Always Forever (31 page)

She peered at the thin gap of dark sky above the blockade. "I have a couple
of ideas."

Church gave the back of her neck a squeeze before heading over to Niamh
and Baccharus, who had been waiting patiently. "I hate to ask this," he said,
"but I need a volunteer to draw that thing's attention. There's not much chance
of getting off alive. One of the guards-"

"I shall do it," Baccharus said confidently.

"No!" Niamh's face crumpled with worry. "There is no need-"

"There is every need. How could I ask another being to take such a risk if I
would not do it myself?"

"Your abilities are needed. You have responsibilities." Niamh's voice rose a
notch.

Baccharus took her hand with surprising tenderness, the mark of deep
friends. "I have to shed my burden."

Niamh nodded reluctantly. Baccharus turned back to Church. "What do
you request?"

"We need to move most of the blockade from the far end. When the PlagueBringer moves up the other end, we kick over the last of it, and you make a
break for the tree line." He paused. "How close does it have to be to infect you?"

Baccharus gave a faint smile, said nothing.

Church spent the next half hour fashioning a spear with a length of wood and
one of the guards' swords. It was a paltry weapon compared to what roamed
beyond the walls, but there was nothing else to hand that he could use. He
longed for the mystical sword he had rescued from its hiding place underneath
Tintagel; he had responded to whatever power it held, understood how it had
been responsible for the coded legends of Excalibur. He had never seen himself
as much of a fighter, but with that sword he had felt capable of anything.

Ruth spent the time meditating quietly in one corner. Church watched her
serious face as the arcane knowledge gradually emerged from its secret chambers. Some of it brought a smile of surprise to her lips, others left her brow furrowed in concern.

When they were nearly ready, he knelt next to her, caressing the back of her
neck. "Are you fit?" he asked softly.

She flashed him an unsure smile. "As fit as I ever will be. The way this thing seems to work is that I have to act on instinct as much as possible. That means
I can't plan. And if the instinct fails, I have no idea what I'm going to do."

"You could always run."

"That doesn't help Baccharus. Or you." Her smiled faded. "I'm not going to
let you down."

"I never for a minute thought you would." He leaned over and gave her a
gentle kiss.

"We can't afford to lose this, you know," she whispered.

There was nothing he could say to that.

As he stood up, he realised Niamh was watching them from the other side
of the room, her face impossible to read. She turned away when she saw him
looking at her.

By the time they were ready, the Nuckelavee was rattling the blockade so hard
it was rocking wildly, nearly toppling over. Church marshalled the guards, who
obeyed him reluctantly, their eyes flickering in the direction of Niamh and Baccharus. When the beast reached one end of the row, Church dropped his hand
and the guards hastily dismantled the barricade at the other end where Baccharus waited.

There was a moment of intense tension and then Church gave the nod; Baccharus silently slipped out into the hot night. The response was instantaneous.
The cry rose up several notches, followed by the thunder of sturdy arms hitting
the ground and the obscene slithering as it dragged its body behind it. The
speed of the movement shocked them all. Church wondered briefly if his plan
was already doomed; at the rate it was moving, it would reach Baccharus and be
back on them before anyone reached the tree line.

Once the Nuckelavee was far enough away, Church gave the signal and the
guards demolished the barricade at the other end of the room. They were hurrying out into the moist dark before the last item of furniture was rolling away.
Ruth blanched when she laid eyes on the Nuckelavee for the first time-there
was something sickening about it beyond mere appearance-but then she
caught herself and set off in pursuit with Church beside her while the guards
hurried Niamh towards the trees.

"Why us, eh?" Ruth said with a tight smile.

"Cannon fodder. We know our place in life." Church shouldered the spear,
ready to throw.

Baccharus moved across the lawns like a shimmer of light cast by numerous
mirrors, his form growing hard to perceive, but he was not fast enough for the
Nuckelavee, which had surprising speed for its bulk and awkwardness. Church could see every bunch of its muscles, every pulse of its blood with each minor
exertion.

At the tree line, Baccharus came to a halt. Church had given him strict instructions not to take the creature into the jungle, where it would be hard for them to
attack it in the dense undergrowth, but it was bearing down on him so quickly it
was impossible for him to run in any other direction. He sensed this, for he brought
himself round to face the Nuckelavee and drew himself up ready to meet his fate.
There was something so noble about the way he stood-head slightly bowed,
accepting the worst kind of death; even worse for the Tuatha De Danann, who
thought they would never die-Church felt compelled to succeed. He hurled the
makeshift spear as hard as he could, even though his plan had optimistically called
for it to be used for the deathblow once Ruth had made her attack.

In the split second before Church launched the spear, the Nuckelavee drew
itself up and threw its grotesque head back, before making a silent belching
motion. A barely visible exhalation rushed from the creature's mouth. It had
little substance-Church could see the jungle and dappling stars through itbut Baccharus's face darkened as it raced towards him, and at the last moment he
threw himself to one side. The cloud continued into the trees, where there was a
sudden crash as an ape-like beast fell from the branches in violent death throes.

The sword spear embedded in the Nuckelavee at the base of its skull; a
fountain of dark-red blood gushed out. The creature went into paroxysms, the
baby cry turning into a shriek of agony. Near to it, it smelled like an old rubber
boot that had been left in the rain.

