a shop at the top end of the square and fired, all in one fluid motion. The thunder of the retort merged with the high-pitched shatter as the window caved in and the burglar alarm started to scream. In an instant the clatter of hooves erupted as the Huntsman burst from St. Julian Street and spurred his horse towards the shop, his sickle-pike glinting in the street light.

  Once he'd passed by, they ran. Veitch had been cunning; the noise of the burglar alarm masked the sound of their running feet.

  But just as they'd stepped into the road, a car sped up in the trail of the rider, so fast it almost ploughed into them. There
were four youths inside, faces flushed from too much beer. The driver swerved at the last moment, screaming his rage through the open window, then hammered the horn. Church knew instantly that stroke of bad luck had ruined them. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Huntsman rein up his horse and turn it on the spot. Veitch must have seen it too, for he didn't slow for a moment; instead he powered up on to the car's bonnet and launched himself off to the other side.

  Church was too near to the rear of the car to follow suit, but Veitch's actions were too much for the beer boys inside. They burst from the doors, their faces contorted with anger, fists bulging, mouthing post-pub threats in broad Welsh accents. One of them took a swing at Church and he had to throw himself back to avoid the blow.

  "Come on!" Veitch yelled, as if it were in Church's power to respond.

  The rider was almost upon him. Acting purely on instinct, Church propelled himself forward, past his assailant and behind one of the doors, surprising the beer boys with his tactics. The Huntsman's pike raised a shower of fizzing sparks as it ripped along the car's wing.

  That resulted in another predictable outburst from the four youths. The driver stepped forward and hurled a near-full beer can. It bounced off the rider's shoulder, spraying cheap lager across the road.

  He was already advancing, fists raised, when Church yelled, "No! He'll kill you!" Another of the youths stepped in and kicked Church violently on the leg. More from shock than the agony that lanced up to his waist, Church pitched backwards, half-in and half-out of the car.

  He tried to call out again, but it was too late. The driver rode forward, stabbing his pike and ripping suddenly upwards as he passed. A fountain of blood spurted, then showered down to mingle with the lager in the gutter.

  The shouts were stifled in the other three youths' throats. But a second later, to Church's disbelief, they resumed their assault on the rider with force, hurling anything at him that came to hand, trying to kick out at the ghostly horse as it passed. Church didn't wait to see any more. He scrambled right through the car, rolled out on to the tarmac and was then up and running to join Veitch at the alleyway.