Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2) (45 page)

Tom’s face remained as emotionless as ever, but Church recognised a faint hardening. “The point I was making,” he continued, turning to the others, “is that power seems to come with the extent of time they have existed, and some of the Tuatha De Danann are much more powerful and alien than us. Although they say they have all existed since the dawn of time, it would appear that some are much older than the others. Dagda, the Allfather, was there at the beginning, and he has no connection to us at all. These two, I believe, came later.”

“Then perhaps there is an evolution, even among the gods,” Shavi mused.

Church was struck with a moment of clarity. “And perhaps one day we will evolve to be like the Danann.”

Cormorel laughed faintly, patronisingly. “And perhaps the arc of sky will rain diamonds.”

“It is unwise to be so arrogant, Cormorel,” Baccharus said. “Though it is easy to accept our place in the universe, we of all races should know there is a cycle to everything. Powers rise and fall, influences ebb and flow. And the Fragile Creatures have shown their resilience in the face of the uncaring hand of existence. You see these here, you know the power they represent.”

Cormorel shrugged dismissively. “You are a dreamer, Baccharus.”

In the brief lull that followed, Church saw his opportunity. “How are you dealing with the Fomorii?”

Cormorel took the whisky and sipped it, smacking his lips. “They leave us alone. We do not bother them,” he said as he passed the bottle on.

“They won’t leave you alone for long. They were trying to bring Balor back. Now we’ve stopped them they’ll just turn to something else. And you could be the target next time.”

“Oh, most certainly. And when they dare raise their hands against us, we shall strike them down.”

Church couldn’t believe Cormorel’s arrogance. “Surely it would be better to attack first, before they can-“

“There are too many things to do, too many places to visit here in this world that has been denied us. We need to be making merry, drinking this fine …” He held up the can, then shook his head when he couldn’t summon a word to describe it.

“They beat you once before. When they first emerged into this world.”

Cormorel’s gaze lay on Church coldly. “We did not fully realise the extent of their treachery. Now we are prepared.” He sighed, his annoyance dissipating quickly. “However much I meet people, I find it hard to understand your inner workings. You have so little time and indulge in so little enjoyment. But you are entertaining, for all your foibles. We will continue to try to understand you.”

“Have you heard what the Fomorii are doing now?” Shavi asked.

Cormorel smiled and shook his head. “They may burrow into the deep, dark earth and wrap themselves in shadows until the stars fall, for all I am concerned. The Night Walkers are a poisonous brood, given to plotting and hating, but they are wise and would not seek to challenge us unnecessarily. We can afford to leave them alone.” He peered at Church, his brow furrowed. “Strangely, I see you have the taint of the Fomorii about you.”

Church explained how the Fomorii had infected him with the Kiss of Frost and how, although the Roisin Dubh had been destroyed, some of its dark power still lay within him.

Cormorel shook his head sadly. “Very unwise, Brother of Dragons. You will not find any of the Golden Ones aiding you until you have expunged that taint.” He wrinkled his nose as if there were a bad smell.

“And how do I do that?” Church asked.

Cormorel shrugged. “Perhaps if you travelled to the Western Isles, immersed yourself in the Pool of Wishes …” His voice trailed off; the question was obviously of no interest to him. “Now,” he said animatedly, “have we more drink? This is a celebration, not a conference!”

They drank deep into the night, with Cormorel and Baccharus taking it in turns to entertain with wild songs and great stories which carried with them the vast movement of the depths of the ocean or the shifting of tectonic plates. Church and the others were entranced with stories of the four lost cities of wonders, of the many, deep, mysterious mythologies which the Tuatha De Danann kept close to their heart, of puzzles and tricks, great battles and terrible failures, of passion and love, cruelty and hatred. The Tuatha De Danann, for all their alienness, were a race of powerful emotions and Church and the others could not help but be awed by the things they heard. Even Veitch gave in to a broad grin during one song, while Laura had to hide the tears that came to her eyes during another particularly sad lay. Only Tom remained impassive throughout.

And when the birdsong rose in earnest and the shadows receded at the first lick of dawn, Cormorel and Baccharus stood up and bowed, thanking the others profusely and politely for their hospitality.

“The next time you are in the Far Lands we will return the favour,” Cormorel said.

“I fear not,” Tom interjected.

Cormorel eyed him cunningly and nodded, but said nothing. And then the two of them turned and set off through the woods, their melodious singing eventually fading into the sounds of nature awakening.

“They were very charming,” Ruth said. “The stories they told were wonderful. You could yearn for everything they’ve experienced, the sights they’ve seen. Otherworld could be such a magical place to live.”

Tom turned his back on them and headed towards the tents. “Yes, and that is the greatest danger of all.”

(heir dreams were filled with spires of silver and gold, of giants who cupped spinning suns in their palms, of wonders so bright and startling they could not bring them back to the world of waking. When they did finally emerge from their tents, dry-mouthed and thick-headed, the day seemed more vital than even the blazing sun and clear blue sky promised. They bathed in the cool, rushing river, ate a lazy lunch of beans on toast and drank tea while gently reminding each other of the stories they had been told, like old friends remembering favoured times.

By 1 p.m., Veitch was starting to get anxious. He scanned the trees continuously, and while the others laughingly told him to unwind, he refused to rest. “We’ve been here too long,” he said, packing his bag. Using belts and rope and a few other items they’d picked up in town the previous day, he made a makeshift harness to hold his sword and crossbow. His jacket hung over it awkwardly-he looked like a hunchback, Laura gibed from afar-but he could reach the weapons easily.

