The Sword of Feimhin (40 page)

‘Elaru – are you too submissive to speak?'

‘Words are no comfort to me here.'

Elaru's voice ended with a shriek. Kate had to presume that Urale was still capable of silencing her, but it was too late, her words had suggested an idea.

The roots of the Tree of Life were now free of their parasitic infestation. Even Nidhoggr had abandoned its feeding off them. The One Tree in the Momu's chamber was an offshoot of the Tree of Life. It must also be regaining its vitality and strength back within the chamber.

What had the Momu said? Could Kate, in the midst of such violence and panic, recall her precise words?
‘The One Tree is dying … I, the first child of Ulla Quemar … am dying with her.'
But the One Tree was no longer dying. It must be budding – as if caught up in some extraordinary new spring.
Coming alive back there in the chamber … The roots … The branches …

‘Nidhoggr! I release you!'

Kate hardly dared to hope there would be an answer.

‘I do not seek to influence you. I relinquish what claim I might have in your liberation. You are free to render this cathedral of pain to the chaos that is your nature.'

Kate's heart quailed. Nidhoggr could only have sensed the Tyrant.

‘Then you, Nidhoggr, must decide if you will help me or not.'

Kate kept her focus resolutely fixed on the translucent spirit of the Momu. She willed that spirit to her. She continued to demand the subsumation even as the hovering spirit paled amid the chaos of the disintegrating cathedral, and the dreadful landscape faded along with the kneeling keepers.

Elaru screamed,

The world around Kate was disintegrating, but she persisted.
If I could subsume the soul spirit of a minor god against his or her will, I can surely subsume the soul spirit of a dying friend
. She screamed the command, feeling it rise out of her heart and mind and explode into the chaos about her, a shockwave expanding into the disintegrating Cathedral of Death.

Mark woke to find Nan curled up beside him facing the gable wall of the barn, fully awake. She looked forlorn with her lovely hair cropped close to her skull. The dawn sunlight was streaming in through gaps in the plank wall, dividing the air into golden shafts and streams. All around them people were stirring, children chattering, babies crying.

He moved to prop himself on one elbow so he could kiss her. ‘How are you feeling?'

‘Alive,' she whispered back.

Then she sat up, looking at him with concern, brushing the cuts and scrapes that covered his brow with her fingertips. ‘Where are we?'

‘I think it's a barn in the grounds of an ancient manor house.' Then he realised that she would have no idea what a manor house was. ‘A very old farm with lots of outbuildings.'

The cluster of buildings they had seen on their arrival had looked like a warren in the dark. But Mark had glimpsed the house in the headlights of their bikes as they had followed the Mamma Pig. It was a ruin, its decaying red brick inset with limestone window surrounds, mullions and leaded glass. This morning that tranquil scene had turned to bedlam. It was as if they found themselves in a medieval village caught up in the War of the Roses.

His nostrils were swamped by the odours of closeted human existence. She stretched and yawned, the T-shirt she had slept in rucked and wrinkled over her ribs. She pulled on a pullover so she could lean back against one of the huge oak uprights; a whole tree trunk at least two and a half feet square.

‘What manner of place is this?'

‘A refuge, from the looks of it. I know we crossed the Thames in the dark. We're somewhere south of London.'

Mark was surprised to find so many people hiding in the building. It looked like there were 200 or more in the barn alone – and there were even more, lots more, being catered for in a ramshackle collection of other farm buildings. His tired eyes roamed over the forest of beams, arches and trusses that supported the naked roof high overhead.

Nan's face looked so grimy he couldn't help grinning at her. ‘We'd better make a start – find the others?'

She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Hah!'

They stepped out through the plank doors into a world of confusion and desolation. People stared at them out of
unwashed faces, still pouchy with sleep. Children ran in and out of a variety of tents and ramshackle caravans. The air was filled with the smells of coffee, barbecued sausages, beans and the paraffin and Calor Gas used for cooking their breakfasts.

‘My senses … they still feel enhanced,' he said.

‘I think we haven't fully unwound from the battle and escape.'

‘We need to check out how Sharkey is doing.'

Sharkey had been shot in the neck last night during the dogfight with the paramilitaries. They had transferred him to the Pig, where Tajh had seen to his wound before setting out. Luckily, the bullet hadn't hit anything major. Mark had taken Sharkey's bike so he and Nan could cover the Pig's rear, while Bull rode point. Cal, Bull and Tajh had taken Sharkey to an emergency station within the main house as soon as they'd arrived. Mark and Nan were heading there when Nan spotted Jo Derby stepping out of a Landrover. She looked absorbed in her own thoughts, carrying a briefcase. They called to her and she hurried to join them.

