"But the danger of us all going together is that it is easier to stop us with one well-timed strike," Shavi noted. "They would be able to target all their resources at us."
"Good point," Veitch mused. "All right, we split up. But we do our damnedest to get to where we're going, even if it means leaving all those goldenskinned twats behind." He nodded to Niamh and Baccharus curtly. "No offence."
"And we all know where we're going," Laura said. "That big tower they're throwing up near the City. I saw it up close. That has to be the place."
"At the ritual in Scotland, when we summoned the dead for guidance, they told us we needed to find the Luck of the Land before we could beat Balor," Shavi noted. "Do we have any more of an idea what that means?"
Tom shifted uncomfortably. "That is not a matter to concern us now."
"Why not?" Veitch asked suspiciously.
"Heed me." Tom's voice was unduly stern. "When we are closer to the confrontation."
Church noticed Ruth was deep in thought. "What's on your mind?" he asked.
She looked at him with a curious expression. "What you said about Maurice Gibbons. It made me think how much else we missed that was right in front of our eyes."
The war council took place in a heavily guarded marquee of purple silk, deep in the heart of the camp. It was at the centre of an area where all the higher-born gods had congregated, and the sense of dislocation as Church and the others entered was palpable.
Many gods were already waiting in the tent, communicating quietly, and in some cases, silently. Church recognised Nuada Airgetlamh, his almond eyes like razor blades in his golden face, and Lugh, with his long mane of black hair and his torso bearing the scars of battle; both of them exuded power. But there were many Church didn't know. Their faces shimmered and changed as his gaze passed across them. He saw famous generals, renowned political leaders at times of crisis, a bully he recalled from school, the hardened casts of terrorists and revolutionaries, but eventually their images settled down into distinctive personalities, all of them grim. Church had the unshakeable feeling the important things had already been discussed and agreed.
"I offer the greetings of the Golden Ones to the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, who have served us so well in the past," Nuada said, seemingly unconscious of his patronising attitude. "You know me as Fragile Creatures have known me in the past: Nuada Airgetlamh, wielder of Caledfwlch, which in my wisdom I have gifted to you, Dragon Brother. Your people have also known me as Nudd, of the Night, as Llud, and Lud, founder of this place on whose doorstep we stand-Londinium. This is my place where, in the Fixed Lands, I stand supreme. This is where Fragile Creatures bowed their heads to me, made offerings of the little things that had importance in their brief lives. Where blood ran, where my heart beats."
Lugh's eyes were fixed on his Spear, which Ruth held tightly to her side. She felt uncomfortable at the attention, as if he were desperate to wrest it from her.
"You Brothers and Sisters of Dragons have proved your worth," Nuada continued, "and it has been deemed that you should wield the Quadrillax on our behalf. Only with those objects of power will the Heart of Shadows finally be wiped from all existence. But the path to it will be hard. Too hard for Fragile Creatures. And so the Golden Ones have agreed to drive a route through the shadows, to protect you from the attacks of the Night Walkers, until you are in a position to carry out the act required of you. Does this meet with your agreement?"
All eyes turned to Church. "It does."
"Then this is what is suggested. There will be three lines of attack into the city, until the Heart of Shadows' location is established. I will lead the drive from the north. My brother, whom you know as Lugh, will bring our forces from the west. And the Master will take Wave Sweeper along the river into the centre of the city."
"And that will be the most important," Church said, "because it will take us directly to one of the entrances to the Fomorii lair."
Nuada's gaze was incisive. "You have access to secrets, Brother of Dragons."
Church gave nothing away.
Tom stepped forward. "May I speak?"
"Your exalted position is recognised, True Thomas."
"Then I would suggest the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons divide into teams to ensure the best chance of success. Ruth and Ryan will join you in the attack from the north."
Ruth went cold. Surreptitiously, she glanced over at Veitch, but his gaze was fixed firmly on Nuada.
"Shavi and Laura will come from the west with Lugh," Tom continued. "And I and the Bone Inspector will accompany Church through the secret tunnels. Though he is powerful, he is also young, and we have the experience to guide him through the darkest turns."
Nuada nodded. "Your views are acceptable, True Thomas."
Laura smirked and whispered to Church behind her hand, "Fun day out with the senior citizen club for you, boy. Hope you don't get in any fights or there'll be Zimmer frames all over the place."
"Use the Quadrillax wisely," Nuada said. "You have already drawn the Sword from the stone of disbelief. Now is the time to fire it with your heart. And the others-each must be used at the right time, in the correct manner, with the full weight of your essence behind you, and even then victory is not assured. Much death and suffering lies ahead. This is a period of pain that will be remembered when the stars go out. Go well, Brothers and Sisters of Dragons. Your world turns with you."
They left the tent to prepare themselves for what lay ahead. The joy of their initial reunion had dissipated, to be replaced by an oppressive sense of foreboding. There were no jokes or smiles; they were lost to their own thoughts as they wrestled with their secret fears or searched for the depths of strength that would get them through the coming hours.
Veitch was the last to leave. Before he had gone ten paces from the tent, Nuada called him back.
"We have seen your sacrifice," the god said, motioning to Witch's bandaged wrist. "I know only too well the pain of such a wound." He removed a glove that covered an ornately crafted silver hand that looked like it had come from some futuristic robot. "The scars go much deeper than the skin."
Nuada's eyes felt like they were going right through him. "I had to do it to bring my mate back. I'm not bitter about it."
"Not bitter, no." Nuada smiled knowingly. "Still, I understand your heart, Brother of Dragons. Listen, then: if you are to be effective, you will need a new hand. Would you like that?"
"Can you do it?"
Nuada indicated the silver hand again. "We are gods. We can do anything."
The tent was the deepest red, so that within even the air had the hint of blood. It was enormous, bigger even than the marquee where the war council had met, with numerous annexes and branching passages so it was impossible to see all of it from one view. Nuada presented Veitch to Dian Cecht, who wore robes of scarlet. He carried himself with bearing, his features as aristocratic as his manner: a high forehead above a Roman nose, sharp, grey eyes and gunmetal hair tied in a ponytail.
"We have little time," Nuada said, as Dian Cecht gently unfastened the material on Veitch's wrist stump.
"It is a simple operation on a Fragile Creature." Dian Cecht examined the burnt flesh, then shrugged and turned away, motioning for Veitch to follow.
They came to a room set with several tables. Cruel-looking silver instruments were laid out on small trays next to each table. Dian Cecht nodded for Veitch to lie down, then busied himself at a large cabinet at one end. He returned with a wooden box inlaid with gold, which he placed on the tray next to Veitch. Inside, on a velvet inlay, was a silver hand the exact replica of the one Nuada wore. "A spare," Dian Cecht said with a smile.
Veitch felt a faint flutter of excitement; the thought of being whole once more was seductive. Dian Cecht gave him a foul-tasting potion to drink, which instantly made him sleepy. After a moment he was drifting in and out of hallucinatory waking dreams, filled with strange, disturbing images, including one of a black and a white spider fighting furiously over him. He was vaguely aware of Dian Cecht working on his wrist with a long knife with three rotating blades; the smell of blood filled his nostrils with surprising potency. A glimmer of silver in the corner of his eye told him the hand was about to be fitted. He watched with the curious detachment of a drug trip as Dian Cecht placed it against his stump, now soaked with blood.