A fluttering bundle of rags emerged from the gloom at the back of the chamber. Beneath the broad-brimmed hat, the hot coal eyes glowed as intensely as Church recalled. 'I am here.' His voice was a chill wind over a graveyard.
Church put the confusing scenario to the back of his mind. There were more important subjects. But first he had to know if he was right. 'Did you kill Cormorel?'
'He did not,' Baccharus interjected.
'I want to hear it from him.'
'I do not kill.'
Church nodded thoughtfully. 'You said you were a Messenger. With a mes sage for me. A message that was very clear.' The Walpurgis stared, said nothing. 'What is the message?'
'Do you not want your dream examined?'
The Walpurgis was talking about the hidden memory of who had really killed Marianne; the identity of the traitor amongst them. 'Yes. More than anything. But first, this.'
The Walpurgis came forward, pushing cold air before him that raised the goosebumps on Church's arms. When he was only a few feet away, the tattered creature intoned gravely, 'You will find no peace in this world. For some, that is the way it must be.'
Church's heart fell. The Walpurgis's words were like a death knell, tolling out his deepest fears.
'But you must not lose hope.' The Walpurgis reached out a papery hand. 'You must never lose hope. You are part of something much larger than what lies around you. Many will benefit from your sacrifice.'
'Do you think that's enough?' The bitterness in Church's voice shocked even himself. He looked around the gathered faces and was unnerved by how they were hanging on his every word. 'All the pain I've already had. My girlfriend… my love… the love of my life… murdered. All the grief that followed, beating myself up because I thought she'd committed suicide, that I was responsible. Laura… the young Marianne… all the other ones I've seen die.' Ruth's face flashed into his mind, followed by a sharp pang of regret that was almost painful. 'And now I can see a way out, some kind of good life ahead for a change, and you're telling me it's not going to happen? No fucking way.'
The Walpurgis took another pace with his outstretched hand, oddly comforting now, but Church waved it away.
'I don't want to hear it.'
'These things are written, Jack.' Baccharus's voice was sympathetic too.
'What do you know about it?'
'You are a Brother of Dragons-'
'Yes, I know my responsibility and I've accepted it. But once I've done all I can do, that's it. No more Fabulous Beasts, no more waking the sleeping king and all that Arthurian shit, no more Blue Fire. I'm getting my life back.'
'Then you think you can actually do something? In the face of such overwhelming odds? That a life still awaits you?' Baccharus's words, as always, were calm and measured.
Church turned back to the Walpurgis. 'Now. I want to know who killed Marianne.'
'There is always something bigger, Jack.' Baccharus's voice sounded closer and more intense, although he had not taken a step. 'Bigger powers. Bigger plans.'
'Show me,' Church said harshly to the Walpurgis.
The Walpurgis began to move. Church felt butterflies in his stomach. This was it: the final, bitter revelation. He put his head back, closed his eyes and waited for the Walpurgis to push his fingers into Church's mind.
Something was nagging at him as he waited. Not the silence in the room, so heavy he could almost feel currents flowing through it. Not the way the hairs on the back of his neck were prickling, the way his gut was knotting in dread at what he would discover. He felt his nostrils flaring and that triggered recognition; smell, the least developed of all his senses, the reason why he had not been able to pinpoint Marianne's killer. Smell.
An odour was shifting gently through the room, caught on the subtle movements of air caused by the heat from the torches. The primal part of his brain kicked into gear, generating memories before he had even identified the source: the adrenalin, wild, wild action and then the rush of terror that was so all consuming it could only come from one source. The stinking, zoo-cage smell of them.
'Fomorii.' The word was on his lips before the thought had found purchase in his head. It appeared to be a word of power, for in the instant that followed, very many things happened at once: there was a rushing through the chamber like a mighty wind; the smell grew suddenly choking; his eyes snapped open to reveal faces frozen in disbelief; and movement, all around, so rapid his eyes at first couldn't focus on it, like the shadows in the room were breathing.
The Walpurgis was framed in his field of vision, hanging in that single moment like everything else in the room. Church took in the seething red eyes, which glowed brighter, as if fanned by the breeze, the wide-brimmed hat, the tattered black rags of his body. And in the next instant they started to come apart. Scarlet lines were being drawn across the figure. A section across the arm here, across the torso there, underlining the head, pointing up the waist. Spaces appeared between the segments; a hallucinogenic moment filled with fascination. The Walpurgis was falling apart.
He snapped from the moment as if someone had punched him in the face. The room was in turmoil. The occupants dashed here and there searching for an exit as dark shapes moved lethally amongst them. For only the briefest time, Church focused on the remains of the Walpurgis scattered across the floor before him, consumed by the immensity of what had been snatched away from him; wondering how his future life had been changed by that one moment.
And then he was moving instinctively, just as some heavy object whistled past his ear. One of his fellow passengers with tentacles where his face should be lay in chunks under his feet. He skidded on the remains before finding his balance, propelling himself toward the place where he had entered the secret chamber.
The Fomorii were all around, moving so quickly it was impossible for him to estimate how many of them there were.
His thoughts were cut short by a heavy axe that splintered into the wooden wall next to his head. Thinking would be the end of him; he gave himself wholly over to instinct. The chaos of fighting bodies, flashing weapons and striking limbs became a series of frozen instants through which he could dart and dive. All his reactions had improved immeasurably in recent times, more than just learning from experience; it was the Blue Fire, or Destiny, or whatever he wanted to call it. He was changing.
He dodged another Fomorii attack that increasingly appeared to be directed towards him. The Tuatha De Danann were fighting back ferociously. Church slid towards the entrance through a stinking, poisonous grue washing across the floor. But it was a solid wall, and he had no idea what Baccharus had done to make it accessible.
The stink and shadow overwhelmed him before he glimpsed any hint of movement; then he realised an axe was swinging down with such force it would likely cleave him in two. Reacting instantly, his hand was on his sword, whipping it up sharply. The blade just caught the handle of the axe at such an angle that it managed to deflect the strike slightly, but the impact jarred his bones so much he thought his teeth were coming out of his head. He went down on one knee. The Fomor was already raising the axe for the killing blow.
A flashing motion crossed the beast's throat and its thick, stinging blood came gushing out. Church threw himself out of the way at the last moment, watching as it sizzled into the wooden floor.
Baccharus stepped forward as the creature slumped down, wiping a small, sharp blade. 'Now, quickly.' He made a hand motion and muttered, and the wall became like water.
Church was just about to dive through when a figure burst out of the shimmering wall, knocking him to the ground. Others followed, and in a second he and Baccharus were surrounded. They were not Fomorii, but they were misshapen, lithe and reptilian, with scales and slit eyes. The Malignos, Church guessed. As they huddled around, bending over him with forked tongues darting, he felt so destabilised the only thought in his head was that they smelled like wet grass.
He saw a glint of teeth, sharp talons, and then the circle of them parted and in stepped a maliciously gleeful figure.
'Now we shall find a balance for old wrongs,' Callow said sardonically.
The voice sounded like the rustle of brown paper just beyond the window, where only the sea spray lived.
