Always Forever (72 page)

Veitch was matching them all for ferocity. His sword whisked around with
the efficiency and blurring speed of a machine, while he somehow managed to
manoeuvre his horse back and forth to attack and retreat, even in close quarters.
It was a staggering display of instinctive ability that left Ruth breathless. That
was why he had been chosen: he wasn't just good at the role that had been presented to him, he was the ultimate warrior.

The Spear was in her right hand-she didn't recall withdrawing it-and she
clutched the reins with her left. Numerous Night Walkers fell at the touch of
the weapon, but she was nowhere near as good as Veitch. In fact, she felt a liability. Her own abilities were useless in that kind of situation, while the sheer
senseless slaughter left her unable to think clearly.

Veitch appeared to sense this for he suddenly spurred his horse round to her
side. "Let's get out of this fucking hell-hole!"

With his sword cutting down any opposition he drove the horse in as direct
a line as he could to the open ground beyond the battlefield. Ruth was quick to
follow in his wake, bracing the Spear against her side to take down any opposition Veitch missed. By the time they had forced their way through the final
ranks, her ribs felt as if they had been beaten with metal bars.

Veitch continued until they had put a hundred yards or more between them
and the fighting, then he rounded to survey the scene. "Shit. Look at that." His
voice was barely more than a whisper.

From their new perspective the true horror and brutality of the fight could
be seen. The Fomorii and Tuatha De Danann never turned from a confrontation,
driving on from one fight to the next until they eventually dropped. The heath
was thick with the essence of both of them-hundreds had already been
slaughtered-but the Fomorii had a slight advantage in that they had no concern for their own preservation; one would sacrifice itself so another could gain
a better position in a fight. The shimmer of golden moths over the scene added
an incongruous touch of beauty to the horror, so that after a moment Ruth felt
she was watching a strange, detached cartoon, shifting in a syrupy slow motion
as golden snow fell languorously.

"Are they going to fight to the last man?" she said when she couldn't bear
to look any more.

"They're not men." Veitch was seized with a cold anger. "They've forgotten
the job. We're going to lose everything because they're locked up in their own
stupid, bleedin' rivalry."

Before Ruth could answer, their attention was caught by frantic movement in
the air down in the valley. Rising from the drifting smoke were black shapes that
looked like flies from their perspective. "Fomorii," Ruth said. "Flying ones."

It was never easy to get a fix on the fluid shapes of the Fomorii, but Ruth
was sure she could make out wings like a bat, but gleaming and rigid, as though
they were made of metal. As the creatures fell down towards the heath, their
insectile body plates shifted, folded out and slotted into place until they were
covered with a hideous ridged and pitted armour. Numerous horns rimmed the
skull while the eyes glowed a Satanic red from deep within Stygian orbits.

As Ruth and Veitch watched, a pair of the flying Night Walkers broke away
from the formation and targeted the two of them. "Come on!" Veitch turned his
horse in a bid to outrun them.

The flying Fomorii were like small jets, flattening their wings against their
backs to build more speed. As their shadow fell over Ruth, she threw herself to
one side. It was enough to avoid a killing blow from talons of black steel but she
still felt a ringing impact on the side of her head, knocking her from the horse.
She hit the ground hard, seeing stars, feeling a wetness seeping into her hair.

When she next looked up, the two creatures had zoned in on Veitch. They
hovered, avoiding his blows, then diving in between his sword thrusts with the
speed of hummingbirds. Even so, they'd only managed to land a couple of minor
blows on him; blood trickled from a cut on his temple, another on his cheek.

As Ruth pushed herself dazedly to her feet, she saw Witch feint and then
rip his sword along one of the creature's bellies. Thick, black liquid gushed out,
steaming in the cold air. It narrowly missed Veitch, splattering on the grass
where it sizzled like acid. But in the Fomor's dying spasm it had knocked
Witch's sword from his hand, and the other one was preparing to sweep in for
the kill.

Though her head felt like cotton wool, Ruth acted on instinct. She snatched
up the Spear from where it had fallen and hurled it with all her strength. As the
creature dived down, the Spear rammed through its skull, neck and out of its
belly. It dropped to the ground like a stone.

