The Hounds of Avalon (Gollancz S.F.) (26 page)

He thought for a moment and then held the jewel in the palm of his hand and whispered, ‘Far and away and here.’ Hal didn’t know what he’d been expecting – some flash of light or burst of coloured smoke, perhaps – but there was nothing. Irritated that he had allowed himself to be made a fool of, he slipped the stone back into his pocket.

Yet a few seconds later there was an overpowering smell of wet fur. Hal looked around to see if a dog had found its way into the library and was greeted by a low, rasping laugh that sounded very much like an old man’s, unsettling with a hint of malignancy. Goose pimples rose up on Hal’s arms.

Hal looked around again, and then almost fell backwards off his chair in shock when his gaze returned to his desk, which had been empty a split second earlier. A tiny, misshapen man now sat there, rolling his eyes at Hal. Naked, his wrinkled, leathery skin was grey-green, his ears pointed, his teeth an unnerving row of needles, and his fingers ended in broken but lethal-looking talons.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ the little man said nastily.

‘You’re here because … I called you?’ Hal said hesitantly.

‘We all answer the Bloodeye. A friend in need is always to be answered. Though I’ve never seen a friend like you.’ He bared his teeth at Hal.

‘What’s your name?’

‘I have many names. Some I’ll answer to, and some I won’t, and one is secret, never to be told. But you can call me Maucus.’

‘Will you answer to that one?’

‘We’ll see, won’t we?’

Hal was unnerved by the little man’s attitude and wondered if he might be better off, and safer, if he sent Maucus away.

The little man appeared to read Hal’s mind, for he said, ‘You
have nothing to fear when the Bloodeye has called. But do not come across me at other times, for then I may not be so generous.’

Feeling a little more confident, Hal asked, ‘What are you?’

‘My kind live in the book stores and libraries. We drink the smell of paper and eat the joy of people who find a piece of information or a story they desire. Sometimes we’ll hide books, usually at the point when the one wanting them is reaching the end of a long, laborious search. Just for fun. We’re always there, but your kind never sees us, hiding on top of the stacks or behind the shelves. You think we’re rats or mice, or birds on the roof.’

‘I want—’

‘No!’ Maucus jumped forward so threateningly that Hal rocked back on his chair. ‘Don’t tell me! Words that aren’t written down could be lies. They disappear. People forget what they said.’

‘How can I tell you, then?’

‘Give me your hand.’

Hal hesitated, then extended his right hand, palm upwards. Maucus gripped it with a strength belied by his size; Hal tried to wrench it back, but couldn’t. Maucus bared one of his talons and slashed a thin red line across Hal’s hand.

As Hal cried out in pain, the little man smiled sadistically, then bent forward and lapped Hal’s blood. Hal was sickened by the sight, but it only lasted a second before Maucus bounded off into the shadowy depths of the library.

A few minutes later, he returned with a book, which he dropped on the desk. It fell open at a picture of the same scene projected by the Wish Stone.

It was a romantic painting of three men dressed in what looked like togas crouched around a stone tomb. A woman in luscious orange and blue robes looked on. The men were pointing at an inscription on the tomb:
Et in Arcadia Ego
. The scene was set in some idyllic rural setting, on a hillside, with trees against gold-tinted clouds passing across a brilliant blue sky. The light suggested twilight, or perhaps dawn.

Hal read the inscription underneath:
Les Bergers d’Arcadie
–
The Shepherds of Arcadia
by Nicolas Poussin, Musée du Louvre, Paris.

Hal knew his Latin – the inscription translated literally as ‘And in Arcadia I’ or ‘I am in Arcadia, too’ – but Hal had no idea what it meant. More puzzling was why a seventeenth-century painting
should be revealed by a magic stone that must have been hundreds if not thousands of years older, if it truly had been buried under Cadbury Hill.

