Second Night (8 page)

‘Not from any of those barrels, it’s not,’ he said. ‘Get yourself down the old stairs and do the thing properly.’

‘I’m not paid to paddle around in a flooded cellar, even for you Dad,’ she replied.

The beer streamed steadily into the glass. Percy looked glum. ‘Si’s got that big pump going day and night down there. What’s the matter with you, girl?’

‘It packed in. So it’s the ordinary stuff or nothing for you tonight and that’s all there is to it.’ She slapped the travel brochure she had been reading down on the bar in front of her father.

Percy eyed the picture on the front cover. ‘It comes to something when a man can’t rely on his own flesh and blood to pour a decent pint for him after a hard day’s graft,’ he grumbled. ‘I can’t recall booking me and your mother for a skiing holiday.’

‘It’s for me and Bry. Girls’ trip. You said you’d pay.’

‘Did I?’

She gave him the beer. ‘This might help you remember.’

‘I doubt it.’ He looked around the nearly empty room. ‘It’s quiet in here tonight, unless those coats up there on the hooks came in on the back of a set of ghosts.’

‘They’re watching the football match,’ said Genista.

Behind the door marked
SNOOKER
, a murmur of voices rose and fell, followed by a sudden cheer.

‘Sounds like they’ve just scored,’ remarked John.

The telephone rang. Genista answered it. ‘The White Horse.’ She rubbed at a chip in her nail varnish and glanced at her hair in the mirrored backdrop behind the bar. ‘Yes… mmm… yes… all right then.’ She hung up and opened the door to the kitchen, shouting, ‘Two, ten minutes, Mads!’

John put down his empty mug. ‘There’s a couple more down here need filling,’ he said. ‘And add the fire boys to the tab to get their game going.’

‘Good man!’ said Jack approvingly.

‘I owe you one, John,’ said Pete.

Genista poured the beer. Blue crept out of his bed in the inglenook and stretched out on the rug in front of the fire. Percy wrote in his notebook. The darts thudded into the board on the wall. The voices murmured in the snooker room. John fished in his pocket for the brass key to the butler’s pantry and slipped it to Alan.

‘There’s something you’ll be needing to check over behind that old door we found in the office when you’ve got a moment to yourself,’ he whispered.

‘What’s going on then?’

‘You’ll see.’

The kitchen door swung open. Maddie appeared with a tray of clean glasses.

‘Did you take their order?’ she asked Genista.

‘Who for?’

‘Whoever phoned?’

‘No. It wasn’t one of the regulars.’

‘Did you take the name?’

‘No. I think it was Winston or Watson. I forgot to write it down. Nice voice.’

Obviously a man
, thought Maddie wryly. She put down the tray. ‘These could do with a wipe.’

‘Okay.’ Genista picked up a cloth.

Blue opened one eye, hearing voices at the door. A quick draught from the wet and windy night outside blew smoke down the chimney and out into the room as a tall, broad shouldered, red-haired man came in and wiped his shoes on the sodden lump of a doormat. The young man with black curly hair following behind did the same. They came to the bar where Maddie was checking the barrels.

‘I booked a table a few minutes ago,’ said the man to her back. ‘I telephoned. Perhaps it was you I spoke to.’

She turned. Their eyes met. Alan saw her flush, look down and look up again. The man smiled. Genista stepped between them before Maddie had time to reply.

‘No, it was me,’ she said. ‘You spoke to me.’

The man looked down at the small and determined green-eyed woman, obviously taken aback. He recovered himself and smiled again. ‘Can we hang up our coats? I’m afraid they are rather wet.’

‘Of course you can. Give them to me.’

He unwound the long scarf from around his neck and laid it on top of the coats. Genista’s eyes widened when she saw the narrow white band around his neck.

‘So that’s the new vicar, unless I’m very much mistaken,’ muttered Percy.

‘This way, please,’ said his daughter, leading her customers into the restaurant.

Ashen-faced, Maddie picked up the tray and went back to the kitchen, leaving the door marked
PRIVATE
to swing shut behind her. Alan put down his pint. The beer had left a flat metallic taste in his mouth. The quiet evening spell was broken.