‘My goodness – I didn't expect to find you here,' she said in a low voice. ‘But now I have, we need to talk. I assume the others are here?'

‘Yeah – we're all here. But where are you living now, Jo?'

‘Moving around. Safe houses – if anywhere is safe these days.'

They headed for the manor house, which loomed four storeys high. Mark saw how dilapidated it was. Loose tiles
were sliding down the roof and some of the diamond panes in the windows were cracked or missing. They stepped through a strap-hinged heavy oak door into a reception hall covered with a chequered pattern of black-and-white tiles. The interior smelled musty. Heavy drapes hung around the windows and ornate plastered ceilings and faded tapestries decorated the walls. An elderly lady rushed forward to catch hold of Jo's free left hand. A small Pekinese dog yapped at her ankles as she spoke in an amiable, upper crust voice. ‘My dear – thank goodness you're here.'

Jo stared back at her, nonplussed.

The old lady wore a floppy purple hat, a green T-shirt under a tartan dress and a damp-looking anorak. ‘Fay Breakespeare,' she said. ‘I was an actress in another life. My late husband Bertie inherited the manor and farm. We're trying to organise some schooling for the unfortunate children. You must be the teacher?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

She turned to take Nan's hand. ‘Then it must be you.'

‘It's not Nan.' Mark smiled. ‘But it's great that you're setting up a sort of school. I'm Mark. We're looking for a friend – a fighter who was brought in injured in the early hours. You have some kind of field hospital here?'

‘Oh, dear.' The hand was withdrawn. ‘You'll find what you're looking for in the drawing room, second on the left.'

‘Thank you.'

But she was no longer interested in them. She was already heading for the front door.

The drawing room was cluttered with sick and injured, spread out among half a dozen narrow cots and assorted chairs. They found Sharkey sitting up in one of the cots, close by a big square window. His left shoulder and part of his neck was buried in a thickly wadded dressing. A drip, with an attached bag of saline, was running into his right hand. Tajh and Cal were squeezed into the narrow space to either side of him. Bull and Cogwheel were nearby, chatting to a man they appeared to know, whose splinted leg was dangling on the end of a hoist.

‘How are you, Sharkey?'

He grinned. ‘Doc tells me the bullet went clean through my trapezius muscle. More painful than life threatening.'

Nan smiled. ‘I think, perhaps, you are not an easy man to kill.'

‘Not while I got my little guardian here.' Sharkey patted Big Ted, who was sharing the cot with him.

Jo looked around the crew. ‘Isn't anybody going to tell me what happened?'

Tajh explained the attack on the camp.

‘You're sure it was an air force chopper?'

Sharkey lifted his eyebrows. ‘Tell her, Cal.'

‘Those other guys – the ones in the truck who were waiting to mop us up – there was regular army among them too.'

Jo stared at him. ‘You're absolutely sure?'

‘I know army when I see them.'

‘Then they really are working together.'

‘Who are?' Mark asked.

Jo shook her head. ‘I'm sure it won't be the whole army. I think it's going to be certain elements.'

‘What elements?'

‘We need to have a proper talk.'

The only empty room they could find was a disused kitchen with an ancient-looking Aga stove. The place was damp and freezing cold, but there was a convenient table and half a dozen chairs. Jo dumped her briefcase on the table.

Cal and Tajh sat on either side of Jo, cigarettes already alight. Mark sat opposite, with Nan hugging his left arm. Cogwheel pulled up his wheelchair at the end of the table next to Nan, while Bull filled the space on the other end. Jo looked from Mark to Cal. ‘You two settled your differences?'

Cal shrugged. ‘He takes some getting used to.'

‘Anybody who can take out an Ugly with a battleaxe is good with me,' said Bull.

Mark glanced at Nan, who nodded back. ‘Nan and I, we need to know more about the organisation behind he crews. We think you know something, Jo. If so, can you give us some idea?'

Jo stared back at him, thoughtful. ‘I know a little, but I'm not allowed to talk about it, certainly not here and now.'

‘Okay.' Tajh slapped the flat of her hand on the table as if in support of Jo's reticence. ‘So, let's hear your news.'

Jo sighed. ‘It isn't just London any more,
all
the big towns and cities are in chaos. But look here …'

She pulled a flat screen out of her briefcase. She switched it on then passed it around the crew. They stared at a recorded newscast. Whole city districts were on fire. Paramilitaries were seen shooting at rioters in smoke-obscured streets.

Tajh said, ‘I don't recognise the setting.'

‘Just wait.'

The scenes were clearly being filmed from a news chopper. Then, for a moment, there was a break in the smoke.

‘It's not London.'

‘No. It's Times Square – New York.'