Eventually he’d dampened the mood enough that everyone reluctantly packed up and returned to the van. “I liked it here,” Ruth said with irritation. “There was some peace and quiet for a change. And lots of nature.”

“There’ll be other places.” Veitch spoke without looking at her directly, but he’d been watching her all day, surreptitiously. Her health seemed to have improved immeasurably, thanks to Tom’s potions. She’d still vomited among the trees on emerging from the tent, but she was sure that was the alcohol she’d downed. He felt good to see her so well, especially knowing he’d contributed to it. He still wished she’d look at him sometimes, talk to him in the close, confiding way she’d done when they first emerged from the castle. But there was time. And he actually felt like there was hope.

They picked up the A68 heading south. Traffic normally streamed along the route, but vehicles were sparse; fewer and fewer people seemed to be travelling any great distance from their homes. The landscape was green and rolling, with a fresh breeze blowing in from the coast. Yet despite the wind, Tyneside was obscured by unnaturally dark clouds which looked suspiciously like smoke.

Veitch had studied the maps intently before they set off, weighing strategies, discarding options. He eventually decided they should head to the Peak District, where they could find enough of a wilderness to lose themselves but would be close enough to several major conurbations if they needed the security of people.

With Shavi driving they sped past Consett, which was still reeling from the terrible deprivations of the eighties, and through the open countryside west of Durham. As they passed the branch road to Bishop Auckland the traffic began to back up.

“Probably an accident,” Church mumbled, leaning forward in his seat so he could peer over the roofs of the cars ahead. A few hundred yards away a blue light flashed relentlessly. The van crept forward a few feet. Shavi wound down the window; exhaust fumes and the stink of petrol wafted in. Above the sound of idling engines, voices carried. “Is it an accident?” Church asked.

Shavi strained to hear, then shook his head. “I cannot make out what they are saying.”

The van moved forward again, jerked to a halt as Shavi pulled on the handbrake. Church could see blue uniforms moving around; a few standing in a huddle. There didn’t seem any sense of urgency.

“No ambulances. No fire engine.” He wound down his window and hung right out for a moment. “Can’t see any wreckage,” he called back.

Eventually the van had crept forward enough for him to get a clear view. He slammed into his seat, his face concerned. “It’s a police roadblock.”

“They’re not going to be doing a traffic census with the country falling apart around them.” Ruth leaned over from the back to see. They were only a few cars away from the checkpoint now.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” Church glanced in the side mirror. There was a solid queue of cars behind them.

“Why should it be anything to do with us?” Laura said. “No one even knows we’re coming this way.”

“For all we know, there could be blocks on every road south.” Church turned to Shavi. “When they wave the next car through, don’t pull up any further. We’ll play it by ear.”

Everyone’s attention was focused on two policemen with clipboards who were peering into the cars to check the passengers. Church watched them for a moment; a skittering at the back of his head told him his subconscious had glimpsed something else more important. Slowly he surveyed the scene. At first he saw nothing, but a second sweep picked out a subtle detail that sent ice water running down his spine.

Three policemen stood in a tight group away from the others, watching the proceedings carefully. There seemed nothing untoward about them at first glance until one became aware of the odd way the bright sunlight was striking their skin. It created an odd sheen on the flesh that made it appear like a wax mask.

“Fomorii!” Church hissed. Without drawing attention to himself he carefully indicated the bogus police. “They’ve arranged this for us, like the trap they set at Heston services. They’re using the report from the Callander cop as a pretence to pull us over.”

One of the policemen with the clipboards was marching towards them, irritated that they hadn’t pulled the van forward. He started to gesticulate angrily, then paused as his gaze flickered across the faces framed in the windscreen. He glanced down briefly at his clipboard, then spoke hurriedly in the radio pinned to his breast pocket.

“Shit,” Church muttered.

Shavi didn’t wait for instructions. He pounded his foot on the accelerator and thrust the van into gear. There was a screech of tires and the stink of burning rubber as he threw the wheel to one side. The van squealed out of its starting position and hurtled forward. Church braced himself on the dashboard, but everyone in the back was thrown across the floor amidst yells and curses.

Bollards went flying in all directions as the van rattled from side to side. Church had a glimpse of the fake policemen’s curiously dispassionate faces as the van whirled by. Voices rose up above the whine of the engine.

“Don’t hang about, Shav. Put your foot down,” Laura called out sourly from a heap somewhere in the back.

They sped down the road at ninety, but the sirens which had risen up in the background were growing louder.

“We’re not going to outrun them,” Veitch said, glancing over his shoulder.

“I know.” Shavi took one look in his side mirror, then threw the van across the opposite lane in the path of a lorry. Its horn blared. Church and Veitch both swore as they instinctively threw their heads down.

The van missed the lorry by a few inches, bounced over a curb and careened down a B road leading into the heart of the fells. Shavi gunned the engine along the deserted road and didn’t let up until they had put a few miles between them and the main road. A village called Eggleston flashed by and the road branched in several directions. Shavi chose the southern route; the police would have to be lucky to follow them immediately. By then the others had just about recovered from the chase.

“You mad fucking bastard!” Veitch looked angry, but there was a note of respect in his voice.

The others in the back were fine, if bruised, but they were all aware their predicament had taken a turn for the worst.

“We’re going to have to abandon the van,” Veitch said. “After that stunt they’re going to be looking out for it on every road.”

Laura peered through the rear windows at the landscape, a windswept smudge of greens and browns, patches of firs, areas of dark scrub beyond the fields that lined the road, leading up to the high country in the north. “Great. We’re back in Deliverance country. Where are we going to find another van round here?”