S
he looks like something just stepped over her grave,
he thought.

‘It’s time I was off up the woods,’ he murmured to John. ‘Don’t want to keep young Caz hanging about in this weather.’

John nodded. Blue ran to the door wagging his tail.

CHAPTER 11

They fought until blinding rain had snuffed out the last of the torches and Alan had missed parrying an obvious stroke, taking a heavy blow on his shoulder.

‘That's it for tonight,' he panted. ‘This old foot soldier's wet through to his skin and can't see an inch beyond his nose.'

‘Are you okay, Al?' Caz asked anxiously.

‘It's nothing that a hot bath won't put right.'

Before the first, grey beginnings of the new day when the rain had died away, Caz returned to Thunderslea. A familiar sense of fear and disconnection gnawed at any desire he might have had for rest and sleep. He recognised the initial stages of a dreadful mind state that always had the same outcome if he allowed it to take him over.

All the sound gets sucked away. There's a moment of total silence and then the roaring begins, like I'm hearing the sound of pure raw energy making itself into matter, and I see that other tree and all the dead bodies hanging in the branches. We call it World Tree but to the spooks it's just the Tree. They're always there waiting for me. They raise their shields and shout one word in one huge voice. It's always the same word but I never know what they say. Then they're gone, leaving me feeling like I'm nothing and nowhere, and wondering what I've missed.

He put the spear over his shoulder and swung one-handed up onto the lowest of the great boughs of the tree. Long familiarity and the acute night vision, that no longer surprised him, made for an easy climb to one of the uppermost branches, where he had a clear view of the sky.

He sat with his back to the trunk and wedged the spear between two thick bunches of mistletoe, leaving the great barbed head of the black weapon just inches from his face. The slightest touch of any of the three razor edges drew blood that burned like acid, but the wound always sealed instantly and the first of the Runes of the Deathless would be shining on one of the three equal sides of the blade for as long as he could maintain his concentration. He never knew whether this phenomenon was unique to him or just part of the alien nature of the spear.

Mostly I have to blood it to make the rune appear but sometimes I can do it just using my mind. I'll make it work tonight.

Focussing his complete attention on the rhythm of his heartbeat, he willed the rune to materialise on the blade until the sweat stood out in great drops on his forehead and his whole body ached with the effort. But the black metal stayed dull and blank, leaving him no choice but to raise his left hand and close it over the head of the weapon, forcing his palm onto the tip. The pain was intense and he never got used to it. When he took away his hand the rune was glowing luminescent blue on one of the three polished sides of the blade.

Disappointed with himself, he pushed back his hood to feel the light wind drying the mercifully human moisture on his face. The wound on the palm of his hand had already vanished and the first, faint edge of fading night was rising over the hills. He knew what the problem was. He didn't know what to do about it.

I've learned what it is to be scared shitless since I went for a night out with the spooks. I know too much about what fear really is and it gets in the way of everything I do. I wasn't afraid when I was out there last time. I was just boiling mad, trying to stay alive and save the horses. I convinced myself that the burning and pain were a dream, until we came home and everything was changed. Dreams don't do that – only reality. The fear came on afterwards and it's never gone away. The truth is that I've been a mess ever since I ended up at World Tree.

He forced himself to build a mental picture of the Tree as he knew it, and might soon be facing again.
So huge there's no beginning and no end to it… so much more alive than anything else I've ever seen… grabbing the sacrifices and hanging them up… the man with the haggard face and his mare going under Gungnir, the Spear… all that light… all the power… the voice in the shadow… don't forget the rats.

The sweat broke out again, running down his face and his neck. He muttered, ‘The Haggard Man wanted to be sacrificed, but there was a lot that didn't. They were scared shitless too. It wasn't just me. They stank of fear and it gave them away to the spooks. I won't get the runes if I turn up stinking like that again. I won't make it past the Place of Judgement, or whatever they want to call it. I'll just end up dead in the void.'

The outline of the rune was still shining faintly on the great black head of the spear, taunting him for his lack of knowledge and skill.
I don't even know what it's called or how it works. Even Kyri can't help me, and the old man's useless.