Mark stared at the blazing street scenes, dumbfounded. ‘Bloody hell!'

‘It would appear that New York City has its own Razzamatazzers. It's still small scale, compared to London, but that's pretty much how it started here.'

Tajh shook her head. ‘It's insane – how could chaos be catching?'

Jo shrugged. ‘I wish I knew.'

Mark looked at Jo. ‘We know there's a horrible, implacable logic behind it and we know Grimstone is at the heart of it.'

‘But Grimstone is here in London.'

‘Yeah, but he has disciples everywhere.'

Jo pressed on: ‘The latest news is that the government
here, if you can call it a government any more, has declared a national emergency. Parliament has been suspended. We're now under martial law. They've set up an emergency body that will run the country until such a time as the emergency is contained. They call it the New Order.'

‘And Grimstone?'

‘He's an ad-hoc member of the New Order.'

‘More like ad-hoc leader,' Mark muttered.

‘The paramilitaries?' Tajh asked Jo.

‘They'll become an integral part of the emergency response to control the civil unrest.'

‘Along with the armed forces – the army?'

‘Yes, but it's a qualified yes.'

‘And who will be in charge of emergency response?' Cal asked.

‘A single senior army officer will take immediate control of the reorganisation and deployment.'

‘Don't tell me …' Mark was thinking back to the big meeting at Wembley Stadium and the crescents of white-robed disciples with hooded faces gathered around Grimstone on his podium.

‘Yes – Field Marshall Seebox.'

‘Who will answer, personally, to Grimstone?'

Mark pressed Jo. ‘You said, in relation to the army, it was a qualified yes. What did you mean by that?'

‘There's something else, something of specific interest to Mark and Nan. Can I have a few minutes with you both in private?'

They left the hall and wandered among the crowds of refugees. The morning air was bitterly cold, with a promise of snow.

Mark asked Jo: ‘What did you mean by qualified in relation to the army?'

‘I was hinting at an answer to your earlier question – about who is regulating the crews.'

‘And?'

‘Sections of the armed forces have broken away from Seebox's control. They're setting up a secret regional headquarters in the north.'

‘Where in the north?'

‘I can't tell you more right now. It's all somewhat on the hoof.'

The whole of society seemed somewhat on the hoof right now. Mark and Nan looked with interest at a nearby cluster of Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims talking animatedly with a clergyman in a purple shirt: a bishop.

Jo read their minds. ‘The various religions are getting together. It's hardly surprising, since they're facing a common threat.'

‘What threat?'

‘A moral one from their perspective. An arena is being erected close to the Guildhall Art Gallery.'

‘You mean, like a Roman arena?'

She nodded.

‘I don't understand,' Mark said. ‘I can't see what an arena would have to do with Grimstone or these religions.'

‘You might not, but I do,' said Nan.

‘What is it?'

‘On Tír, the Tyrant's legions celebrate with the shedding of blood through sacrifices. These sacrifices are often made in arenas where men fight men. There is a very large arena in his capital city, Ghork Mega.'

Jo nodded. ‘The Guildhall Art Gallery – or at least parts of it – were built over what was, once upon a time, London's original Roman arena.'

‘It still feels bizarre and somewhat contrived,' Mark said. ‘Unlike the Grimstone I know. So what's the big event?'

‘A celebration – or maybe some kind of tribute.'

‘A celebration or tribute to what?'

‘I don't know.' Jo paused to think. ‘In Roman times, it might have been victory in war, or just the emperor's birthday or name day.'

‘But you think this might be linked to Padraig?'

‘Word is that Grimstone will make an example of a false prophet – a former enemy, now vanquished.'

Mark stared at Jo, shaking his head. ‘It all sounds a little too pat. Grimstone is up to something.'

‘You mean, like the trap he laid for you at the Wembley meeting?' Nan said.

Mark was recalling something Grimstone had said to him, when they had met under the tunnel at Wembley. He saw that hated face laughing. He heard his boast:
‘I could deal with you now – effortlessly, but that would be too easy. It's not a fitting punishment for your disloyalty.'

‘There's something I do wonder about,' said Jo. ‘The Roman circuses were dedicated to gods. The sacrifices were made to those gods.'

Mark snorted.

‘What?'

Nan answered for him. ‘The Tyrant is Grimstone's god.'

Jo closed her eyes. ‘Then maybe it's beginning to make some kind of sense?'

Mark recalled how Grimstone used to talk about Padraig when they had visited Clonmel. He hated Padraig's veneration of the Trídédana – the trinity of goddesses that were the Tyrant's enemy on Tír. ‘Grimstone is spreading the rumours. He wants me to hear about it. He's going to sacrifice Padraig. Just to draw me in.'