Mark Chadbourn - Destroyer of Worlds

Veitch's vision was filled by the rows of teeth. Suddenly the Manticore convulsed and turned on Shadow John, whose fingers were hooked into cruel claws. The Manticore's side had been raked open.

Stepping in front of Shadow John, Veitch said, 'Thanks for the help, mate, but stay back. Protect the girl.'

'I see it!' Shavi called.

Veitch only had a brief impression of Shavi wrestling on the floor with something he couldn't see before he was surrounded by the Manticore's snapping jaws and rending claws. Rolling to one side, he let the sword dance instinctively, the flames painting a sizzling blue mandala in the dark.

The Manticore's laughter turned to shrieks, and it fell to the floor in a frenzy. Veitch hacked until it was dead.

Shavi continued to roll around the floor, welts and scratches mysteriously appearing across his face and hands. Shaking the daze from his head, Bearskin lifted Shavi with one hand and with the other wrenched out whatever invisible thing was clutched in Shavi's grasp. One snap of his wrist brought the struggle to an end. In his hand materialised a lifeless thing that resembled a small ape.

'The queen of the Court of Endless Horizons needs a lesson in fairness, ' Bearskin growled. 'Two beasts instead of the one she told her contestants they faced. And invisible to boot.'

Attempting to staunch his wounds, Shavi said, 'So, this eye does have its uses.'

Veitch clapped an arm around his friend's shoulders. 'Good bit of teamwork there, pal.'

'Just like the old days.'

Rachel's cries ebbed away, and she looked on Veitch with the wonder only reserved for a true saviour. As he helped her to her feet, she asked with breathless respect, 'Who are you?'

'South London's finest, darlin',' he replied.

Within fifteen minutes they were out of the Labyrinth. The city was still gripped by the darkness and the intermittent screams had not diminished, but now there was a new element: a slow drum-beat rolling out across the rooftops. It felt like a call to ceremony, but there was something in the quality of it that left them all inexplicably chilled.

After long moments of circling with not a hint of prey, the bird swooped down from the grey sky to land on a slab of granite jutting from the white slopes. The bitter wind ruffled the bird's feathers and whipped up a whirlwind of recently fallen snowflakes that was the only sign of movement on the lonely wastes.

From the niche in the rocks where he had waited with inordinate patience for the better part of half an hour, Miller made a desperate lunge. His fingers almost closed on the bird before it took frenzied flight amidst the high-pitched koo-koo-koo call that Miller had come to know so well during the last few weeks.

It had been there! His fingertips had brushed the grey feathers! And now it was gone.

He collapsed onto the granite slab, sobbing silently, his frozen fingers blue, his eyebrows and hair encrusted with snow. Miller allowed himself one moment to wallow in the despair of his failure, and then he picked himself up, brushed the snow from his trousers and trudged back up the hard-packed track to the cave. It lay on the leeward side of the mountain, protected from the worst knives of the wind, the interior contracting into a tight tunnel before opening out into a larger rock womb. The refuge served the dual purpose of containing the warmth from the small fire he kept alight with kindling from the leafless trees that scattered the lower slopes, and providing protection from the Fomorii that relentlessly prowled the entire mountain range, their oily black forms always visible against the white background.

'Sorry, guys, we'll have to delay dinner,' he said breezily, warming his hands near the embers.

There was no response; Miller had only heard his own voice since the terrible plunge from the shattered bridge leading to the Groghaan Gate. Hunter, Jack and Virginia lay around the edge of the cave, their broken bones and burst organs now healed by the ministrations of Miller's hands, but still only a whisper away from death. The rise and fall of their chests was barely visible. Their eyes didn't move. Their skin felt as cold as the rock.

Once the life had returned to his fingers, he moved from one to the other, checking their vitals and, where necessary, placing a hand on their heart to let some of the thin blue glow leak out of him and into them. The healing energy was diminishing as his own strength flagged. A lack of food, the ever-present chill and the constant need to offer up the regenerative force was taking its toll. How long could he keep it up? Death tugged at Hunter, Jack and Virginia and he fought daily to keep them on the right side of life, but he only had enough energy to keep all their hearts beating, not enough to give them vitality; unless he let one of them die. Only then would he have the reserves to save the remaining two. But how could he choose? Who should he choose? If he didn't make a decision soon, his abilities would be depleted and they would all die.

'Turned out cold again!' he joked brightly before investigating the heap of bird bones for any that had not already been picked clean. He was not rewarded.

Lying down next to the fire, he added, 'I'll just grab forty winks before I head out again. Don't worry. Everything is going to be fine.'

For Ruth, only one horizon now existed in the Court of Endless Horizons and that was in the dimension of pain. It had gone on for so long, with such intensity, that it had become the medium in which her body existed, as much a part of life as the air she breathed. She occasionally found herself examining it with a Zen-like detachment, although she knew that was a response to the natural analgesics her brain was flooding through her system. Occasionally, she found herself looking down on her body from high above, seeing her arms yanked over her head and back so that the joints were in permanent agony as she lay stretched across an oaken table, now puddled with her sweat and the blood that had flowed from the thousand tiny cuts made by the obsidian knife. Some went deeply into the muscle tissue, and though she knew the Pendragon Spirit would heal them rapidly, she also realised that Tezcatlipoca would not give her that opportunity. Death would be coming soon.

From her vantage point, she saw Tom, tearful at her suffering, held with a knife at his throat in one corner of the large hall near the top of one of the city's highest buildings, and Laura beside him, her face pale and blank, a spear levelled at her side.

Don't be sad for me, she thought, obliquely. I can survive this. I can survive anything.

Vast windows ran along all four walls, which would once have offered a great vista across the entire city and captured every sunrise and sunset. Now only black lay without. The hall was filled with ranks of the Aztec warriors, their spears banging against the stone flags with each beat of the drum. Ruth knew the beat matched that of her heart, steady, but soon it would be slowing. Soon it would stop.

Where's Church? The notion floated up, detached from any context, and then, Where's Ryan?

In a rare moment of clarity, she realised her instinctive use of the Craft had pulled the essential part of her from her body. A flash of pride came and went: she had never before achieved that state without her ritual and her herbs.

Is this what I'm capable of? From thought to action in the blink of an eye? Is this what we all could do? All that potential in every person. It's a shame I'll never find out.

It didn't matter; in her spirit-form she always had a different perception of what was important, of life and death, and the part all the elements played in what she had heard described as the Great Mystery.

This is what Shavi meant about the patterns, she realised. Rise above it and it all makes a different kind of sense.