Mark Chadbourn - Jack of Ravens

‘Gods.’ Owein’s voice was scared. ‘See how they move through the trees? So fast and low. Surely they must have come from beneath the sea. Are they Fomorii?’

‘Enough talk!’ Conoran snapped. ‘Tannis, draw your slingshot.’

Church heard the creak of animal hide, and then the harsh clack of a flint being struck. A second later there was a whoosh and a crackle. A bright ball of light flared in the gloom before arcing across Church’s line of vision and disappearing into the trees. The tinder-dry summer wood flared up and quickly became a deafening roar. Above the crackling flames, Church heard a terrible sound, like furious pigs disturbed during feast.

‘Ride with the wind beneath you!’ Conoran bellowed.

Church was rushed along, bouncing so wildly he was convinced he would be jolted unconscious any moment. Somehow his delirium preserved him, and after ten minutes he dreamed a river took him to a night-land where a single boatman waited.

Eventually they came to a halt. He could only guess that their pursuers had fallen back. Someone lit a fire, which drove some of the aching chill from his bones, but its red light was uncommonly thin and he felt as though he was looking at it down a long tunnel. The others must have wandered away to forage for food, for their voices retreated to a distant tremor.

For a long time Church hovered in that limbo until the overwhelming odour of engine oil mysteriously appeared. An old woman’s face loomed over him, eyes red-rimmed in a face so filthy it looked as though the grime had been accumulating for decades. Her wiry hair was greasy and matted, and her breath was so foul it made Church gag.

‘Gods answer to gods, answer to gods,’ she whispered in a voice like rending metal, ‘and somehow the Voice of Existence trickles through to men.’ Church felt as if he was lying next to a massive generator; the atmosphere was distorted, infused with such an overpowering dread that he felt he might go insane with the intensity of emotion. ‘Hold hard. You must see the dawn,’ the woman continued.

And then she was gone in the blink of an eye, leaving Church unsure whether she had really been there.

‘It comes.’ Conoran’s voice made Church start; he had been convinced he was alone.

‘What comes?’ Church said weakly.

Conoran appeared in Church’s frame of vision. ‘You fight hard, Jack, Giantkiller. I was certain you would be dead before the dawn. But look, its first rays break. All is not lost.’

Tannis and Owein freed Church from the stretcher and propped him up. A thin line of silver lay to the east. In the firelight, Church could see they were sitting on a grassy bank, looking down on a thick forest of gorse. Just visible beyond it was a circle of scrubby yellowing grass, worn by many a foot. Several ghosts stood inside the circle, immobile. It took Church a few seconds to realise they were standing stones, glowing spectrally in the first glimmer of light.

‘Boskawen-Un,’ Conoran said reverently. ‘We must get you into the circle before the sun comes up.’

Tannis and Owein helped Church to his feet. His head spun and he couldn’t stand without their support.

‘What was hunting us?’ Church’s thready voice was almost lost to the breeze.

‘There will be time for that later.’ Conoran looked over his shoulder to the north. ‘If you survive what is to come, they will be waiting.’

Other outlying stones became visible around the central circle as Tannis and Owein helped Church down the slope to a thin path through the protecting gorse.

Once they were in the circle, Church was surprised to feel a potent atmosphere suck the tension from his limbs. It was the same sensation he felt whenever he held his sword.

Conoran turned to face the golden sun now half-risen above the horizon and bowed his head. ‘For too long the days have been dark,’ he said. ‘Let it be so no longer.’

‘Look at him — a weak, straggly thing,’ Branwen said harshly of Church. ‘He does not have the strength to endure what lies ahead.’

‘He has more strength than you, or I, or any of us.’ Etain marched forward defiantly and kissed Church on the lips. When she pulled back, tears rimmed her eyes. ‘I would give you my life if it were enough,’ she said so only he could hear. ‘But only your own heart will suffice.’

When she backed away, Conoran began to lead Church towards the circle’s westernmost stone, the only one made of white quartz.

‘I don’t think I can make it,’ Church said. The darkness was closing in around him again.

‘You will,’ Conoran said sharply. ‘This is no longer just about you. It is about the people of this land, and their survival into the long days to come.’

‘You are sure?’ Owein said. ‘This is what the gods spoke of.’

‘This is what the gods fear.’

Conoran directed Tannis and Owein to haul Church to the white quartz stone, where they left him clinging on with the last of his strength. He felt as though the remnants of his life were trickling out of him, the trickle growing faster by the moment.

‘Ruth,’ he whispered into the returning delirium. ‘I love you.’

Church’s world shrank to the ring of stones and the white quartz pillar, the whisper of the wind on the grass, the fragrance of the yellow gorse blossom.

‘You place too great a burden on him. It is not just.’ Etain’s sad, angry voice came from somewhere behind him, a world away.

‘Existence has placed the burden,’ Conoran replied, an anxious edge to his voice. ‘Existence has chosen its vessel. All lies within this man’s grasp, if he can but rise to the challenge.’

The words fanned a spark within Church. He gripped the quartz stone tighter and attempted to haul himself upright. He no longer knew where he was, or why he was, or what was expected of him.

‘Look.’ Branwen’s hushed voice was laced with fear. ‘They have found us. There is no escape now.’

Church forced himself to peer beyond the limits of the circle. The surrounding countryside was alive with movement; red glimmered in the wan light eking above the skyline — some kind of uniform.

‘Then our survival lies with this one,’ Conoran stated.

‘This cannot be right,’ Branwen persisted.

‘Do not question him.’ Tannis’s voice was steady. In the fields beyond rose up the rhythmic beat of a hundred voices chanting a low war call.

Warm breath tingled Church’s ear and he smelled Etain’s fragrance. ‘I hold you in my heart, Jack, Giantkiller,’ she whispered. ‘You will save us all.’

And then the sun crested the horizon and the world caught fire.

It wasn’t the ruddy fire of a homestead hearth, but the brilliant blue of a summer sky. At first Church thought it was another hallucination, yet when he let go of the quartz stone the image faded, returning with a blaze when he grasped the rock again.

When the sun touched the quartz stone, lines of licking sapphire flames ran out from the stone circle in all directions, interconnecting at various points to create a vast network and echoing the dream that had come to Church in the fogou. Other lines soared up into the sky over the stone circle, forming a glowing cathedral of light. The blackness of the poison gradually ebbed away and strength began to return to Church’s limbs. He was amazed to see a filigree of blue lines on his own skin, like the meridians used by acupuncturists. The same network, within and without.

Church had an impression of the lines of force running out along the spine of Cornwall, across the Somerset Levels to Glastonbury, to Stonehenge and Avebury, and beyond, across the entire world. And more, Church could see the Blue Fire stretching out across the vast gulf of the years, connecting the future and the past. There and here, then and now, all linked; time and space united.