Ruth.’
‘You love her.’
‘I told you to shut the fuck up.’ Veitch clipped Miller roughly around the ear.
As he ran back up the bank, he realised Miller wasn’t behind him. He turned to see Miller poised on the edge of the frozen river, one foot hovering above dry land.
‘What are you doing?’ Veitch called.
Miller was disoriented. ‘I don’t remember who put me in there, but … there are words in my head. A warning. If I walk again on the land I-’
‘Just do it!’ Veitch snapped.
Startled into action, Miller put his foot down. In that instant, a sonorous tolling echoed across the still city of the dead. The bell’s tones had a toxic effect on Veitch’s emotions, poisoning him with the first wash of dread.
Miller was locked in place, terrified. Veitch ran back and grabbed him. ‘Run!’
‘What’s that bell?’
‘Run!’ Veitch dragged Miller up the bank and thrust him so hard he almost fell. Within seconds, they were both sprinting up the steep street towards the tunnel leading out of that place.
At a crossroads they spied a collection of statues, apparently ancient from the thick layer of dust that blanketed them. From one of them stared a pair of unblinking eyes that Veitch recognised instantly.
Brushing away the dust revealed Etain’s charred, damaged face, the beauty still evident to him in what remained. ‘Thank God. I was worried I’d have to leave without you, darlin’,’ Veitch muttered.
Etain was in the same kind of trance that had gripped Miller, but as Veitch pulled her cold form into an embrace, she gradually came round. Her eyes made a mechanical movement towards Veitch when he planted a kiss on her cheek.
Miller watched queasily until distant echoes distracted him. ‘Ryan, hurry! People are coming. Lots of people!’
‘Give me a hand, then.’
Sickened, Miller helped Veitch scrub the dust from Branwen, Tannis and Owein, and from their otherworldly mounts. ‘Can’t we leave them?’ he said anxiously. Further down the street, past the towering mausoleums, the sound of many feet could now clearly be heard.
‘You don’t leave your mates!’ Veitch snapped.
Miller watched the dead Brothers and Sisters of Spiders clamber onto their horses and felt a twinge of concern for Veitch’s sanity.
The swarm rounded onto their street at the foot of the slope near the frozen river, hundreds of grey bodies, more joining them every second. They were naked and hairless, their limbs lithe and powerful, but their skin sickly and purple-veined. Their yellow eyes were fierce. They looked like a tribe of relict humans, barely human at all, and they carried as weapons human thigh bones that had been picked clean.
Miller was rooted to the spot, one hand half-raised to his mouth. Veitch caught the back of his shirt and dragged him into action. They ran up the street, the dry air searing their throats. The tolling bell continued to chime, and the sound of feet became thunder, yet their pursers were eerily silent.
The tunnel was already in sight when Veitch accepted they were not going to make it. More grey figures were beginning to emerge from side streets ahead.
‘There’s no end to them,’ Miller whined.
The Brothers and Sisters of Spiders were already at the tunnel mouth. Etain reined in her mount and drove it back down the slope, trampling the grey men under hoof; they died as silently as they lived.
But then the wave of pursuers closed off the street ahead, washing down towards Veitch and Miller as quickly as the ones approaching from behind.
‘What are we going to do?’ Miller sobbed.
‘Two options: die or live.’ Veitch gripped his sword in both hands, comforted by the flaring black flames.
Across the city came a loud voice, the words alien, with an unreal quality that jumbled Veitch’s thoughts. Blood trickled from his ears.
On the top of a tower on the other side of the frozen river stood a figure radiating such power that Veitch knew it could only be a god. The figure swam as if in a heat haze until Veitch’s mind settled on a form it could comprehend: sable robes and a pale, bald head. Even at that distance, Veitch could tell the flesh was covered with the black markings that signified control by the Army of the Ten Billion Spiders.
Contemptuous, he turned back to the fray, neither knowing nor caring what god might rule that twilit world bordering the land of the dead.
Black lightning crackled as Veitch tore into the rushing enemy with his sword. Heads were cleaved, limbs fell away and thin blood the colour of gruel splattered across the dust.
The tunnel to the upper world was tantalisingly close, but the grey swarm appeared endless and not even the ferocity of the Brothers and Sisters of Spiders could dent their numbers.
And over it all the god of the underworld continued to wail his song of despair and decay and the winding down into nothing.
3
Ruth staggered amongst the olive trees, trying to fight off the heady, mesmerising intoxication of the otherworldly wine. Every sense was heightened: the rough touch of the bark under her fingers, the aromas of the verdant grove, the crashing through the undergrowth that faded in and out and was impossible to pinpoint.
Fighting to control her thoughts had little effect for they moved like the tides under their own power, focusing on each new fascination before flashing to a distant memory or fleeting notion. The three mysterious beings that had come to her, neither human nor animal, but rather some hybrid representation of an ancient, eternal power — had that been real? Were they still around?
Further off amongst the trees, pale wraiths flitted. No, not ghosts, she realised, but the women who had accompanied her to that place. Dancing naked, filled with abandon and the joy of life. Ruth came to a halt, smiling, feeling an unusually affecting bond of sisterhood. Drifting dreamily.
A jolt, like a lightning flash.
Not dancing, running.
Ruth shook her head to clear the suffocating blanket. Sounds rose through the haze. In the distance, the CD was still playing its loop of trance beat; and surfacing through it, a scream, two, cries of fear and anger. Ruth ran towards the confusion.
The women tore through the undergrowth, searching for cover. They were not alone. Men, swarthy from labouring under the sun, bearded and heavy with muscle, pursued them, calling and barking and sneering. They carried shotguns and pickaxe handles. Some laughed at the exhilaration of the hunt.
The lights Ruth had seen making their way slowly up the road to the compound. The constant threat of violence from the men who had murdered Roslyn. Her death had been like a chunk of raw meat thrown to a voracious pack. They wanted more. They could no longer accept the terrible threat of twelve women who were determined to live the kind of life they wanted to live.
A thick-set man who smelled of beer caught Alicia by the arm and roughly threw her to the ground at his feet. She was completely defenceless, but he still decided to hit the softness of her face with the iron-hard, use- smooth handle of his axe. Horrified, Ruth heard bone break and saw a gout of blood spatter down Alicia’s naked chest. The man smiled at this, as though he had found something small and amusing. He hit her again. Alicia no longer moved.
Ruth threw herself at the attacker, clawing and punching and tearing at his hair. He was surprised at first, but then with one flick of the wrist he brought the axe-handle up into Ruth’s face. She saw stars, fell back.
The man barked something at her in Greek, but though the language was alien, his meaning would have been understood by any woman anywhere in the world. With a nicotine-stained grin, he raised the handle, ready to strike.
