Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2) (41 page)

“We have a responsibility-“

“That’s all we do have! Later, before I hit you with a rock. You’ve gone all Apocalypse Now combat crazy, and if you start mumbling like Marlon I really will be forced to cause pain.”

Shavi fell silent, but his eyes remained troubled.

“This isn’t over,” she continued. “Think of it as a brief retreat, right?”

“It is not over,” he agreed firmly.

Veitch and Ruth had barely moved several yards along the ramparts before they had once again become transfixed by the Fabulous Beasts.

“Shit, they’re blowing the whole place up!” Veitch wrapped his arms around himself to stop shivering; the water from the well freezing on his clothes and hair made him resemble a walking snowman.

Ruth watched carefully for a moment, then said, “They’re coming this way.”

Witch grabbed her arm and dragged her to the Lang Stairs, and although they were lethal with ice and snow, he took them three at a time. At the bottom he paused briefly to scan the Middle Ward. The Fomorii patrol were rooted near the Cartshed, their waxy human faces turned to the approaching threat. Their statue-like appearance was emphasised by their lack of emotion, but in one second they began to change, the flesh and clothes falling away as horns and carapaces and bones began to emerge amidst a sudden cacophony of monkeyshrieks. Mid-transformation, they scattered like a disturbed ants’ nest.

Their stomachs were turning, but Ruth and Witch were already moving down to the Lower Ward before the change was complete.

“I’ll never get used to that,” Ruth said queasily.

Veitch paused near the Gatehouse and Old Guardhouse. “Maybe we can sneak-“

The words caught in his throat as the Fomor guard emerged from the doorway and barked, “Arith Urkolim!” the moment he caught sight of Veitch. The Londoner tensed, torn between going for the crossbow or the sword, knowing either would be useless as the Fomor advanced relentlessly.

But before he could move, the glaring, reflected light from the snow suddenly darkened and a deep shadow fell over them. It was accompanied by what sounded like giant sails unfurling in a heavy gale.

Ruth dragged him back just as the oldest of the Fabulous Beasts swooped down in a blaze of glittering bronze and green scales. The Fomor and the Gatehouse were caught up in a furious firestorm that left Veitch and Ruth huddled in the snow, choking for breath as liquid fire and rubble rained down all around them. The crashing of mighty wings grew even more intense above them. Ruth rolled on to her back and peered through the billowing smoke. Four Fabulous Beasts were circling the castle.

“Let’s move,” she choked.

They clambered to their feet, shielding their faces from the blazing ruins of the Gatehouse. “We’ll just have to put our heads down and run,” Veitch gasped.

The flames closed around them for a second, the heat searing their lungs, but then they were out in the bleak, snow-swept Esplanade, slipping and sliding down the slope towards Lawnmarket.

Behind them they heard the terrible sound of the Fomorii raising the alarm. Ruth glanced back briefly and saw Calatin standing on the battlements of the Upper Ward, shrieking at the darkness that surged around him, pointing in fury at the circling Beasts.

“I hope those monsters don’t hurt the Beasts,” Ruth said.

Her fears were unfounded. A second later the purifying fire rained down from the heavens. The entire castle was engulfed in an inferno of living flame. Stone which had stood firm for centuries flowed like water or exploded in the instant heat. The lights popped out and windows crashed in.

Ruth and Veitch scrambled down the Royal Mile, trying to put distance between them and what they knew was to come. Ruth guessed the Scots Guards must have had an ammunition store in the castle, for a moment later there was an explosion that felt like the city was being levelled. They were knocked flat on their faces by the pressure wave, which also drove them momentarily deaf. In a world of eerie silence, Ruth rolled over to see a column of fire reaching up to the heavens where the castle had once stood. It shimmered red and gold as the Fabulous Beasts did soundless rolls and turns around it.

At the base there was an odd sight. The flames there were blue and they reached deep into the core of the rock on which the castle had stood.

“It’s over.” The tears of relief came with the words. She scrubbed them away with the back of her hand, then turned to Veitch, smiling and crying at the same time. “It’s over,” she repeated, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her.

