Britha nodded. ‘A small group would be best,’ she said.
‘What if it’s a trap?’ Anharad demanded.
‘Then we will all be dead,’ Germelqart said.
‘And I would offer to take more of you if I was leading you into a trap,’ Britha pointed out.
‘Nine is the number,’ Bladud said. Nine was a number all Pretani held as sacred.
‘We will go,’ Ysgawyn said. Tangwen glared at them, and several of the warriors and landsfolk present looked less than pleased at this.
‘I will go.’ Tangwen looked around to see who had spoken. She saw Sadhbh of the Iceni, with her lynx-head mask, walk out from under the trees.
‘I must go,’ Germelqart said quietly.
Kush stared at his much smaller friend, a look of confusion on his face. ‘Then I will go, too,’ Kush said.
‘And I,’ Tangwen found herself saying, though her companions on this journey would make her more than a little nervous.
‘I will go,’ Bladud said.
‘Then so will I,’ Nerthach said.
‘That is more than nine,’ Britha pointed out, amused.
Bladud turned to Ysgawyn. ‘Two of your people will stay here,’ he told him. Ysgawyn looked less than pleased, but nodded.
‘And I will stay and look after your people,’ Guidgen said.
Tangwen glanced at the dryw. His smile was back.
‘I told you the grounds for a challenge,’ Bladud said through gritted teeth.
‘I think you need to make up your mind,’ Guidgen said. ‘You may believe yourself somehow both rhi and dryw, but when you try to be both, you are neither. Your people, your responsibility, will need leadership while you are gone. I will do this.’ He looked up and around at the assembled crowd. ‘Unless there is another?’ There was a lot of muttering but nobody volunteered.
Bladud glared at the old dryw. ‘Very well. I will stay.’
Guidgen nodded, his smile becoming wider. ‘And I will go in your stead,’ he said.
Bladud continued glaring at the other man for a moment, and then his features softened and a smile split his face. ‘I cannot make up my mind if I want to drink with you or drink from your hollowed-out skull,’ Bladud muttered. There was some laughter from the assembled crowd.
‘Which do you think would provide you with the greater wisdom?’ Guidgen asked, as if he was genuinely interested in the answer.
‘We will need weapons that can harm the Lochlannach,’ Britha said reluctantly. ‘To get to Oeth we must enter Annwn. Those who come with us will need to be able to see in total darkness.’
‘How can we see in total darkness?’ Sadhbh demanded in exasperation. Tangwen saw Kush glance at Germelqart.
‘We must drink her blood,’ Tangwen said.
Britha spoke with Guidgen. The old dryw did not look even remotely intimidated by the strange northern woman. Britha explained the ritual to him, and the importance of the feast to follow after. Tangwen watched as Britha had disrobed and saw that the red metallic sigils had pushed through the flesh on other parts of her body as well as her arms and face. She was sure the symbol of a Z-shaped broken spear entwined with a serpent that covered much of her upper back had once been blue. Now it had the same look as the rest of the sigils: a smooth, red, almost flesh-like metal.
They constructed a frame from branches gathered by the gwyllion. Guidgen first offered a sacrifice of his own blood to the earth, to appease the Horned God for calling on other magics in his woodland realm. Then they hung Britha from the frame by her feet and cut her at the ankles, the wrists and the neck, to bleed her like a sacrificed calf. Bowls made of ash, willow, beach and oak were arranged to collect the blood from the ankle and wrist wounds. A bowl of bronze collected the blood from the neck. All the while Guidgen kept watch, burning various herbs and mumbling the words of protective magics to himself.
Tangwen remembered the first time she saw something like this, when she found Britha and Fachtna hanging by their feet. She had been appalled at their apparent sacrifice. That was not even one moon ago, but she was a different person now.
Bladud came to watch the proceedings when he wasn’t attending to other duties. Tangwen had noticed him deep in conversation with Nerthach more than once.
