Mark Chadbourn - The Hounds of Avalon

‘Much, much more than that. They appear to have some kind of symbiotic relationship with the gods.’

In the flickering glow of the candle, the caraprix altered shape once more, stretching and entwining, forming themselves into one object, a globe that slowly raised off the boards and began to spin.

Ceridwen’s brow furrowed, her voice becoming more intense, and though Mallory still didn’t recognise the language, this time he understood. ‘I call to you, my brothers and sisters, here in the Fixed Lands. This is a time of crisis. You are needed to stand with us against a power that would wipe us all from Existence. Come now.’

In Mallory’s mind, images began to appear, so richly textured that it was as if he was watching them on a movie screen, his emotions linked to what he was seeing. Before he was swallowed up by the evocative experience, he saw from Shavi’s face that his friend was experiencing it, too. And then he was lost to the rush of visions and sensations as though carried along in the flow of a swollen river: he felt deep, abiding peace as he saw Cernunnos, his body a hybrid of flora and fauna, stag’s horns protruding from his head. Mallory’s emotions shifted to unease, then fear as the nature-god strode out from a grove of oak trees, altering his form as he moved, growing bony ridges on his head and greenish scales, becoming the Erl-King of myth. Somewhere a horn sounded eerily.

‘The Wild Hunt has already been summoned by an ally,’ he said. ‘We, of all our brethren, are close enough to do battle.’

A black dog appeared from the undergrowth, accompanied by the sounds of horses and finally other hounds, smaller, red and white in colour. Mallory remembered the old stories of the Hunt tearing across lonely moors hunting lost souls and he hoped he would be nowhere near when the riders descended on the Lament-Brood.

There were other gods he didn’t recognise — one that appeared to be made wholly of water, breaking through the ice of a deep, dark pool, another one soaring through the clouds with a face like a human hawk — but there weren’t many of them and they all announced that they were too far away to be of help.

He was shocked out of his vision by a sudden sharp query from Lugh. ‘He is here? In the Fixed Lands?’

Mallory had an image of a man in long red robes, his face half-covered by what appeared to be a surgeon’s mask. With it came a spike of unease, perhaps fear.

‘He resists,’ Ceridwen said. Then: ‘Gone.’

Any further discussion was disrupted by a sharp intake of breath from Lugh and Ceridwen together, at a vision of a thousand crows flying chaotically.

‘She is here, too!’ Ceridwen said. This time the note of dread was much stronger; so the gods were not equal, Mallory thought. Some were even feared by their own.

He had no idea what the birds meant, but then Shavi was tugging at his sleeve anxiously, his eyes rolled upwards, watching his inner visions.

‘It is the Morrigan!’ he hissed. ‘And see… see! She hunts!’

Mallory slipped back into his own trance-state and saw more clearly: the birds were now transposed over a woman, somehow occupying the same space. The woman was carrying an axe and had another strapped on her back. She was rushing through a snowy street — Oxford, he guessed — pursuing three figures, a woman and two men.

The Morrigan, so dreaded by the others, was drawing closer to her prey, moving in for the kill. Mallory’s attention was drawn to the hunted, instinctively concerned for their safety. He realised why a second later. The woman was Sophie.

Thackeray and Harvey were yelling something, but Sophie couldn’t tell what it was. All she knew was that her lungs were filled with acid and her legs were on fire; her mind, pummelled by exhaustion, wandered back and forth, her vision snatching single images like a slow parade of still photographs: a piece of ornate stonework; a silhouetted tree, twisted like a praying mantis; a wide expanse of crisp snow bisected by a row of footprints. The part of her that still clutched on to consciousness didn’t know how much longer she could keep going.

When they had first emerged through the portal from the Watchtower, she had thought that they would have some respite. But it wasn’t long before Caitlin had burst through in their wake. Sophie recalled the chill she had felt when she had first heard those familiar footsteps crashing like hammer blows into the crisp snow somewhere behind them.

And so they had run, through bleak woods, across frozen fields, making their way towards Oxford. But the Morrigan never slowed, never deviated. And Sophie knew she never would. It was all simply a matter of time and the depth of the reserves Sophie had inside her.

It seemed so unfair. She wasn’t the warrior; she wasn’t supposed to engage in brutal hand-to-hand combat just to survive. Her skill was the Craft, manipulating from afar, perception, wisdom. She hadn’t even done anything wrong. All she had tried to do was help, selflessly, and she had been punished again and again.

She skidded down a snowy bank and found herself on a hard surface. As she tried to run, her feet went from under her and she came down hard, stunning herself for a few seconds.

When she came round, her cheek was burning where it was pressed against ice. Sophie pushed herself up, slipping and sliding. Through her daze, she realised she was on a frozen river; that was why Thackeray and Harvey had been calling out to her. It was the Cherwell.

She couldn’t go back, so she pressed forward across the ice, hoping to get to the other side where she could lose herself in the city centre, find a place to barricade herself in. Not that it would do any good.

In the centre of the frozen watercourse, she slipped again, and when she looked back a dark figure was coming down the bank. It slowed when it saw Sophie defenceless, but still advanced, now with measured, intense paces, an axe at its side.

It might have been an illusion in the gleam of the streetlights off the snow, but in that instant there was no sign of Caitlin at all. Sophie saw a woman of terrible beauty, long black hair streaming in the wind, white, white skin and lips as red as blood. Her eyes burned. They said: I will hack and slash and drench myself in your blood and even then I will not be done with your body.

Sophie had a shift of perception and it was Caitlin again, but this Caitlin still bore traits of the Morrigan, was still as terrible and elemental and filled with an insatiable lust for blood. The axe beat out a steady rhythm against her leg.

On the other bank, Thackeray and Harvey jumped up and down, urging Sophie to get up and run. Desperately, Harvey had begun to make snowballs to hurl at Caitlin, the only weapons he had left to drive her away.

Sophie dug in her heels, forcing herself backwards, away from Caitlin, with the last vestiges of her strength. She slid across the ice for a few feet, then came to a halt.

‘Caitlin. Remember who you are,’ Sophie said feebly. ‘Why you’re doing this.’

Caitlin marched forward, head bowed, eyes glowering.

‘You’re a good person, Caitlin. Don’t let yourself be corrupted. This isn’t you. This-’ But Sophie didn’t have the energy to continue. It was too late. The end. She lay back on the ice and looked at the vast sweep of stars in the dark vault of the sky. So beautiful. Warmth enveloped her at the knowledge that she could finally rest.

Caitlin loomed over her, blocking out the stars. She raised her axe high.

In a last act of defiance, Sophie closed her eyes.

In the dark of her head as she waited for the blow, somehow she sensed movement. A sudden jarring clang of metal on metal made her snap her eyes open. Caitlin was sprawling across the ice. A figure in black was moving with balletic grace and strength, swinging a sword that left a trail of blue flames searing through the icy air. It looked like some hero from myth, larger than life, filled with epic determination and uncanny bravery. It took a second or two before his real identity registered.