cauldron had been prepared. His eyes were drawn back to the cauldron by something he hadn't first noticed. Church squinted, then looked away in disgust from the torso and head hooked over one side by a trailing arm.
Fighting back the nausea, he continued to scan the room as best he could. It quickly became apparent what its use was. Various torture instruments he had only ever seen on display in mediaeval castles hung in the half-light between the outer shadows and the furnace's ruddy glow: an iron cage, a large studded wheel, a rack of cruelly tipped tools whose uses he could only guess at, a curtain of hooked chains that hung from the ceiling, and more that he couldn't bring himself to examine.
Before his terror had chance to take root, a heavy door in front of him ground open, framing Calatin and two other beasts in the outer light. Although Church couldn't bear to look at them, he didn't feel so close to blacking out; he could only imagine he was growing numb to their horrors which upset him more than he could have believed.
Calatin glanced at him in a manner that suggested Church was almost beneath his notice before turning his attention to the creature at the furnace. They spoke briefly in that yelping, bizarre language, and from the body language and tone Church guessed Calatin was in some position of power. But as he advanced, Church saw he was shaking as if he had an ague and his face had the drawn, wearied expression of someone battling against illness. When he reached the table where Church was strapped, Calatin allowed himself one brief look which was filled with such contempt it was as if all the sourness brought on by that inner struggle had been flushed out in Church's direction.
'What now?' Church said. The two words were all he could manage without the knot of fear in his stomach breaking his voice and cracking the mask he had drawn on to protect his dignity; he had to fight to prevent his eyes being drawn to the cruel tools hanging on the wall, to prevent the images of blood and suffering flooding his mind. But deep inside him there was a place that the fear couldn't reach, where he was calmly aware of his responsibilities and of keeping his humanity intact in the face of an evil that wanted to see it broken and debased. The essence of the hero he had denied was in there too, and it startled him to recognize it, as if someone had shone a searchlight to reveal a new, pristine room in his flat.
Calatin ignored his question. He turned sharply and summoned one of the creatures who had accompanied him. The beast was carrying one of the tools he had selected from the rack, a long, sharp spike like a knitting needle which ended with a short corkscrew. Compared with the other implements on show, it was one of the mildest, but Church knew it was only the start.
'We have the Wayfinder,' Calatin began in a whining, reedy voice. 'I am astonished you would allow such a valuable and powerful tool to slip so easily from your grasp. And now you have frittered it away as if it meant no more to you than a passing fancy.'
Church stared him in the eye, but said nothing. Calatin's words were too close to the bone.
'We cannot use it, nor bear too long to be in its presence, but with it secured here your feeble compatriots should be blind to the locations of the Quadrillax,' Calatin continued. He sucked in a deep breath and said, 'We know you have the stone. Where is it?'
Church looked at him, straight through him, preparing his mind for what lay ahead.
The pain that lanced through his leg was excrutiating, and although he had hoped he could survive a while without calling out, it was impossible; his yell burned his throat. The beast removed the bloodstained corkscrew from Church's thigh and held it up so the scarlet droplets splattered his shirt. Church could feel his jeans growing wet around his wound.
'I know you're going to kill me,' he gasped, 'so there's no point me telling you anything.'
'It will be many days before we kill you, and plenty of roads of pain to explore before then.' Calatin leaned over until Church could smell the foul reek of his breath. 'But this is the beginning and all roads lead from here. I will ask you again: where is the stone?'
Church closed his eyes, muttered a prayer, and then screamed and screamed.
Calatin's voice floated to him through the waves of pain, fading in and out with the susurration of the tides.
'… citadels are hidden in the dark places beneath the earth. We are scattered to the four winds. No point on this island is free from us. And we wait and we wait, for we have waited for so long, until the stars are aligned, the seasons are ready, until the gates fall open forever and we can see to eternity. The end…'
Fading in and fading out. Calatin standing nearby, talking as if to himself, his eyes fixed firmly on some inner horizon, painting a picture of future terror.
'… your land will be transformed. The eternal night will be drawn across the fields and hills, the moors and rivers, and not even the brightest light will pierce the gloom. Blood will flow through the streets of your cities like rivers and we will have fresh meat on our plates at every meal. Madness will strike you down when you look upon the face of the returned ones and know no prayer will deter them, no god will be listening. Your voice will have no authority in the face of powers you thought impossible. Your people will be herded, screaming, desperate, alone …'
Darkness and pain. Hiding in the hole of his head, digging down deep until he could find that spot where the hero lay sleeping, waiting to be wakened to defend the island once more. But the road to the cave was long and filled with unquiet spirits. Marianne was there, repeatedly. She blew him a kiss as she jumped off the tube on her way to her interview in Wardour Street. She paddled in the warm waters of Ganavan, splashing him with her feet before they rushed to the dunes to make love. And she stood on the deck of a boat as the rising sun painted the Thames red, offering a kiss that transformed his life. Then she was speaking the words of the young Marianne, about life and death, the two of them merging into one. Here there was meaning and that gave him the strength to continue.
He awoke on the straw of the cell once more, his body afire with agony, his clothes soaked with blood.
'I thought you were dead,' Witch's voice floated over him. He tried to speak, but the words were strangled in his throat. Rough hands grabbed his head and levered it up so he could take some stagnant water on his tongue from a wooden bowl. Witch's face fell in and out of focus, concerned, yet also filled with the fear of his own memories. 'You look like shit. And I thought I had it bad when that bastard got me in his little playpen.' He heaped some straw with one hand, then lowered Church's head gently on to it. 'If it's any consolation, I don't think you told them anything. He was in a foul mood when they threw you in here. You're a better man than me. I'd have given up my nan if they'd asked me.'
Church closed his eyes and felt a wave of relief settle through him like mist. He feared he might have said something and forgotten it in his pain-induced delirium, but he had come through. Ironically, the suffering had driven him so far inside himself he had found what he had been looking for all along: the sleeping hero. And now he did feel different: stronger, more confident, less concerned by the petty fears and mundane terrors which had been undermining him for so long. Not even the thought of more torture could bring him down. He felt reborn.
'We find strength in hardship,' he croaked deliriously. Veitch saw the smile on his face and asked him if he were going mad from the pain, but Church was already drifting off into a recuperative sleep.
He didn't know how long he had been out, but he felt much better when the sound of the door disturbed him. He managed to lever himself on to his side to see two shadowy forms dragging what appeared to be a shapeless sack before throwing it into the other cell. When they had left he watched it closer. After a while it moved, then groaned.
'Are you okay?' His voice still sounded tissue-paper thin.
There was silence for a minute, and then the new arrival pulled himself weakly across the floor and used the bars to haul himself into a half-sitting, halfleaning position. In the flickering torchlight, Church saw an old man, his face haggard from suffering, his grey hair dirty and matted. He looked about a hundred. But then, gradually, Church saw through the mask crafted by pain and a wave of horror swept over him.
'Tom?' he hissed. Nearby, Veitch stirred and looked up.
The man looked across at Church, his piercing grey eyes now dull and flat. 'I never thought they would do it.' His voice was frailer than Church's, rustling on the edge of hearing, so weak it seemed he was only a step away from death. 'The old ways do not matter to them any more. They are so sure of their power, of victory, they feel able to ignore everything that has been established. I never thought..
Veitch knelt down next to Church. 'Who's that?'
Church explained briefly, then said to Tom, 'Did Calatin do this to you?'
'He wanted to know if the others still had the power without you.' Tom's Scottish brogue was stronger in his
