‘I don’t have a choice, do I?’ Church said.
‘Of course you do. What are five more deaths on top of the hundreds you’ve already got on your conscience? You must be inured to it by now.’
The music rolled out across the dark field. Everywhere people were holding hands, making love, dancing. All right,’ Church said. He turned to Veitch. ‘You’re the scum here, but I reckon you must have some values buried somewhere in that dead heart of yours. I’m counting on you to see this is done fairly.’
Veitch said nothing.
‘Oh, good.’ The Libertarian jumped to his feet. ‘An epic sacrifice in the great tradition. It almost brings a tear to the eye.’
‘I want to say goodbye to my friends.’
‘No goodbyes. You come with us now.’
Church took one last, deep breath of the smoky, dreamy air. Overhead, a cloud was blotting out the stars.
34
The sun was coming up in the Far Lands, the sky a glorious pink and fiery red. But in the Forest of the Night, beneath the thick canopy of leaves it was still and dark and cool.
Far from the path that wound through the forest was a casket of gold and ivory with a heavy lid of frosted glass. On the side was the legend: Here lies Jack Churchill, Brother of Dragons – his final battle fought.
‘A nice touch, do you not agree?’ the Libertarian said.
Church examined what was supposed to be his final resting place. He struggled to swallow a rising feeling of dread.
Veitch watched from the nearby trees with his dead brothers and sisters.
‘You finally get your revenge,’ Church said to him.
‘It’s not enough.’
Church climbed into the casket, desperately focusing on the tiny flame of hope that still flickered in his heart. He was doing this for Ruth, Shavi and Laura. If they were alive, there was a chance they could find a way to oppose the Enemy’s plans. His sacrifice would be worth it.
The Libertarian took out a small green bottle and a goblet. ‘Apologies,’ he said. ‘It hasn’t been marked with the skull and crossbones in the traditional style.’ He poured the fizzing liquid into the goblet and offered it to Church.
It smelled of sour fruit. Church held it for a moment, still gripped with uncertainty. Finally, he swilled it down in one go. The liquid burned like acid, but then left a freezing cold as it passed.
The Libertarian nodded appreciatively. ‘Enjoy your long, untroubled sleep. If it’s any consolation, your name and reputation will undoubtedly live on in mythology. There’s little we can do about that, sadly.’
Church lay down in the casket. His limbs were already growing leaden, his heart beating slower. Yet his thoughts remained active, and he could see, hear and feel everything. He wondered if he would eventually go insane as the days turned into months and years, with him conscious but unable to move a muscle.
The Libertarian loomed into his field of vision. He removed his sunglasses so those hellish eyes would be the last thing of the world Church would see.
‘I imagine the most devastating part of this will be the unending loneliness,’ the Libertarian said. ‘I am not without compassion, so I have arranged for you to have company.’
From the forest floor, Church could hear rustling. It rose up the foot of the casket. It felt like pebbles were being dropped on to his legs, rustling rapidly up to his chest. And then the spiders crossed his face and his eyes and he realised what the Libertarian intended.
The spiders flooded into the casket until it was brimming, every piece of his body alive with the movement of tiny legs and writhing bodies apart from one small circle of his face.
The Libertarian leaned in again, smiled and nodded farewell and then closed the casket lid.
Chapter Twelve
TEN BILLION SPIDERS IN EDEN
1
Suffocating darkness enveloped Ruth. Something pressed against her then moved away, a rustling up her spine, a sour, cold breath against her neck. Filled with such a deep dread she could barely think straight, she had forgotten her flat, the giant who beckoned outside. She had forgotten being pulled into her wardrobe.
All she knew was the malign presence biding its time only a whisper away.
2
The procession moved through the Forest of the Night at dawn. As the birdsong began, and the butterflies fluttered amongst the trees, the king and queen led the Seelie Court at a measured pace. There were scores of them, stumbling and shambling, slithering and flying, but the mood was sombre and respectful. None spoke. Heads were bowed. It was the first time the Seelie Court had ever come together to share their grief and respect for a Fragile Creature.
With them were Niamh and Tom, still adrift, uncomprehending of what had come to pass. The procession stopped at the casket of gold and ivory, and the court formed a circle amongst the trees.