His suffering had driven him insane and he had been stalking the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons as architects of his pain, cutting off fingers in a ritual that only he truly understood. He murdered Shavi with one blow of his knife, then loped away in pursuit of the others.
At Mam Tor, on the eve of Lughnasadh, the Fomorii attacked in force. Church sent Laura to stand guard over Ruth in the cottage while he faced up to Calatin in a mirror image of the confrontation on Skye that had led to his death. Although badly injured, this time Church had an advantage: the black sword bequeathed him by Mollecht. It had a life of its own, shaping his attack, then plunging into Calatin's heart of its own volition. Calatin was eradicated on the spot, a fate beyond imagining for a god unable to be completely destroyed. And then the sword revealed its true form: it was Mollecht's shape-shifting Caraprix.
Before the Fomorii could seek revenge, the Bone Inspector led Maponus into their midst, where the mad god wreaked vengeance for his suffering. When the carnage was finally over and the Fomorii fled, the Tuatha De Danann reclaimed their insane kinsman.
Then, in the middle of victory, there was only one last, terrible act for Church: to kill Ruth and prevent Balor from being reborn. As he approached the cottage with a heavy heart, Ruth stepped out, seemingly freed from the corruption of Balor. But nothing is ever that simple. Cernunnos had appeared during the battle and offered his potion to Laura, who accepted the sacrifice to save Ruth. The essence of Balor was transferred from Ruth to Laura, an act of spiritual redemption that would mean her own death. As Ruth gradually came round, Mollecht and his loyal Fomorii broke in and took Laura; the crowcreature's supremacy in the Fomorii hierarchy was now assured.
Unable to come to terms with the act of sacrifice from a woman they had both considered beyond saving, Church and Ruth waited for Lughnasadh to dawn. There was no fire from heaven, nor instant destruction, just a sense of sadness in the air, a darkening of the sky and the smell of ashes in the wind. Somewhere distant, Balor had been reborn, and the last hope for the world had been extinguished.
But the one message the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons instilled in me was that there is always hope. It's a message I'm going to keep circulating to bring us through these dark times. A new dawn will come. We just have to believe.
Until next time.
Chapter One
Icy rain blasted across the deserted seafront like stones thrown by a petulant.child. Jack Churchill and Ruth Gallagher kept their heads down, the hoods of their windcheaters up, as they spurred their horses out of the dark countryside. Despite the storm, the ever-present smell of burning was acrid on the back of their throats. Twilight lay heavy on the Cornish landscape, adding to the abiding atmosphere of failure; of a world winding down to die. The heavy clouds rolling across the sea where the lightning flashed in white sheets told them the storm would only grow worse as the night closed in.
Dead streetlamps lined the road, markers for the abandoned vehicles that were rusting monuments to the death of the twenty-first century. Occasionally they caught a glimpse of candles in windows or smelled smoke from fires in the houses that had hearths; beyond that, there was only the oppression of the growing gloom.
As they rounded a bend, a light burned brightly in the middle of the road. Surprised, they slowed their horses until they saw the illumination came from an old-fashioned lantern held aloft by a man wrapped in a sou'wester, struggling to keep himself upright in the face of the gale.
'Who goes there?' he said in a thick Cornish accent.
'Friends,' Church replied, 'who don't want to stay out in the night a moment longer than we have to.'
The lantern was raised higher to bring them into its glare. It illuminated the face buried deep in the shadows of the hood: suntanned; grey, bushy beard. He eyed them suspiciously. 'Where've you come from?' he yelled above the wind.
'A long way.' Ruth fought to keep her lank hair from her face. 'We started off in the Peak District. It's taken us days-'
'Aye, well, it would.' He looked from one to the other, still unsure.
As the lantern shifted again, Church noticed a shotgun in the crook of his arm. 'You haven't got anything to worry about-'
'You can't trust anyone these days.' He nodded towards a pub that glimmered with candlelight a few yards away. 'In there.'
Church and Ruth dismounted and led their horses towards the inn. The man followed a few paces behind; Church could feel the shotgun pointed in his direction. But as they tied up their steeds in a makeshift shelter adjoining the pub, the guard relented a little. 'Any news?' A pause. 'What's the world like out there?'
Ruth shook the worst of the moisture off her hair. 'As bad as you'd expect.'
The guard's shoulders slumped. 'Without the telly or the radio it's hard to tell. We hoped-'
'No,' Ruth said bluntly.
It sounded unduly harsh. Church added sympathetically, 'We followed the M5, then the main roads down here. We never ventured into any of the big towns or cities, but-'
'Nothing's working,' the guard finished.
Church nodded.
'You better get in the pub,' the man said with a sigh. 'We haven't had any trouble here in town, but you never know. We've seen what's out there,'-he peered into the night-'and sooner or later they're going to get brave enough to come in.'
'You're on watch all night?' Ruth asked.
'We do shifts. Everybody's involved. We're trying to keep things going. They'll tell you more in the pub.'
Heads down, they ran from the shelter, but before they reached the door a crack of lightning burst over the sea. Church stopped to stare down the street.
'What is it?' Ruth blinked away the rain, following his eyes.
'I thought I saw something in the light.'
'Probably another guard.'
'It was on the rooftops, moving quickly. Looked like…' He paused. 'Let's get inside.'
A blazing log fire in the grate was the most welcoming sight they had seen in days. With the candles flickering in old wine bottles all around the room, it created a dreamy impression of another time. About thirty people were gathered around. A young mother with a baby watched some children playing near the hearth. Four old men played cribbage in one corner with the grim determination of a life-or-death struggle. Everyone looked up when they entered. In one instant Church took in curiosity, suspicion and fear.
He was distracted by a glimpse of himself in a mirror as he passed. His dark hair was now almost down to his shoulders, and his close-cropped goatee was a sign he'd given up fighting against predestination; he resembled the future vision he'd had of himself in the Watchtower between the worlds, watching a city burn. His features fell into a naturally troubled expression that served to make him look older. But Ruth didn't look any different. Her long brown hair tumbled in ringlets around her shoulders while her face still looked as pretty and serene as the first time he had seen it. There was something new there, though: an enduring confidence that gave her bearing.
A burly man in his fifties hurried over, one large hand outstretched. His skin had the ruddiness of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors in all weathers. 'Welcoming committee,' he said in a loud, deep voice. They each shook his hand in turn. He was Malcolm, a local businessman. 'What brings you to Mousehole? Don't get many tourists these days.' Although he was friendly enough, the steely scent of fear was palpable in the atmosphere.
What's happening to us all? Church wondered.
'We're looking for a safe haven.' Ruth's calmness was the perfect antidote; Church could see everyone warm to her instantly. 'It's not very pleasant out there.' Her understatement made them smile.
'Any idea what's happened?' Malcolm's eyes showed he was both hopeful and afraid of what her answer might be. 'We thought… some kind of nuclear exchange…?'