The temperature rose dramatically within minutes as the summer rushed back in to replace the fleeing winter. The near-instantaneous thaw sent water gushing into the drains and pouring in torrents from the rooftops. As their hearing returned, Witch and Ruth were enveloped in the thunderous sound of the castle and the Royal Mile burning, filling the air with choking particles, obscuring the stars with thick, oily smoke.

They hurried down George IV Bridge as fast as they could, but in the aftermath of their victory the adrenalin retreated rapidly and Ruth, in particular, was overcome with a powerful exhaustion. Eventually she was clinging on to Witch as he almost carried her the last few yards into Greyfriars Kirkyard.

The graveyard sprawled away from the overpowering presence of the kirk, surrounded by high stone houses that made it a peaceful backwater untouched by the city. Ancient trees clustered all around, their thick cover blocking out the glare from the inferno. The choking fumes hadn’t reached it either. There was only the sweet scent of the rose garden that lay before the main jumble of stones, mausoleums, obelisks and boxes that glowed eerily white, like bones, in the gloom.

None of the others had arrived, so Veitch and Ruth collapsed on to a stone box; he slid his arm around her and she rested her head on his shoulder.

After a second or two, he said, “I know what you went through. Back at Dartmoor, when those bastards were dragging me through their torture mill …” He exhaled loudly. “You did fine.”

“It doesn’t feel fine. It was like, hanging on, you know?”

“You’ll put it behind you soon.”

“Is that right?”

A pause. “No.”

She retched and dipped her head between her knees.

“Are you okay?”

“No, I feel terrible.”

He laid her down on the box and put his jacket over her. Her skin was so pale it was almost the colour of the stone her cheek was touching. She huddled up into a fetal position and a second later she was asleep.

Veitch kept watch over her, his eyes flickering from the gentle rise and fall of her chest to the dark shadows that clustered all around. He wished the others would hurry up. Despite the destruction of the castle, he couldn’t believe that was the end of it. With Ruth asleep, the kirkyard seemed too quiet and exposed; an attack could come from any direction. The rustling of the leaves and the shifting of the branches in the faint breeze made him think there was something moving around in the gloom. And the more he sat in silence, the more he thought he could hear faint noises on the other side of the kirkyard.

Another sound nearby warned him that it wasn’t all in his mind. It could have been a squirrel or a cat, but over the last few weeks he had learned to expect the worse.

At first there was nothing. Then he glimpsed movement around the kirkyard, shapes flitting among the trees, appearing and disappearing behind the grave markers. He started to count, then gave up, although there was nothing to suggest they were Fomorii. But whatever was out there seemed to be moving closer. His grip grew tighter on his sword.

“Unclean.”

The word was just a rustle caught on the wind. He looked around suddenly in the direction it had come from, but the area was deserted.

“Who’s there?” he called firmly.

No answer. The nerves along his spine were tingling; he had the uneasy sensation that he was being watched. More movement. He couldn’t put it down to imagination; there was definitely someone out there.

“You better come out,” he said forcefully.

“What’s going on?”

Veitch started at the voice. Church had just marched through the kirkyard gates, beaming broadly, Laura hanging on his arm, looking honestly happy for once. Behind them was Tom, as impossible to read as ever, and then Shavi, who seemed uncommonly downcast. “Did you see it? Did you see what we did?” Church continued. “All those screw-ups and bad luck and this time we got it right!”

Church suddenly noticed Ruth asleep under Witch’s coat and threw off Laura’s arm to run to her side. Laura’s expression changed to one of irritation before she managed to mask it.

“Is she okay?” Church gently touched her wrist where it poked out from beneath the coat.

“She’s had a bad time.” Veitch kept one eye on the kirkyard; all the movement had ceased. “The Bastards really put her through it, but she’s tough. She’ll be okay.”

Church grinned. “Then we’re celebrating! Everything worked out fine. I don’t believe it!”

“Unclean.”

This time the voice was clear and unmistakable. Church looked round, puzzled. “What was that?”

“There’s somebody out there.” Veitch pulled out the sword where it could be seen. “I don’t think it’s the Bastards, but I don’t have a good feeling about it.”

The others gathered around. “I sense something-” Shavi began.

“Can’t you see them?” Tom snapped. “Amongst the trees?”

