The castle gates were open-the Fomorii obviously feared no direct assault. Witch ducked below the level of the low stone wall and crept beneath the dark arch of the gatehouse. Adrenalin was coursing around his body; he felt revi talised, ready for anything. In the Lower Ward he paused and glanced through a window back into the gatehouse. A guard in military uniform stared blankly across a bare table. Veitch couldn't reconcile the army presence with the Fomorii until he recognised the waxy sheen to the guard's face; on close inspection, it resembled a mask: it was a shape-shifted Fomor. This was obviously how the Fomorii had managed to take the castle in the first place, quietly, unnoticed, while the Old Town bustled around them. Somewhere, he guessed, there lay a charnel house filled with the bodies of all the soldiers who had been replaced.
He kept to the shadows as he climbed the stairs towards the Middle Ward, trying to muffle his footsteps as much as he could. If he allowed himself to recognise it, he would have had to admit he was terrified, but every sense was fixed on the here and now, smelling the wind for the familiar reek of the Fomorii, listening for even the slightest sound, constantly scanning for any movement in the shadows. He had no idea if the Fomorii had established any kind of secret defence which would alert them to his presence, but he put his faith in moving fast, so he didn't stay in one place too long.
As he rounded the corner into the Middle Ward he was brought up sharp by a patrol moving in step across the windswept expanse. Quickly, he pulled himself back against the wall, praying he had not been seen. With foreknowledge, it was obvious the patrol did not consist of human soldiers; there was a brooding presence to it which set his nerves on edge.
He held his breath, let the darkness settle on him; the cold bit sharply and he could no longer feel his feet where they were covered by the blanket of snow. As he scanned the battlements, towers and building, it was clear the Fomorii were everywhere. It would take all his skill and a large dose of luck to slip by them unseen; if he were spotted at this early stage he wouldn't stand a chance.
His task was to find where the Fomorii had established their entrance to whatever lay beneath the castle; his only chance of discovery was to follow some of the Bastards to the location. He guessed, though, that entrance could lie in the Castle Vaults, which were on the closest level to the base rock. But his progress wasn't going to be easy-the Fomorii patrol was marching back and forth across the Middle Ward, barring his advance. At least his detailed preparation had left him with a fairly comprehensive knowledge of the castle's labyrinthine byways. Slowly, he edged backwards through the shadows until he found the Lang Stairs, seventy mediaeval steps that led up into the mist. Cautiously he advanced up them; if a Fomor was coming in the opposite direction, the haar would prevent him knowing until they were on top of each other.
By the time he reached the top he was covered in a cold sweat. Somewhere ahead he could hear the crunch of footsteps in the snow. Quickly he dashed past the rows of cannon lining the battlements until he found another hiding place. At that point he was off the beaten track and the chance of another Fomorii patrol passing by was slim. He squatted down and caught his breath, wondering what Church would have done in the same situation. The tension was so high it would have been easy to turn back, but his evening of conversation with Reynolds had filled him with an uncommon, fiery hope; he really believed he could reach Ruth, get her out, even. And then, perhaps, she would recognise him for who he truly was.
It was too cold to remain in one spot for long. Crown Square, with its clustering, towering buildings, was his best chance for cover as he made his way towards the Castle Vaults. At the square's east entrance he paused to survey the scene. It was quiet and deserted, the snow deep and unbroken across the broad expanse. The mist drifted hazily along the rooftops. To his right, the Scottish National War Memorial loomed up, dark and foreboding; there would be no one in there at least, among the silent monuments to those who had died in defence of the realm. The other buildings around the square could well be occupied, but they were all dark too.
Warily, he stepped out; the snow crunched unnervingly loudly under his feet. The exit to the vaults was directly opposite him, just a stone's throw across the way. He had made it halfway across when he came up sharp. The lights from the Upper Ward that filtered into the square were suddenly throwing a large, distorted shadow on to one of the walls ahead of him. Veitch had only an instant to think before launching himself to his left and his only possible hiding place: the Great Halls, where the door hung open.