Veitch snapped round towards her. At first his face was unreadable, but then
a grin crept across it. "So you can be as big a nasty bastard as the rest of us."

After reclaiming the Spear and Ruth's horse, they only had a second or two to
consider their options before they realised a section of the Tuatha De Danann
force was rushing towards them. The flying Fomorii were wreaking havoc
amongst the outer reaches of the Golden Ones, but hadn't yet progressed to
those fighting in the thickest of the melee. It was obvious they had tilted the
balance firmly in the direction of the Fomorii.

Lugh and Nuada patently recognised this for they were in the forefront of
the retreat. The conch-like horn sounded insistently above the clash of battle and the bloodthirsty screeches of the Fomorii. The Tuatha De Danann
attempted to extricate themselves from the thick of the fighting. Many fell in
the course of the retreat.

Soon Ruth and Veitch's horses thundered across the heath. The airborne
creatures continued to harry those at the rear, but away from the battle there was
more room to use Goibhniu's weapons. Once a handful had plummeted from the
sky the other Fomorii hung back, waiting for the right opportunity. Dropping
back further, the Night Walker forces regrouped to drive the Tuatha De Danann
eastwards; once the gods hit the built-up areas, their retreat would fragment.

Ruth could see this was not lost on Nuada. His face was drained of the arrogance that had turned his earlier smiles into a sneer; a stony cast hid his concern.

Veitch knew it too, was probably aware of it before anyone else. "We can't
keep running!" he yelled above the pounding of a thousand hooves.

"Then what do you suggest?" Nuada snapped.

The thoughtful expression that crossed Veitch's face brought a smile to
Ruth's lips; she recognised it instantly. "There's one route that'll take all this lot,
horses and all, right into the heart of where we want to go," he said.

"Then why was it not proposed earlier?"

"Because it's probably bleedin' dangerous." Veitch turned to Ruth. "The tube."

Ruth was struggling to keep up, but Veitch's suggestion gave her added
impetus. "Of course! The whole city's got tunnels running under it everywhere!"

"Not just the train tunnels. There's other shit down there. Secret passages
for the Government and the army. Disused lines and everything."

Nuada reined in his mount; they had reached the eastern edge of the heath.
Within a couple of minutes, the rest of the Tuatha De Danann would be milling
around them, jammed into a bottleneck and ready for the slaughter.

"Make haste! There is little time!" Ruth thought she sensed a hint of respect
in Nuada's voice.

"Okay, here's the deal. If we all head to the nearest station the Bastards'll
follow us down and pick us off. But what they really want is you, Lugh and the
other top dogs. Me too, probably. We're going to draw some of them off, try to
lose them. Ruth's going to lead as many of your lot as she can to Archway station and then move up with some more to Highgate." He winced. "The rest are
going to have to fend for themselves."

"Agreed. They can honour themselves by holding off the Night Walkers
until we reach our destination." He made to go before turning back to Veitch.
"You are a true champion of your kind, Brother of Dragons." And then he was
away, passing on the plan to his lieutenants.

The flush of pride rose up in Veitch's cheeks and he tried to turn away before Ruth could see. She rode up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder so she could
pull him closer to whisper in his ear. "You're the hero, Ryan. Everybody knows it."

He looked deep into her face, unable to find any words that could express
his thoughts. Instead he pulled her closer to kiss her just once, on the cheek; it
was a kiss for old time's sake. And then he spurred his horse to round up the
men he needed.

Veitch, Lugh and Nuada led a band of about thirty eastwards through the
pleasant streets that bordered the heath. Within a couple of minutes they were
at the place Veitch had identified from his encyclopaedic strategic memory.
Highgate Cemetery brooded behind stone walls and chained iron gates, a maze
of paths amongst the crumbling Victorian monuments to the dead, festooned
with ivy, shadowed by clusters of dark, overhanging trees.