He slipped his fingers into the leather bag in his trouser pocket and took out one of the little wooden counters, turning it over to examine the mark burned into the polished wood.
It's always the Ice Rune,
he thought bitterly.
‘Ice we call the broad bridge; the blind man must be led.'
He put the rune back in the bag before he followed the temptation to throw it away.

‘You used to help me,' he accused the old tree. ‘I thought we were friends. But you didn't like me that first time I came up here, did you? You were shaking me so hard I dropped the knife and nearly messed up my chance to cut the rune staves. You would have succeeded if it hadn't been for Bryn.' He produced a small dagger from the sheath at his waist. ‘It's not the same one I stuck you with before. That got fried on the way back from World Tree. This one's better. Al helped me make it and it can do a lot more damage.' He tested the blade against the bark. ‘Still asleep, huh?'

He began carving his name in runes into the thickly knotted trunk, cutting deliberately deeper with every stroke of the blade…
C, the torch rune… A, the oak rune
.

‘You know that one, don't you?' he said slyly, waiting for the shuddering to begin. He hung onto a branch, pumping his legs up and down on the bough, trying to shake the tree into reacting. Furiously, he cut the last rune, driving the dagger up to the hilt into the bark.

‘Z, the eel-sedge rune, the one that makes a ghastly wound!' he shouted. ‘Don't you remember? Come on! Wake up! Fight me! Shake me down! What do I have to do to get you to help me?'

He hooked his legs over the bough and swung upside down, looking up at the sky through the branches.
Maybe I'll end up like the old man, living my whole life alone, a mad, grey-haired, weird old dodderer ringing the bell for Jem to bring me tea and biscuits.

‘Or perhaps you would care to join me for a little wine, my dear Lady Sibylla?
'
he said aloud, mouthing the plummy aristocratic vowels and adjusting an invisible eye patch.

There won't be any point keeping vows by then,
he thought miserably.
I'll be too old and stupid to do anything except get blind drunk every night and forget the reasons why I gave up on the sex thing until I'm too far gone to care. Jem'll have little silver spectacles on the end of her nose and sit in the kitchen, snapping at everyone like Daisy does. Hopefully she won't have a limp.

The cloak pin caught under his ear. The weight of the material dragged under his chin. He looked down, seeing how it swung between the branches and laughed grimly, struck by how it would look to Alan if he found him hanging in the tree.

‘Hi, Al, I'm just trying out how it would have been for the God if he'd sacrificed himself upside down on World Tree, except I don't need Loki to turn himself into a mare and produce Sleipnir for me to ride. I've got my own Galdramerr, thanks.'

How did that amazing stallion manage to come out of an oddball like Loki?
he wondered.
Okay, he was a shape-changer and probably gay, but even the God didn't manage anything like that and he's supposed to be the best there is.

He opened his arms wide, willing himself not to choke against the weight pressing on his throat.
I bet I could stay like this for nine days and nights if I put my mind to it. I could stick myself on the spear, poke out one of my eyes and pick up the last two runes before the spooks had to bother putting themselves out to come back for me.

He swung backwards and forwards so that he could look around the clearing. Near the centre the stones edging Bryn's burial mound shone bright against the sheen of the grass in the moonlight. On the west side, the torch-holders pointed spiked shadows over the bare earth in the fighting circle. Beyond that, and just clear of the overhanging branches of the trees, the grass was smudged on either side of the shallow trench where he continued training the mares to jump through fire.

Kyri led them now. He could see the faint, otherworldly light shimmering around her as she grazed the winding pathways in the labyrinth. Rúna and Nanna had proved surprisingly willing to follow her over the flames, even when the straw burned at its fiercest. Freyja had taken a lot more persuading.

Maybe I'll try another rune cast,
he thought.
Not tonight though, the moon's not right.
He studied the waning, misshapen orb shining through the clouds directly above him.
It'll be full around the end of the month just before Hallowe'en. I'll do a day without coffee and get myself up here for a full moon ‘fasting-casting' right on the exact second of sunset.