Mark Chadbourn - Darkest hour

Cautiously, he moved among the white and grey stones muttering, "Stupid, stupid, stupid," under his breath, but the truth was, he still didn't feel any sense of threat. And then he reached the far side and the shape that had been luring him was no longer insubstantial.

Before him stood the woman he had encountered in the Watchtower floating between the worlds, the one who had visited him on the edge of dreams as a child, and freed him from the Fomorii cells, claiming to be his patron. She was one of the Tuatha De Danann, infused with the beauty which permeated that race. It was almost as if her skin was glowing with a faint golden light. Her eyes, too, were flecked with gold, and her hair tumbled lustrously about her shoulders. She was wearing the same dress of dark green he remembered from before; its material was indeterminate, but it clung to her form in a way that was powerfully appealing.

She was smiling seductively, her eyes sparkling. At first Church felt as entranced as he had the first time they met as adults, but gradually a mix of other emotions surfaced: suspicion, sadness and then anger.

"You tricked me," he said. The anger took shape, hardened. "You and all your people. You had Marianne killed. So I could be shaped into your slave to set your people free in your hour of need. You discarded a human life-" he snapped his fingers "-just like that."

There was no sign in her face that she had been offended by his words. "There is little I can say to put right the hurt you feel." Her voice remained gentle. "There is tragedy stitched into the fabric of the lives of all fragile Creatures and sometimes my people, in their endless, timeless existence, forget the suffering that comes from a simple passing." For a surprising second, he thought he saw real tenderness in her eyes. "I have been close to you all your life, Jack Churchill. I watched when you were born, when you played and learned. And when you were old enough, I came to you on the edge of sleep to see if you were the one who fitted the eternal pattern. The true hero infused with the glorious essence of this land. I saw in you…" She paused and, for the first time, seemed to have trouble finding the correct words. "… a nobility and passion which transcended the nature of most Frail Creatures. The Filid will one day sing tales of the great Jack Churchill."

"That's not-"

She held up her hand to silence him. "My part in this was small. I guided the destinies of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, but the decision to shape you in the crucible of death was taken elsewhere. It was never my intention to see you hurt, Jack."

There was something in her words, in the turn of her head and the shimmer of emotion across her features, that made him think she was saying something else beyond the obvious. Her eyes were so deep and numinous he felt swallowed up by them; he couldn't maintain his anger towards her.

"If not you, then someone else is responsible. They'll have to pay. I can't forgive and forget what's been done to me, to all of us."

"Nor would I expect you to."

"Then who arranged it? And who carried out the act? Who killed Marianne and the others?"

"I cannot say."

"You can't or you won't?" He tried to keep his voice stable in case he offended her. Despite her demeanour, he sensed great power and unpredictability just beneath the surface.

She pressed her hands together, almost as if she was praying. "From your perspective, we may seem untrammelled by responsibility, as fluid in our actions as our natures. But we are bound by laws in the same way that you are, in the same way as the mountains, the seas and the wind. No one is truly free. I cannot tell you what you wish to know."

"I'll find out."

She nodded, said nothing.

Once he had got that out of his system, he became more aware of the situation. "Why've you come to me?"

"To renew our acquaintance. To show you that I have no desire to abandon you, even though my people have achieved their desire."

Church was troubled by the complexity of the emotions running through him. He felt drawn to the woman, but he couldn't tell if that was an honest feeling or simply a by-product of her manipulation of him over the years. "What are you saying? That you want to be an ally?"

"That, and more."

"How, more? A friend, then?"

She didn't reply. Her smile remained seductive.

Church felt a shiver of attraction run through him, fought it. "If we're going to be friends, then you ought to tell me your name."

"I have many names, like all my brethren."

He waited, refusing to be drawn by her game-playing.

Her smile grew wider. "I have been known as the Queen of the Waste Lands."

This raised a spark of recognition in Church, but he couldn't remember where he had heard it before.

"Of the many names I have been called when I last freely walked your world, the one most used by your people was Niamh."

"Niamh," he repeated softly. A gentle dreaminess seemed to encircle them both; when he looked away from her, the surroundings shimmered and sparkled. "So you're royalty?"

"In the hierarchy of the Golden Ones, I hold a position of privilege." She held out a hand to him, and he didn't think he could resist it even if he had wanted to.

Her fingers were long and cool. They closed around his and gently pulled him towards her. As he moved in, the scent of her filled his nostrils, like lime and mint. For a moment they seemed to hang in stasis, their eyes locked; Church felt he was being pulled beneath green waves, deep, deep down to the darkness where miracles and wonders lived. And then, slowly, she moved her face closer. He felt the bloom of her breath on his lips; a tremor of anticipation ran through him down to his groin. When her lips touched his, he almost jolted from a burst of energy that could have been physical, emotional or psychological, but it left his head spinning. Her lips were as soft as peach-skin and tasted of some fruit he couldn't quite place. Her tongue flicked out and delicately caressed the tip of his own. And then the passion rushed through him, driving out all conscious thought, filling him up with insanity, and he was kissing her harder and feeling his hands slide around her slim waist to her back. And the sensation was so beyond anything he had experienced before he was suddenly tumbling through a haze into blackness.

There was darkness and then awareness that someone was summoning him. Church thought instantly: I'm dreaming, although he knew in the same instant that it wasn't a dream. From his vantage point at the centre of an inky cloud he saw Ruth's owl circling and at first he wondered obliquely if it was hunting. Then he realised its movements were frantic, as if it was disturbed by something attacking it.

"What's wrong," he called out; his voice sounded like it had come from the bottom of a well.

The owl drew nearer, and then, suddenly, it was not an owl, although he wasn't quite sure what it was. It had the shape of a man, yet certain characteristics of an owl around its face, and batlike wings sprouting from its back which flapped powerfully. There was something so terrible about it that he couldn't bring himself to look it full in the face.

You must go to her. The creature's voice sounded like a metal crate being dragged over concrete. She is in great danger. I can do nothing.

"Who?" Church asked.

Blood. Its voice was almost threatening. Blood everywhere.

Church woke on the ground so disturbed he instantly jumped to his feet, as if he were under attack. An overwhelming sense of dread flooded his system. At first he couldn't fathom what was happening to him, but as he frantically looked around the deserted churchyard it started to come back. There was no sign of Niamh. And with his next thought he recalled the odd dream of the owl-thing and suddenly he understood his feelings.