Clearly the picture must be very significant indeed for a unique and powerful object like the Wish Stone to have preserved its image, but its meaning escaped him. As Hal examined the painting more closely, he noticed that something wasn’t quite right. ‘The picture is back to front,’ he mused. ‘Or the image is. The stone shows the woman on the left. The painting has her on the right. And everything else is reversed, as well. The image doesn’t show the whole of the painting, either – it’s cropped very closely around the characters.’

‘Ah, but there’s the mystery,’ Maucus said. ‘Do I have to do everything for you?’

‘Yes, please,’ Hal said tartly, emboldened.

Maucus glowered coldly and Hal wondered if he had gone too far. But then the little man disappeared into the library once more, returning a few minutes later with a book about Shugborough Hall, a stately home in Staffordshire on the estate of the Royal photographer, Lord Lichfield. Once again, the book fell open at the correct page, only this time it revealed a photo of the reversed Wish Stone image of the shepherds. But this was no painting. The photograph showed a carved stone relief known as The Shepherd’s Monument that stood in the Hall’s nine-hundred-acre grounds.

Hal read that the monument and a mysterious inscription carved beneath it – O.U.O.S.V.A.V.V., and underneath a ‘D’ and an ‘M’ – had been a mystery for more than 250 years. Charles Darwin had been observed mulling over its meaning, and Josiah Wedgwood had spent many hours trying to crack the code. Some believed that it held the secret of the whereabouts of the Holy Grail, others that it was a memorial to a lost love of Thomas Anson, who had created the estate in the eighteenth century.

‘There
is
a mystery here,’ Maucus said, once again as if he could read Hal’s mind. ‘But is it buried deep or does it lie on the surface where only one with the right vision may see it?’

Hal felt a surge of excitement at the puzzle that had been presented to him. Here was a conundrum in which he could immerse himself; more, he was sure it was something where he could finally make a valuable contribution. The hint of long-buried
secrets made him feverish. Hidden knowledge, dark wisdom – the mystery hinted at both. ‘I need more information,’ he said.

‘Enough!’ Maucus spat. ‘If it’s slaves you need, then look amongst your own kind. Do not insult me by demanding too much. Rather, give thanks for the aid I have offered.’

‘I do thank you,’ Hal said, wary that Maucus was on the brink of attacking. ‘Very much. But where do I go from here?’

‘Tread your own path, coz. You have had enough from me.’

Maucus disappeared so quickly it was as if the little man had decided he would simply no longer be seen. Yet his odour remained for a long while after, and Hal had the uneasy feeling that his former helper was still watching from some hidden vantage point, weighing up whether or not he should teach Hal a very unpleasant lesson.

It worried Hal sufficiently that he packed up his books and dropped them off at the enquiry desk, answering the librarian’s questions about his progress with a blank smile before hurrying out into the bitter day.

The mood after the Cabinet meeting was desolate. The General attempted to hold his head high as he marched out of the darkened room towards the Ministry of Defence offices, but once inside he was crushed by the absolute devastation of his plans. There was nothing good to report; there was no hope that he could see. He’d attempted to put an optimistic spin on the debriefing, but everyone had seen through it. The PM had asked about the deployment of battlefield nukes, and the fact that even the leader was considering such extreme action on British soil showed that they were approaching the last act.

‘General?’

He turned to see Manning, who, for once, had not said a single word during the meeting. ‘Catherine.’

‘I notice you left a few details out of your report. How long before the enemy reach Oxford?’

‘I omitted that strand because to consider it would be an admission of failure. We will stop the enemy long before they reach Oxford.’

Manning’s dismissive shrug made the General burn inside, but he maintained his surface calm.

‘Battlefield nuclear weapons? How many are you planning to use?’ she asked. ‘How many have we stockpiled? You suggested that there appears to be a near-endless supply of the enemy … all flooding over from the Otherworld, I presume. Logically—’

‘I don’t concern myself with theoretical arguments. There are several tactical options we haven’t begun to try.’

