in your thumb? Now imagine one going through your eye and into your brain.’
Her statement held such utter conviction that Hunter had to believe she thought she could do it. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Laura DuSantiago and I am here to save the world,’ she said archly. ‘And you go by the name of Hunter when you’re not using one of your many aliases.’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘Existence.’ She lay down and stared flirtatiously into his face. ‘I’m not interested in the stupid little-boy games you’ve been playing. I’ve got a bigger agenda.’
‘Which is?’ Hunter freed himself, then balanced the knife on the palm of his hand before thrusting it into the ground.
Laura appeared quietly impressed by his choice. ‘Ever felt this life you’re leading is wrong? Made up? That you’ve got another life you can’t quite remember?’
Hunter’s practised non-committal expression gave nothing away.
‘Do certain places give you a real buzz, like there’s electricity in the ground? Do you get creeped out by a man called Rourke?’
His bland, ever-friendly line manager. ‘How do you know about Rourke?’
‘Oh, he gets around. Have we had sex?’ she added with a hint of puzzlement that did not appear manufactured.
‘I think I’d remember.’ Yet even after he’d said the words, he realised that, strangely, he wasn’t sure. ‘But we could get it out of the way now if you like.’
‘I think you ought to be disposing of that body first.’ She teased him with her eyes. ‘But before that I’ve got a little fairy story to tell you, about five great heroes, a magical quest and a threat that could destroy everything we hold dear.’
‘Okay.’ Hunter lounged back with his hands behind his head. ‘Then can we have sex?’
4
England sleeps, England dreams.
In one of the few areas of unspoiled landscape within the shadow of the capital, Church breathes deeply, enjoying the soothing night air and the aromas of grass and tree. Here there is an abiding sense of peace that is difficult to find in the cluttered, busy nation. It comes not from the confluence of natural elements, but from something intangible deep within the land itself, a force that is both there and not there, physical and spiritual, earthly and otherworldly. It refreshes him and renews his purpose, but that is not the reason he is there.
Overhead, the Fabulous Beast swoops on the night winds. While Church stands on the rolling parkland looking up, he is also in the Beast’s head looking down at himself. Its thoughts, if it has such things, are unknowable. Church is not even sure it can be characterised as alive, in any sense he understands. It is an idea, a manifestation of the power in the land, a terrible force of nature, a symbol and a Beast all at the same time. It is also the last one.
It must be protected in the same way that the Earth must be protected, for once the symbol is gone, the thing it symbolises withers and dies, too. It is the last one, and the last hope for a better world.
The ground shudders and a section of turf tears itself upwards to reveal a gaping hole that disappears into the earth. The Fabulous Beast circles one final time and then plunges into the dark tunnel. The turf closes behind it.
The Enemy won’t find it there. It can rest until it is needed again.
Satisfied, Church turns away and prepares for the struggle to come.
5
The Grim Lands, where there is no sleep and no dreams.
Mists blanket the rocky, depressing landscape. Through the folds of grey, the dead move slowly, their whispering tread converging on a subterranean temple as desolate and heartless as anything in that place, but filled with a deep, tidal power.
Why is there a temple in the Land of the Dead? What could they worship there?
The dead do not enter, but instead gather at the entrance to the long, stone-lined tunnel that leads to the heart of the complex, in their tens and twenties, hundreds and thousands, all of the dead, from all over the Grim Lands, converging on that one place, where they wait, as silent as ever.
Why do they wait?
At the far end of the stone-lined tunnel is a great hall, carved from bedrock and lined with stone blocks. The ceiling is lost in the shadows. Wall paintings soar up into the gloom, their inhuman scale as disturbing as the images they depict. Grotesque effigies without any human characteristics stand grimly. Everywhere is still.
In the centre of the hall, on a stone plinth, lies a long marble box. Standing around it at the four cardinal points are the Brothers and Sisters of Spiders — Etain, Owein, Tannis and Branwen — as silent as their true brothers and sisters beyond the temple.
They wait, though time has no meaning to them, for an alignment of ritual and word long since put into effect. They watch the box. They listen. And as the vast army of the dead draws to a halt, the atmosphere becomes infused with dread. A hiss of sparks heralds a discharge of black energy.
In the lull that follows, a moan rises up, becoming a chant, low and somnolent. It is the dead cheering. There may be words hidden in the unearthly sound, and if there are they would be these:
The stone lid of the box slides aside and crashes to the floor. It is the loudest noise ever heard in this hall, and its echoes reverberate for almost a minute. A hand rises from the box, followed by another, but this one is silver and mechanical. Heavily tattooed and muscular, Ryan Veitch levers himself up. He is pleased that his plan has worked and that he has not yet joined the ranks of the Grim Lands, and pleased at the response from his vast army of followers outside the temple. He is pleased also that more subtle strands are now creeping out from the spell to which he had reluctantly committed himself.
He looks around at the faces of the Brothers and Sisters of Spiders and finally settles on Etain. Her gaze is as empty as her companions’, but Veitch sees something.
‘Come on, darlin’,’ he says with a grin. ‘Did you really doubt that I’d be back?’
6
England sleeps, England dreams.
But not for long.
Chapter One
1