Lugh smashed down the main gate with one blow of his boot. They drove their
horses deep into the heart of the cemetery where they dismounted. Veitch knew he
had made the right choice: plenty of places to hide amongst the stones and mausoleums, the groves and hollows and mounds that gave no clear line of sight.

Yet he couldn't help a shudder when he looked round at the stones. It was
the Grey Lands all over again. Images of the dead beneath his feet rose unbidden
into his mind, and however much he tried he couldn't stifle the thought of them
listening and shifting, gradually clawing their way up to the light.

Before he made any further move, he climbed into the low, twisted branches
of an ancient yew. Through the thick greenery he could just make out the cemetery perimeter. He had been right there too: the Fomorii were milling around in
the streets beyond, confused. Their hive-mind was good for any obvious confrontation, but anything involving guile and difficult choices left them at odds. It
helped that he could not see any that stood out as leaders. No flapping crows, no
enormous, powerful warriors like the one that had pursued them from Edinburgh.

After a moment the main body of the force set off to track Ruth through
the trees, but they had hesitated long enough for her to have a good headstart.
A large group turned towards the cemetery. A chill ran through Veitch as they
flowed over the walls and amongst the stones like shadows at twilight. Several
of the flying Fomorii joined them, swooping low over the graves, searching for
any sign of their prey.

Veitch dropped from the branches to Nuada and Lugh. "You know what
guerrilla warfare is? We split up into ones and twos, pick off as many as we can
while we make our way across the cemetery. We meet up on the other side and
head to Highgate station."

"What about the horses?" Nuada asked.

"We scatter them. They'll confuse things."

Nuada and Lugh barked something to the others in a language Veitch
couldn't understand. A moment later they had slipped into the surroundings
like ghosts.

A film of sweat covered Veitch's entire body despite the cold. He stepped out
from behind the lichen-streaked obelisk towering over his head into plain view
of three Fomorii, who moved cautiously along the path two hundred yards away.
They heralded their discovery with a barrage of monkey shrieks.

The other Fomorii nearby were too distracted by the wildly galloping horses
to heed the call. The mounts ran back and forth along the winding paths, in
sight just long enough for their presence to be registered but disappearing
before the Fomorii could see if there was a rider on their backs.

Veitch's heart thundered as the Fomorii started towards him. They moved
so much quicker than their bulk suggested: efficient killing machines filled with
unquenchable energy. There was something hypnotic about their power that
kept him rooted and they were dangerously close by the time he had turned and
was running over the lip of the hill. He knew he wouldn't be able to outrun
them for long.

The strain of the last few days was beginning to tell as he darted from the
path amongst the stones in the hope that it would slow down his pursuers.
Exhaustion brought a dull, aching heat to his thigh muscles, his usually bountiful reserves of energy close to empty.

The Fomorii veered from the path, smashing down grave markers that had
stood for a hundred years with a flex of their leg muscles or a sweep of their
arms. The wind picked up the thick, unpleasant musk of them; every time
Witch smelled it he felt sick to his stomach. Now he didn't even have the
strength to combat the queasiness. He hurdled a tilting cross, ripping his calf
on one of the arms, then landed awkwardly back on the path. He was convinced
he had broken his ankle, but after he limped a few more paces he realised it was
probably only a twist, but it was enough to hamper him.

A chunk of old stone crashed against a statue of an angel, missing his head
by only an inch. He rounded a bend in the path and came up on a large mausoleum covered with so much ivy it looked like a natural formation.

Gripping the ivy hard, he hauled himself on to the roof to leap to a tree
branch beyond. His reactions were still sharp enough to catch the shadow falling
across him. The talons of one of the flying Fomorii raked the air where his head
had been. Quickly he lashed upwards with his silver hand. Nails extracted as
Nuada had showed him, slicing through the creature's left leg. It lost control of its flight and he hacked again, half-severing a wing. It crashed down amongst
the graves, still alive but badly wounded.

He didn't have time to catch his breath. The Fomorii were now dragging
themselves up the mausoleum, but they were slowed by the ivy, which was
being pulled away by their bulk; they were still managing to find enough of a
foothold to progress.