When the blood stopped flowing, they cut Britha down and wrapped her black robe around her. The other eight who were to accompany her to Annwn joined Tangwen. They dipped sword and dagger blades, spearheads, arrow tips, her own hatchet blade, Guidgen’s sickle and Germelqart’s skull-topped mace in the blood-filled wooden bowls.
Finally they were presented with the bronze bowl of Britha’s neck blood. Though Tangwen had drunk of her serpent-father’s blood, somehow this still felt wrong, like dark magic. She saw Sadhbh and Nerthach looking at the bowl with disgust on their faces. Kush and Germelqart appeared less than happy at the prospect of drinking from it. Even Guidgen seemed unsure. Only the two Corpse People appeared to relish the chance to drink the powerful dryw’s blood – Brys, the powerfully built, scarred, grey-bearded and grey-haired veteran, and Madawg, the balding, sickly-looking warrior.
‘Where is your king?’ Tangwen asked as she watched Madawg drink from the copper bowl.
‘My understanding is that the amount you drink makes no difference to the power you receive,’ Guidgen told the frail-looking Corpse People warrior. Madawg stopped drinking from the bowl, his mouth stained with Britha’s neck-blood.
‘Perhaps I like the taste,’ Madawg said, grinning, and passed the bowl to Brys, who drank and passed it to Nerthach, who just stared at it.
‘He has sent his two best remaining warriors,’ Brys said.
‘This one does not look much like a warrior,’ Nerthach said, glancing down at Madawg.
‘And yet I have the courage to drink of the dryw’s blood, and you do not,’ Madawg said.
‘Are you not a follower of Cocidius, the Red Man?’ Guidgen asked Nerthach. ‘He is red because he is covered in blood.’
‘Aye, covered in it, not drinking it,’ Nerthach muttered, but he glanced at Madawg, who was smirking. The Brigante steeled himself and drank from the bronze bowl. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the bowl to Sadhbh.
Finally all the others had drunk and the bowl was passed to Tangwen. She stared at it. She knew this was the blood magic of the Lochlannach. The ritual might have changed it, controlled it, but it was still the magic of demons from the ice in the far north. The magics she had fought against, the magics that were used to enslave. She feared enslavement more than she feared death, perhaps even more than she feared transformation by Andraste’s spawn.
‘It is not a good thing that we do, but this will not make us what we fear and hate,’ Germelqart said softly, as if he had read her mind, but it was more likely Sadhbh’s contemptuous sneer that made her drink from the bowl. The blood was still hot and tasted of metal, and seemed almost eager to be drunk – it practically surged down her throat. Then fear gripped her as she felt something move inside her. She could see the dots of fire moving through the blood of her companions.
Tangwen felt good, she had to admit, strong, fast. The night felt somehow alive, vibrant. She could see clearly in the dark, hear insects on the wing and distant hunting owls in flight. She could smell the food from the feast, the fire, sweat, leather, metal, the sap of the trees and the scent of the flowers. She felt very different, but for some reason the change did not worry her.
Bladud had arranged the feast. Tangwen knew she should feel guilty for the food that she and the other eight gorged themselves on, but she did not. That said, the amount Britha ate was appalling. In front of their eyes, she devoured the survivors’ meagre supplies and what the gwyllion had been able to hunt, and her frame filled out as they watched. She had been carried to the food in a weakened stupor, barely able to grab at it and stuff it into her mouth. Now she look
ed strong and healthy, though there was still little colour in her pale skin.
They were seated around a fire pit over which the remains of a deer was cooking. A cauldron bubbled over another nearby fire. Nerthach was next to Bladud, who ate little. Tangwen sat next to Guidgen, Kush next to her. Germelqart was on the other side of Kush.
‘Where is your friend?’ Guidgen asked, and then belched loudly. Tangwen bit off another chunk of meat from the haunch of venison she was eating. She didn’t think she’d ever eaten so much in her life before, but still she wanted more. Tangwen looked around the fire pit. Britha was no longer there.
