At the instant the blood touched the pristine silver, three arms snapped out of the hand and poised erect; on each one was a row of sharp silver spikes. Veitch only had a second to consider what was going to happen next before the arms suddenly sprung down, driving the spikes deep into the bone and muscle of his wrist. Even through the sedation, he screamed in agony, but there was more pain to follow: something within the hand was burrowing into his arm, wrapping its way around ligaments and tissue, bonding with nerves and veins.
Witch's throat grew raw from screaming and a moment later he blacked out.
Church and Ruth stood behind their tent, embracing each other silently. The weight of what they wanted to say was too great, crushing them silent. Ruth blinked off tears as she pulled away. She forced a smile.
"We'll be meeting again soon," Church said gently. "In the hideous lair of the one-eyed god of death. How about that for a one-off?"
"Oh, very romantic. Every girl's dream."
"At least you'll never forget it."
Neither could bring themselves to discuss the possibility that they might not see each other again; the occasion called for sweeping optimism and hope and faith.
They pulled away, ready to meet the others, but Ruth turned and caught Church's arm. "Be careful," she said with a quiet intensity that moved him.
Tom poked his head round the corner of the tent. "For God's sake, get a move on! They're not going to hold up the end of the world for you."
The others were waiting quietly. Veitch looked pale and drained, but his new hand was a source of wonder and he appeared proud of it. The others were not so sure. "What did they demand in return for that?" Tom asked harshly. When Veitch told him nothing, he said, "I'm very disappointed in you," before walking away.
"Just be careful, Ryan," Church said to him. "They can't be trusted. And they're not known for their charity."
"'Course I'll be careful." Veitch couldn't help examining the hand in the light. "I'm whole again. That's what matters." He was patently oblivious to the foreboding that filled the rest of them.
At that time, though, they couldn't hold it against him. They hugged in turn-even Veitch and Tom. They knew each other well enough not to need to say anything more.
Once they were all on their horses, Church couldn't part without adding something. "This is what it's all been leading to, all that pain and hardship and suffering. We've been to hell and back and we've come through it. Of all the people who could have been here at this point, I'm glad it's you, all of you. You're the best there is, and I'm proud to be one of you."
Veitch looked to the horizon, his cheeks flushed. "Yeah, well, we're not going to let you down, boss. Death or glory, and all that."
"Just glory," Laura corrected.
In the moments before they departed, Church found himself turning over the wild parade of events that had led them to that place. At the start it had seemed so simple: a straight fight between good and evil for the sake of humanity. Instead, they had found themselves probing the very mysteries of existence, travelling through worlds where reality and illusion intermingled until it was impossible to tell what was real and what was not. There had been so much hardship, pain and death on every side, yet, ironically, it had been the best time of his life. He had become a better person because of it, although he knew he still had a way to go.
Now it was back to being a simple fight once more: humanity against all the alien powers that were attempting to deny its destiny. And all to be decided in two short days. He hoped they were up to the obligation that had been placed on their shoulders.
They rode over a slight rise to see a massive army spread out across the countryside in the wan October sunlight. As the call went out somewhere at the head, a charge of excitement ran through all of them. A grin jumped like wildfire from one to the other. After the weariness of all the buildup, the culmination came like a jolt of energy. Veitch gave a triumphant yell and then they spurred their horses to join the others, lost to the pump of the blood in their heads.
When they were finally in motion, it looked like a sea of gold was sweeping across the countryside towards the capital. Within it, Church and the others felt enveloped in a dreamy, yellow haze, where figures and horses faded into the background, to be replaced by an amorphous feeling of wonder.
The journey passed in a blur, faster than they could ever have galloped on normal horses. They only slowed when London hove into view, and in that instant all brightness drained from them. In the centre of the city, the monstrous black tower rose up, its summit lost in the clouds that swirled continually overhead. Greasy black smoke lapped up towards them from the fires that burned all around. There were things flying, and things moving on the ground, but Church didn't focus on any of them.
All he could think of was the prophecy of him watching a burning city that had haunted his nights since his visit to the watchtower between the worlds. It had felt like the ultimate in desolation, and as he sat there, watching the scene for real for the first time, he understood how true that feeling had been.
Chapter Seventeen
Despite all they had seen, Laura and Shavi were still overwhelmed by the incongruous sight of an army of otherworldly beings trooping along the M4, where tourist buses and cars and articulated lorries had once trundled bumper to bumper. Occasionally they passed an abandoned vehicle, windows smeared in thick dust, that only added to the sense of dislocation.
There had been a brief flurry of activity as they came into London past the now-silent Heathrow Airport. A group of Fomorii had attacked, shrieking and howling, but it had been half-hearted and directionless, and the attackers had drifted off once their casualties had started to mount. The Tuatha De Danann were armed with a terrifying array of weapons constructed by Goibhniu and his brothers in their secret smithies, some of which could deal death at a great distance, but it did not appear that this show of strength was the cause of the retreat. Many of the Fomorii had disappeared into the houses that lined the motorway, while the flying Night Walkers had retreated into the bank of thick clouds.
"I expected greater defiance," Baccharus said as the road wound past Osterley towards Brentford. "They will not allow us to drive directly into the heart of their nest, where their most sacred thing resides."
The atmosphere didn't help the growing apprehension. When the wind blew in the wrong direction, Shavi and Laura had to cover their mouths and noses with scarves to keep out the choking smoke filled with sickening chemical undertones. It was cold, too, the sun mostly obscured by the clouds; they were wearing several layers of borrowed clothes beneath their old jackets.
The fires blazing near to the motorway brought little warmth, but cast a hellish red glow across the empty houses, shops and business premises. Homes stood with doors torn off and windows smashed. In some the roof had caved in, while in the worst places entire streets had been demolished. Although many areas appeared relatively untouched, it was almost impossible to imagine the Fomorii occupation, and how terribly the residents must have suffered.