The shadow was across almost the entire square as he threw himself through the opening. He prayed he had been quick enough, but as he scurried into the gloom his foot clipped the door and it swung shut. It must have been seen by whoever was approaching, for it was followed by the insistent, nauseating barks and shrieks of the Fomorii dialect. Veitch propelled himself into the main hall and searched for a hiding place. If he could lie low, the Fomorii guard might simply think the door had been blown shut by the wind.
The darkness in the hall was magnified by the oppressive wooden panelling beneath the deep red walls and heavy beams which supported the vaulted roof. Stained-glass windows along one wall allowed dull beams of light to filter through. The hall was a museum to armoury: swords, pikes, spears, shields, breastplates and helmets were everywhere. Two heavy wooden chairs stood in front of an enormous stone fireplace at one end. Veitch dived behind them into the shadowy hearth and waited there.
A second after he'd settled, footsteps echoed across the room. He peered under the chairs to see a Fomor disguised as a Royal Scots Dragoon march into the centre of the hall and slowly survey it. Veitch held his breath, every muscle of his body tense. The moment was suspended for what felt like hours until the creature turned and began to walk back towards the door. Just as Witch was about to breathe again, the guard stopped, threw one more glance around, then began to fumble for a radio at its belt. Veitch knew instantly from the body language what was intended: a warning of a potential intruder, or just a call to be more vigilant; either way, it was bad news.
The thought had barely registered when he was stealthily slipping out from behind the chairs. As the guard brought the radio up, Witch pulled a stout short sword silently from a baize-covered display table and began to creep across the floor. He could catch it unawares, drive the sword into the base of its skull before it had a chance to raise the alarm. He'd seen how powerful the things were; he didn't want to risk a face-to-face confrontation.
He slid quickly across the room, raising the sword as he moved. He was almost ready to put his shoulder behind the plunge when the radio suddenly let out an ear-piercing shriek. In a split second it had changed form, like mercury being dropped on to the floor. A silver sheen flooded over it as it sprouted legs like a spider before scurrying up the guard's arm, where it proceeded to shriek.
Veitch only had the barest instant to realise the thing was a Caraprix-one of the symbiotic shape-shifting creatures which both the Tuatha De Danann and Fomorii carried with them-before the guard was whirling. In the same fluid motion his human face began to melt away like candle-wax, rolling, pluming, becoming something so hideous it made Veitch's gorge rise. He tried not to look as he continued with his sword stroke, driving it towards the creature's head. But the Fomor had shifted enough for the blade to glance off its shoulderbone or whatever the unpleasant ridge was that was materialising under the guard's shirt, splitting it open.
The creature swung something that had been an arm but now resembled a scorpion's tail, still changing, catching him hard on the side of the head. He flew sideways, hitting the floor hard as purple stars burst in his brain.
He rolled on to his back as the Fomor advanced like a reptile, indistinct and dark and sickening, smelling of raw meat. Veitch gave himself wholly over to instinct, that strange fighting prowess that had gradually emerged from deep within him. He propelled himself forward, tangling himself in the creature's legs. Its momentum carried it forward and over him. As it fell, he held up the sword, then rolled out of the way at the last moment. The Fomor's own weight drove the sword through its neck and into its skull. It lay on the floor twitching and shrieking, leaking a substance that smelled so bad Veitch had to fight back the nausea.
The Caraprix, too, was wailing. It leapt from the fallen guard and scuttled across the floor. Veitch reacted instantly. He jumped forward and stamped down hard with one heavy boot, splattering it in a burst of grey ichor; its wail of alarm was cut off midnote.
Witch allowed himself one moment of relief, scarcely able to believe he had killed one of the creatures, though he still didn't fancy his chances in a direct fight. Then he hurried over to the wall display, selected another short sword and a dagger which he tucked into his jacket, then a crossbow and some bolts, which he hung on a strap over his shoulder. And then he headed hastily to the door to see if anything had responded to the creature's dying cries.
The square was as quiet and deserted as when he had first seen it. The only tracks were the guard's and his own. Quickly he ran to the west exit from the square. He could hear the patrol still moving around the Middle Ward, but there was nothing between him and the Castle Vaults.