‘She’s not my friend,’ Tangwen muttered, and then took a mouthful from a horn of ale.
‘I think that, whatever else she has said and done, once you have shared certain … troubles, there is a bond,’ the elderly dryw said.
‘She betrayed us,’ Tangwen said stubbornly.
‘She also saved us,’ Kush pointed out. Germelqart had stopped eating and was looking at Tangwen. She could not read the Carthaginian’s expression.
‘Would you do me a service, Tangwen serpent-child?’ Guidgen asked. Tangwen nodded. There was little choice in the matter when a dryw asked something of you. ‘It worries me that she is not here. Would you go and see if you can find her?’
Tangwen wanted to say no. Instead she reluctantly got to her feet and went to do as Guidgen bid her.
‘It is true. I have been to the Otherworld, but I am no child-thief.’
Tangwen could hear the exasperation in Britha’s voice. The northern woman was talking to Anharad among the wet trees. There was a small girl with the older woman, one of the few survivors from the wicker man who had made it this far. The child had never uttered a word that Tangwen had heard. She and Anharad had taken it in turns looking after the girl before they met up with Bladud’s forces.
Mabon was nearby, perched on a rock. His knife was in his hand and the boy looked like he was ready to pounce.
‘I could not care less if you were the bride of the sun and the moon himself – leave this girl in peace, or Bladud will know why,’ Anharad spat. Tangwen could tell that the older woman was frightened. The little girl was, too – she was shaking like a leaf and staring at Britha wide-eyed, but to her credit she did not cry.
‘Do you think your Witch King frightens me, woman?’ Britha demanded.
‘What do you want of the child?’ Tangwen said, stepping forwards. Both Anharad and Mabon jumped. Britha did not. Instead she turned to Tangwen. She opened her mouth to say something, then appeared to think better of it, and her expression softened.
‘She is of the Cirig,’ Britha told her.
‘Your people?’ Tangwen asked.
‘She may be the last one,’ Britha said.
‘So she says,’ Anharad spat.
‘I will cut out your tongue if you name me a liar once more,’ Britha declared.
‘I’ll call you—’
‘Anharad!’ Tangwen said, desperate to get the other woman’s attention before she said something Britha would have to act on. ‘Please, peace. We are about to walk into the Underworld and all is shouting.’ Anharad subsided into an angry silence. Tangwen looked at the child. ‘She is strong, she does not cry and she lives, despite all. Isn’t that right?’ The girl still clung to Anharad’s leg, but she was staring at Tangwen now. ‘Do you remember me?’ Tangwen asked. Slowly the girl nodded.
Tangwen pointed to Britha. ‘Do you remember this woman?’ she asked. ‘You do not have to be afraid of her. She cannot hurt you here.’ The girl looked up at Britha, her eyes wide. Tangwen saw the look of recognition in her eyes before she nodded. ‘Do you remember her from your own lands, before you were taken?’ Tangwen asked.
‘Tangwen!’ Anharad hissed, but the little girl nodded.
‘What is her name?’ Tangwen asked Britha.
‘I …’ Britha started and then made choking noises. Tangwen was surprised to see tears rolling down the northern woman’s face. ‘I can’t remember.’
Anharad was staring at Britha with an expression of surprise on her face. Tangwen got her attention and nodded. Anharad scooped the child up and headed back to camp. Mabon leaped off his rock and followed.
Tangwen stopped Anharad as she passed. ‘Would you speak with this woman again?’ Tangwen asked the child. The little girl nodded.
When Anharad, Mabon and the child had gone, Britha broke down sobbing and sat hard on the wet earth. Tangwen stared. She could see Britha following a path to power, even betraying them for that, but she did not know this sobbing woman.
Tangwen knelt down next to her and put her hand on Britha’s shoulder. The other woman looked up at the hunter.
‘What?’ Tangwen asked.
