Church made his way to the roundhouse given over to the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons to see if Tannis or one of the others had left a message as to where everyone had gone. The house was as still as the rest of the village, but the moment he stepped across the threshold his entire world fell apart.
It was a charnel house. Blood had been splashed up the walls and pooled on the floor, and dripped in a sickening rhythm from the roof to sizzle on the embers of the fire. Amongst it lay the bodies of his friends, all slaughtered: Tannis, Owein, Branwen and Etain, the one that crushed his spirit the most.
Church grasped her in his arms so that her blood smeared across his face and clothes. He prayed that there was some flicker of life that the Pendragon Spirit could fan into a flame, but she was already cold, her consciousness long gone. He cried for her and for the others. He cried for himself.
For a long time he sat there, lost to the shock and the grief, until eventually he saw the mark of the murderer scrawled on the wall in blood. One word: SCUM.
An English word. A word from his own time.
19
Church staggered out into the twilit street where Niamh was waiting for him.
He was filled with fury when he saw her. ‘I could have saved them if you’d let me go!’
‘Or you could have died with them.’
‘Who did this?’
She smiled coldly, said nothing. His grief and despair threatened to wash his thoughts away and he covered his face to drive out the terrible images.
‘Come with me,’ she said. It was not a request, and even if he had had the will he could not refuse.
In his daze, he sensed movement in the shadows beside one of the roundhouses. It was a boy, Oengus, to whom Church had told stories on many a morning. As he approached, Church could see the whites of his eyes. He was scared, but his curiosity overrode his fear as he noticed the smear of Etain’s blood across Church’s clothes. You are mortally wounded?’
Niamh answered for Church. ‘His wound is much deeper than you could ever know. It runs to the very heart of him.’
‘Are you leaving?’ the boy asked.
‘He is.’ Niamh eyed Oengus with a curious contempt. ‘Say your goodbyes.’
‘And you are going to the Isle of Apples?’ The boy’s eyes grew wider still.
Niamh gave a mocking smile. ‘Your warrior-king sails across the ocean to fair Avalon.’
‘And will we never see him again?’
‘I am sure he will return when you need him most. In your darkest hour, call his name.’ Another sly smile.
‘Find the others now, Oengus,’ Church said flatly. ‘Tell them to keep safe. Watch out for enemies.’
The boy fled into the night. Niamh’s smile chilled Church to the bone. ‘The ravens are ready to feast here. They follow you, Jack Churchill, always hungry.’ She gave a mocking bow. ‘Jack of Ravens.’
Church hung his head.
‘Say goodbye to this dreary place of never-changing. You have a new home now.’
Without a backward glance she walked out of the village. Church followed. Beneath the hawthorn tree, he looked back to where Carn Euny lay and realised that, despite being dispossessed, he had been happy there.
‘This world is gone,’ Niamh said.
She snapped her fingers and night fell.
Chapter Two
ASI ES LA VIDA
1
Entering Fairyland was like stepping from a dark dungeon into a world filled with brilliant sunlight and astonishing detail. Church reeled from the sudden rush of sensory information. Before him the landscape spread out in breathtaking glory: grasslands greener than he had ever seen before, soaring, snow-capped mountains higher and more imposing, trees taller and prouder, the leaves rustling in the breeze as if a symphony were playing. Scents of summer days, meadow flowers and pine forests assailed Church with such force it ignited memories of all the warm, untroubled days of childhood.
‘Welcome to the Summerlands,’ Niamh said archly.
A hawk swooped down to land a few feet away. It surveyed Church with a gimlet eye. ‘Bless my soul, is this a Fragile Creature?’ it said. Church started. ‘Well, I never! This is news fit to be spread through the air. Does it have a name?’
‘It is known by its kind as Jack the Giantkiller,’ Niamh noted, ‘and sometimes as Church. He will accompany me to the Court of the Soaring Spirit.’
‘A Fragile Creature!’ the hawk repeated in astonishment before flying off to join some of its comrades circling a mile or so distant.
‘The bird spoke,’ Church said redundantly. His thoughts ran through his overwhelmed mind like sand through fingers.
‘Forget all the rules you have learned in the Fixed Lands. They do not apply here.’ Niamh strode ahead along a flagged path cut into the side of the hill. It wound down into the cool shade of overhanging trees and thick shrubs. Rhododendrons bloomed with wild, improbable colours on either side, and bluebells and poppies clustered in groups, steadfastly disregarding their seasonal rules. They passed a foaming waterfall gushing over a granite overhang. The water ran under the path in a culvert to cascade down the hillside in a series of further waterfalls.