‘How long, General?’

The General cursed under his breath, realising why he disliked the woman so much. ‘We can’t estimate anything at the moment. The enemy’s advance has come to a halt just south of Berwick. We don’t know how long they’re going to stay there, or why.’

‘But you have an idea.’

The General chose his words carefully. ‘Intelligence suggests that the enemy is eliminating any potential opposition.’

‘So they’re eradicating the population as they advance, pausing, cleansing an area, moving on. Berwick has fallen?’

The General nodded.

‘We can’t rely on conventional means, General. We have to put our faith in other measures.’

‘No option has been ruled out, Catherine.’

The General was distracted by a young assistant from his offices who was trailing snow behind him as he ran towards them. ‘General, sir,’ the young man said breathlessly as he skidded to a halt. ‘There’s been a survivor, sir. From the rout, in Scotland. He’s on his way in by chopper now.’

The General turned back to Manning. ‘I have to go.’

‘Consider what I said, General.’

But the General was already doing his best to forget her, and all politicians, as he followed the assistant back to the Ministry of Defence offices. All he needed was one break, a single flaw in the enemy’s defence, and he would strike back with maximum force. If the survivor had any new intelligence, he would seize it forcefully and then he would show Manning and all the others exactly what he stood for.

Hunter was in much better shape by the time the chopper touched down in the Deer Park. His amazement at the healing ability of the Pendragon Spirit had been superseded by a long period of intense reflection on what it meant for him to have been chosen to receive
such a power. In one instant he had been forced to look at himself and his place in the world in a different light. No longer could he pretend that he was just a foot soldier drifting from mission to mission. He now had a purpose, and an obligation, if only he could decide what they were.

The General met him as he climbed down from the chopper. ‘I should have known you’d be back.’

‘Yes, sir, and thank you for your good wishes.’ The General allowed Hunter some latitude as he always did, but Hunter knew he couldn’t push his superior too far this time.

‘I hope you’ve come back with some useful information,’ the General said.

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘We’ll head straight to debriefing. Your men?’

‘All dead.’ Hunter’s stomach twisted at the loss of those under his command. The hardest to accept was Clevis; his uncomprehending face at the moment of his death was burned into Hunter’s mind.

‘You look remarkably hale and hearty. Not even a scratch?’

‘I have very thick skin.’

By the time they reached the debriefing room where most of the top brass had already congregated, Hunter had decided what information he was going to reveal and what he was going to hold back. He described in unflinching detail how the enemy took over the fallen and added them to its ranks, and he watched as faces grew steely when he described the King of Insects and the four Lords leading the attack. His account of what was really causing the arctic weather only added to the dark mood in the room. But there was some talk of a potential ally when he told how the White Walker had helped him to the nearest outpost, where he had rested while he made radio contact and waited to be picked up.

But of the Pendragon Spirit and his role as Brother of Dragons, he said not a word.

After the General had given Hunter a day’s leave to recuperate, Hunter slipped quickly away and sought out Hal, who seemed to have transformed his office into an art gallery. Hunter cast his eye over the large and small copies of the same painting and said, ‘It’s a bit late in the day to pretend you have some culture.’

Hal smiled warmly. ‘I was starting to get worried.’

‘I thought I’d trained you better than that.’

Hal suddenly came alive in a manner Hunter hadn’t seen before. ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ he said, motioning to the pictures pinned all over the walls. ‘I’m investigating an artefact that Brother of Dragons brought back from Cadbury Hill.’

Hunter perked up at this. ‘Go on.’

‘It links to this painting, and then to a monument at some stately home called Shugborough Hall. I don’t know what it all means yet, but I’m sure it’s important.’ He paused, unable to restrain a grin. ‘More than important.’

‘Right.’ Hunter thought intensely for a moment. ‘You’ve got to keep me up to speed about that. But don’t tell anyone else before you tell me.’