And then they could all see them: grey figures moving slowly, some of them raising their arms to the heavens as if they were in some kind of distress. They moved forward, silently at first, but as they drew closer faint whispers sprang up like echoes in their wake, growing louder until their voices were clear. They were protesting about something, frightened, outraged.

“What are they?” Church asked.

“The dead,” Tom said. “The spirits of the kirkyard.”

“Eighty thousand of us.” The voice came from behind a mausoleum. Gradually a figure emerged, hollow-cheeked and staring, with eyes that made their blood run cold. He was as grey as the stone, wearing clothes which dated his time to the turn of the century. “That’s how many of us are buried here. Eighty thousand.”

The spirit of a woman rushed up to them, wailing so loudly they all flinched, but at the last minute she turned away and fled among the stones.

“What’s wrong with them?” Laura’s voice was hushed, frightened.

The spirits were in a semi-circle before them now, tearing at their ghostly hair, beating their breasts; their anguish was palpable.

“Leave now.” The man near the mausoleum was pointing at them accusingly. “You are damned!”

“They are coming for you! They are not departed!” a woman shrieked, her hair as wild as snakes. “They will not let you go!”

“Coming into this place, so unclean!” the man continued. “Foul! Besmirched! And the Night Walkers will follow in your wake, hunting you. You will bring them here!”

“What’s wrong?” Veitch yelled at them. “We’ve actually done some bleedin’ good for a change-“

He was cut off by more shrieking.

“Come on,” Church said, “let’s go.” He shook Ruth, who struggled to stand, barely able to keep her eyes open.

The spirits followed closely as the six of them started to back away to the kirkyard gates; the voices became more shrill and intense, wailing like sirens, enough to set teeth on edge.

“Unclean!” the man yelled so loudly Laura jumped back a step. “You corrupt this sacred ground! Your black trail scars our home!”

The dead crowded in suddenly, and although they appeared insubstantial, their clawed fingers caught at the group’s clothes, tore at their hair. Church and the others broke into a run, pursued by the shrieking spirits, which were dipping and rising across the kirkyard like reflected light on mist. It was as if the spirits were being tortured by unimaginable pain.

Only when the group was resting against the foot of the bridge outside the kirkyard gates did the sound subside; and even then the spirits could be glimpsed flitting around the kirk in a state of distress.

“That freaked me out,” Laura said. A flicker crossed her face and she glanced to Church, hoping perhaps that he would deny her thoughts. “They were saying the Fomorii were going to hunt us down.”

But he seemed more concerned by something else. “What made them act like that?” He looked to Tom for an answer.

“It doesn’t matter about any of that,” Veitch said animatedly. “We did it.”

They all turned to him.

“There was some ritual going on under the castle-“

“Ritual?” Church’s eyes gleamed.

Veitch nodded, smiling tightly. “Something big. I reckon it was the big one. And we stopped the Bastards doing it.”

A ripple of relief ran through the group; they could hardly believe it. Church turned to Tom, questioning silently.

“You saw the place.” He was almost smiling. “All that’s there now is a big crater.”

“We stopped them,” Church said quietly, as if the words would break the spell. After all the weeks of failure, disbelief hung at the back of his voice. But it was true. “We burned out the nest. They won’t be able to bring Balor back.” He dropped to his haunches, one hand over his face while he assimilated the words. The moment hung in the air, and then Laura draped a tentative hand on to his shoulder. It was as if that was the signal; suddenly they were hugging each other, slapping backs, laughing and gabbling inanely as the tension rushed out of them. Witch let out an ear-piercing yell of triumph that bounced among the buildings.

“But those spooks-” Church hugged Laura off her feet and crushed the rest of the sentence inside her. She tried to look aloof, but she couldn’t keep the smile in.

“The Fomorii are still here,” he explained. “You saw the nest in the Lake District-they’re all over the damn place. We’ve just stopped them getting the upper hand, that’s all. That’s all!” He let out a whoop. “We’ve kicked them so hard it’s going to take them a while to get back on their feet! Now we’ve got the upper hand! All we’ve got to do now is find a way to get the Tuatha De Danann on our side and kick the Bastards out for good.”

“Oh well, it’s almost over then,” Laura said with a smile that dripped irony.