Veitch shrugged.
'Doesn't that fill you with dread? It's been a source of nightmares for the human race since the dawn of our people, and with good cause.'
'Don't start getting all negative.' Veitch's body language showed he didn't want to hear any of Tom's cautionary tales. 'Over the last few months I've seen and done things that would have had me screaming like a bleedin' idiot when I was just some chancer down in South London. Everything's a nightmare-that's the way it is these days. You just get on with it. So let's get on with it.'
Tom cursed under his breath. 'I knew it would be like this. You never listen to advice, do you? If you are not prepared before you go into the Grim Lands, they may never allow you to leave.'
'They?' Veitch's brow furrowed. 'Me?'
'Well, I'm not going in there. It's your responsibility, and besides, I don't have that wonderful Pendragon Spirit coursing through my system. And did you think the Dead would just allow some breathing, heart-pumping warm memory of lost times waltz amongst them and take away one they consider their own? The Dead have their own rules and regulations, their own beliefs, their own jealousies and hatreds. And the Grim Lands themselves are…' He looked down so Veitch could barely see his face. '… not a pleasant place for the living.'
Veitch shuffled into a sitting position, annoyed that his good mood had been driven from him. 'I'm sick of all this,' he said obliquely.
'I'm sorry for having to say this, Ryan.' Tom surprised himself at the sincerity in his voice. 'You need to know. The archetype told us what you always believed: that there's still hope. But the outcome is never assured in these things. You need to understand that the danger of entering the Grim Lands would be, for many, insurmountable.' He paused. 'But if anyone can do it, you can.'
Veitch brightened at the vote of confidence.
'But as I warned Shavi in Edinburgh, there is a great risk in allowing the Dead to notice you. A price might be demanded that could be too much for you to bear-'
Veitch waved a dismissive hand. 'There's no point telling me that sort of stuff. You know I'm going to do it. I've got to go in for Shavi. How could I leave him there if there's a chance I could bring him out? That's what it's all about for me. Yeah, we might be able to do something to stop everything going belly up. But friendship, that's the important thing. You stand by your family, and you stand by your mates. Nothing comes up to that. Not even saving the world.'
Though he didn't show it, Tom was impressed by Veitch's sense of right and wrong, and his understanding of obligation, traits he thought had long been abandoned since the nineteen-sixties, the decade he most loved. 'As long as I know you're going into this with open eyes.'
'So how do I get there? Don't tell me there's some big doorway in the graveyard.'
'If only it were that easy. Firstly, we have to go to where Cernunnos has deposited Shavi's body for safekeeping.'
Veitch began his regular morning routine of stretching to help prepare his muscles for the day ahead. 'The Hill of Giants.'
'That is one of its names, though it is more commonly known as the Gog Magog Hills, just outside Cambridge.'
'Funny name.'
'In the old tales, Gog and Magog were the last of an ancient race of giants. They are supposed to sleep under the hills, with a giant horse along the way, and a golden chariot beneath nearby Mutlow Hill.'
Tom winced as Veitch cracked his knuckles, one after the other, oblivious to the Rhymer's displeasure. 'So, just to prove I've been listening, all these old stories you keep going on about actually mean something, though not usually exactly what they say.'
'They are an approximation, couched in metaphors.'
'So, what does this one mean? No real giants, right?'
'That needn't trouble you for now. I merely tell you this to underline that we will be travelling to a place of great power and significance. The ancient races were drawn to the hills for that power, in much the same way they revered Mam Tor. On the windswept summit is Wandlebury Camp where Boudicca and the Iceni plotted their revenge against the invaders. The Romans themselves took over the site later.'
'And that power's keeping Shavi's body safe?' A breeze blew along the floor of the glen, rustling the trees, making the phone wires sing.
'That and the fact that the hills have a guardian.'
'Yeah?'
'The archetype mentioned him-the Night Rider. In the legends he was supposed to have ruled Wandlebury Camp ages ago, and no mortal could ever defeat him. Those brave enough would ride out to the camp on a moonlit night and call, `Knight to knight, come forth!' He would ride out on his jet black stallion and happily accept the challenge. A further story from Norman times claimed a knight called Osbert went out to try to put the legend to rest. He managed to unseat the Night Rider and even took the black horse home to Cambridge, but was wounded in the thigh in the process. The horse disappeared at dawn, and on every anniversary of the battle his wound opened up and bled as if it were fresh.'
'So what part of that load of old bollocks is true?'
Tom bristled at Witch's typically irreverent reaction to the old myths and legends he held dear. 'I'm sure you will soon find out,' he replied tartly. 'The Night Rider has rarely been seen throughout the centuries-the Gog Magog Hills is a particularly lonely spot-but all who speak of him talk of a great threat which is not explicit in the stories. There is danger there, make no mistake. If such a powerful place requires a guardian, it would be a fearsome guardian indeed.'
'You expect me to be surprised?' Veitch kicked out the fire.
'I'm a little concerned that you're not taking this seriously-'
'I've had enough of taking things seriously. Since what happened to Ruth it's like that's all I've done. And if everything is going to end soon I don't want to end it like that.'
'Fair enough. Then the next question is-'
'How the hell do we get there in a hurry? I mean, Cambridge!' Veitch paced around anxiously. 'It's, what, five hundred miles away? No cars or planes or trains. That's crazy!'
'Horses,' Tom suggested.
'Still take too long.'
'A boat. We could sail up the Caledonian Canal, down the east coast to the fens-'
'No offence, mate, but I honestly don't fancy getting in a leaky old tub with you unless it's a last resort. I hate water.' He sighed. 'If it's the only option I'll do it, 'course I will, but it's still going to take too long.'
'Well, what do you suggest?' Tom snapped. 'We've gone back to the Middle Ages. A horse and a boat are top-of-the-range technology!'
Veitch chewed on his lip in thought. After a while he cast a sly glance towards Tom.
'What?' the Rhymer said sharply.
'Back at Tintagel when the crow man forced us over the edge of the cliff, you did something-'
'No,' Tom said firmly.
Veitch squatted down next to him. 'Yeah, you did, you did. You moved us all the way from Tintagel to Glastonbury. What's that? A hundred miles? Just like that!' He snapped his fingers.
'No.'
'Stop saying no or I'll punch your head in.'
Tom couldn't decide if he was joking. 'What I did then was a one off. I'd been taught the principle, but I'd never been able to do it before. I don't have the ability. I don't.'
'Then how did you do it?'
'The danger of the moment focused my mind. It was a subconscious act born of desperation. I couldn't repeat it if I wanted.'
'Maybe I should stand with my crossbow next to your head. Focus your mind again.'
Still Tom was unsure of Veitch's intention. His face was dangerously impenetrable, frightening in its coldness, with only the ever-present anger buzzing behind his eyes. 'That wouldn't do any good. Too staged.'
'Look, this is the answer, so we've got to make it work. Tell me about it. What makes it happen?' His eyes