The size, speed and hideous appearance of the beast were hypnotic. Church
found himself rooted as it curled around on its slug-like body to examine him,
the spear waving on its back with every violent tremor that ran through the
torso. He took a step back and then became rooted once more when he looked
into the Nuckelavee's pink-rimmed black eyes; what he saw there was cruel and
alien, but undoubtedly intelligent.

"Church! Back offl" Ruth yelled.

He heard her words, but all he could do was consider the Nuckelavee's
swirling gaze; it drowned out all his senses until the only thing in his world was
the creature. Deep in his head came a skittering, like cockroach feet on the surface of his brain: the Nuckelavee's thoughts, reaching out to his own. The part
of him that held the Fomorii taint understood, and somehow that was worse than
anything.

Ruth saw Church freeze in the grip of the Nuckelavee's mesmerising eyes. It
brought itself round, its mouth thrown wide to emit those stomach-churning
cries, the disproportionately powerful arms dragging the body in lumbering
jerks. It gave the illusion of slow, methodical progress, but Ruth had seen how
quickly it had pursued the now-forgotten Baccharus, and the lightning-fast
reactions when the spear had struck.

His life lay in her hands, and that was the fear that had gripped her from
the moment he outlined his plan. She would never reach him in time. Even if
she could knock him out of the way, they would be too close to the Nuckelavee
to evade it. She wouldn't be able to utilise her Craft quickly enough.

But she had to do it or she would never be able to live with herself. She had
to do it or nothing else would matter in her life ever again.

Seconds, that was all. Seconds.

She closed her eyes in an attempt to shut out all extraneous sensation: the cries
that sounded like a war zone orphanage, the stink that made her nostrils flare and
her throat close up, the wind in her hair, the sweat on her back, the nausea in her
gut, the thunder of her heart. She closed it down like she was pulling shutters in
her head. She was surprised how quickly it worked; accessing the Craft was predicated on need and at that point she needed it more than ever before. It came up
like whispers from a deep, dark well. And as the images and sounds that shaped
reality began to coalesce in her mind, she felt the power ignite.

And then she opened her eyes. Church was still rooted, the Nuckelavee
rising above him, opening its mouth, ready to release the infection. Her concentration fragmented as desperation intruded.

She fought to get her focus back, her eyes fixed on Church, knowing he was
about to die, knowing it was her fault, her stupid weakness, the shame and the
guilt making it even harder to reach that quiet part of her.

Just as the knowledge began to rise again, there was movement like a flash
of light on the periphery of her vision. It hit Church in a shimmer of gold and
an instant later he was gone, just as the Nuckelavee's corrupting breath washed
through the spot where he had been.

He reappeared several yards away, dragged by Niamh; and then was gone
again. It wasn't as if the goddess was running, more that she was dropping in
and out of reality, becoming, in the process, not human, something that was
almost composed of light. They finally settled into her perception across the
other side of the lawns, in safety. And then her shame was coloured by other,
darker feelings: self-loathing, jealousy, irritation, then anger.

The rush inside took her by surprise, petrol on the bonfire of her emotions,
more potent even than the exhilarating explosion of her abilities at the end of her tantric bout with Veitch. Fire filled her belly, her limbs, her head, until the
world without didn't exist at all, only flame, blue, blue flame, and the feeling
that she wanted to jump out of her skin and explode.

Shining across her mind with a blinding light were words her rational mind
found incomprehensible, but which she instinctively understood. They leapt to her
lips unbidden; she felt her mouth forming them as if it were someone else's. Her
will became a spear, plucking the words and launching them into the night sky.

And then, spent, the fire cleared and she was overcome with a calmness that
kept all sound from her ears. In the eerily silent scene, the Nuckelavee was rising
up over her, veins throbbing, muscles glistening, eyes glowing. And beyond it,
the stars were being eaten. Thick, black clouds rushed in from the north. Unnatural winds alive with rage tore through the trees. The Nuckelavee was buffeted
back and forth, but Ruth stood calm in the eye; untouched.

The gale drew strength, flexed. Baccharus had lashed himself around a tree,
the others were unseen. The Nuckelavee slid forwards against its volition, was
driven down on to its bony elbows. The mouth still opened and closed, emitting the baby cry that Ruth could no longer hear, too distracted to unleash its
infection. Now bowed before her, Ruth thought she glimpsed a cast to its eyes,
not of fear but of incomprehension. It was time.

More words in her mind, but this time they were surrounded by the coldness of deep space. She spoke, and whatever sound she made cut through the
heart of the gale, reached up directly to the clouds that swirled overhead. Briefly
they appeared to spin faster, a whirlpool of grey, until at the heart of them a hole
formed through which she could not see the night sky, could see nothing at all.
Lightning erupted from it, filled with a force beyond the control of nature. In
the time between seconds it scorched through the air to strike the Nuckelavee
squarely. There was a burst of brilliant light, a shockwave that split and folded
around Ruth before moving on to blast the nearest trees, a smell of charged air
that became the sickening stench of a butcher's shop on fire.

And when it cleared a moment later, there was only a circle of blackened
grass where chunks of flash-fried flesh smoked or were limned with dancing,
blue will o' the wisps.

Ruth was filled with an emptiness that made her feel weepy for something
vital that had been lost. But when that faded, there was at first regret, then fear,
and then horror at what she had done without even realising. For the first time
she had a glimmer of what she was capable, of dark paths that lay ahead if she
so chose, and she knew she must never let her anger get the better of her again.