‘I’ve failed that girl so much …’ The sobbing intensified, wracking her body. It looked like something she had been holding in for a while ‘There was a child …’ Britha managed. Tangwen held her tightly.
40
Birmingham, 2 Weeks Ago
Silas awoke face down in the mud, frightened. He had no idea what had happened. He had no idea why he was lying on the path next to the canal. The last thing he could remember was climbing out of the water.
This wasn’t supposed to happen to him. He was as a god among these people. Nothing should be able to hurt or even inconvenience him. Nothing should be able to toy with him like this. Make him feel how he made others feel.
Had he been compromised? It didn’t make sense. If he had, why hadn’t he been killed and captured, why had he just been left there? He should move, flee, go somewhere else, even another city, but he was so close. There was too much to lose if he stopped now.
Grace was crouching down, hugging her knees, in the corner of the derelict warehouse. She wiped away tears and snot with the back of her hand as she watched the blackened piece of meat that was du Bois try to regenerate in the back of the Range Rover.
Grace had managed to free the Range Rover and load du Bois into the back of it. She hooked him up to emergency matter/energy packs, which looked like IVs but contained matter that could be converted to regenerate damaged flesh, and concentrated calories to help power the conversion. They were the last hope for Circle operatives if they were very badly damaged. Taking a point-blank blast from a claymore might have been too much, however.
Grace flinched as du Bois started to cry out in agony. Then a grin split her face. She stood up and walked towards him, pulling the cap off a syringe with enough morphine in it to stun an elephant.
‘You were right about the grand gestures,’ Grace said. She sounded subdued. Du Bois had put on replacement clothes that he kept in an overnight case in the back of the Range Rover. He had been badly hurt before, close to death, but he was very surprised to have survived this time. The technology in his body was suppressing biochemistry and psychology, which, quite reasonably, wanted him to go into shock. He was still shaking. He was sitting on the open tailgate of the Range Rover with a tartan car blanket wrapped around him, as if that would make everything okay. He was clutching a mug of strong, sweet tea.
‘I couldn’t quite work out why he did what he did in Demesne House,’ du Bois said. ‘I think you’re right. He is like a rudimentary Hawksmoor. He was trying to brutalise the city, he wants it afraid so he can harvest that fear somehow.’
‘Or he thinks he can,’ Grace said. Du Bois nodded and took another sip of his tea. With shaking hands he put a cigarette into his mouth. Grace had to light it for him.
‘He might be able to move around the city unseen, but a van can’t materialise out of thin air.’
With a thought, Grace sent the information she had gathered to du Bois. He accepted it without using the phone as a buffer this time.
Grace had sifted through all the CCTV camera footage she could gain access to. The white Mercedes Sprinter van’s first appearance was in Heath Mill
Lane, in Digbeth, just south-east of the city centre. When du Bois stopped shaking, they took the slightly battered Range Rover there.
Heath Mill Lane was the location of Robert Jaggard’s exhibition. Du Bois found himself standing on the road bridge over the Grand Union Canal again. It was a grey day, overcast sky but no rain, and neither particularly warm nor cold. It was a nondescript day. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that the canals were involved somehow. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was Silas’s age, the era he was born into. Du Bois remembered the changes, technological and social, and how uncomfortable he had been with them. The canals were such a part of that time, feeding the industry that had transformed this and other cities. Du Bois glanced up at the much higher red-brick bridge next to the road bridge. A train thundered by overhead, heading into New Street Station. The canals had been so quickly superseded by the railways. Grace’s era.
Du Bois also knew that this area was close to where Silas was caught on CCTV leaping from the train after he’d killed Jaggard. As far as du Bois could tell, that was one of the few mistakes Silas had made.
He felt his phone vibrate in the pocket of his leather coat. He closed his eyes, an unnecessary affectation, and accessed the text. It was an address on Heath Mill Lane sent by Grace. Du Bois turned to look towards the Digbeth Road.
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