"I want your finger, Mr. Churchill, and I want it at the knuckle. I've decided to make a necklace," Callow said gleefully.
And then the Fomorii were all around him, swamping him in darkness.
Church came round in a place that was dark and so unbearably hot he thought he was going to choke. Twisted leather bonds bound him to a splintered table fastened to an iron gear system that angled it forty-five degrees from the upright. Aches and bruises buzzed in his limbs, but beyond that he was in one piece. Scant, scarlet light was provided by a glowing brazier in one corner. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw with a sickening chill where he was. Cruel, sharp implements hung from a rack on one wall, reminding Church how adept the Fomorii were at torture.
The thought was knocked aside by the blunt realisation that he had failed, at the very last, after so many obstacles had been overcome; and that it wasn't even he alone who would pay the price. It was all of humanity, everyone he had ever loved.
He tore at the bonds until he was disturbed by a low groan away to his right. The figure lay like a bundle of old rags in a slowly growing pool of blood. The moonlight glow of his skin, tinged blue at his fingers, told Church he was dying. "Can you hear me?" Church asked gently.
There was no reply or movement for a second or two and then Tom tried to lever himself up on his elbow before slipping back. He made two more attempts and then managed to roll on to his back so he could look at Church. His face was covered with blood still seeping from his pores. Church felt a wash of despair.
"If there's anything you want to get off your chest, now's the time to do it," Tom said gruffly, though his voice could barely be heard above the thunderous heartbeat.
"You saved my life."
"Lot of good it did you."
"I'm sorry," Church said, "I let you down. If only I'd moved quicker."
"Nonsense." Tom coughed violently. "You have exceeded my wildest expectations. From the first time we met I could see you were the right man for the job. Oh, I know I never said it-couldn't have you getting a big head-but you were the best possible choice, Jack. The very best."
"I wish you'd said that before." Church closed his eyes, trying to deal with all the acute emotions bubbling through him. "I've still failed, though."
"You're breathing, aren't you?"
A thought sparked in Church's still awakening mind; he looked around as best he could. "Hang on. Just you and me?"
"So it seems." There was a note of caution in Tom's voice not to say any more.
Church knew how resilient the Bone Inspector was. If he had managed to evade the Fomorii, there was still a slim chance. "How long was I out?" he said with renewed enthusiasm.
"I would say it's getting on for dawn. Not long to the feast of Samhain. The gates will be opening soon. The Heart of Shadows will get all the power he needs." He coughed then added quickly, "Don't mention its name. Not here, not this close to it. The repercussions might be…" His voice faded.
"The Sword?"
"Behind you. And the Wayfinder. They can't touch them, you know, even with the massive advances in their power. They have to rely on Callow."
"That bastard. I was convinced he'd died on Wave Sweeper. He's like a cockroach-stamp on him and he just keeps on running."
"If you get free…" Tom gave a hacking wet cough "… you must use the Wayfinder."
"To find what? The head?"
"No. Think of the symbolism. What it means. It is a lantern that will light your way to the true path. It has a direct access to the source of the Blue Fire. I always told you to keep it close to you because…" Another cough; something splattered on the stone "… it's more important than you thought."
Tom fell silent; Church couldn't even hear his ragged breathing any more. "Tom?" he called out, fearing the worst.
"Yes. I'm here. It's nearly time."
"For what?"
"Remember what I said to you. On the ship. About keeping your memories close to you. They're your Wayfinder, Jack."
Tears stung Church's eyes. "Just hang on-"
"No. This is no surprise to me. I've had the chance to prepare myself."
Church forced himself to keep his voice steady. "How long have you known?"
"A long time. Longer than you've been alive."
Church couldn't begin to imagine how that could have been: to know when your death would be, to have the shadow falling over your whole life, yet still managing to keep going, to make friends, to care for people. It threw all of Tom's difficult character into a new light. Church was overwhelmed with guilt at the bad things he had thought of his friend, certainly in the early days, and all the harsh words he had ever said. There was so much he still wanted to say. Despite their prickly relationship, Tom had been an excellent teacher, and a father figure and the best of friends; he had made a deep and lasting impact on Church's life.
Tom appeared to know what Church was thinking. "I've had a long life, Jack. Too long. Too much pain and suffering. I'm looking forward to moving on."
"I'm sorry these last few months have been so hard for you."
"They have been hard, but they have also been some of the best months of my life. I've learnt a lot from all of you, Jack. You reminded me of all those things I thought I'd lost when the Queen got her hands on me. For centuries I thought I'd become less than a man. But you-all of you-showed me the truth. And now it doesn't matter what the Queen's games did to my body, because the thing that really counts, my humanity, comes from somewhere else. And it's still there."
Tom coughed again, and this time it sounded like the fit wasn't going to stop. When it did finally end, he was noticeably weaker. His eyelids fluttered half-closed; his skin grew ashen.
"Tom," Church pleaded futilely. He had always been so flawed and weak compared to the heroic legends of Thomas the Rhymer, but in truth his heroism was even greater; deeper and more complex than the shining, courageous myth, infinitely more worthy, because it came from the best of humanity.
"The spiderweb." The Rhymer's voice was a papery rustle. "Diamonds all along it. Little worlds." Another cough, slow and laboured. "Beautiful, little worlds."
And then there was silence and a heavy stillness.
His eyes burning, Church rested his head on the hard wood. He would miss his old friend immeasurably.
His sorrow had turned to a cold, hard anger when the door swung open and Mollecht entered, flanked by three Fomorii guards. Behind them, Callow danced a little jig. Mollecht led the Fomorii to the array of torture tools, ignoring Church completely.
"They're going to punish you, you know." Callow moved across the floor in a manner that reminded Church more of an insect; insanity burned bright in his eyes.
"I'd call you crazy if it wasn't stating the obvious," Church said. "Throwing your lot in with these bastards again, after all they've done to you. Do you think they'll give you what you want?"
Callow cast a sly, admiring glance towards the mass of flapping birds. "Oh yes, oh yes. My new best friend."
"I had some sympathy for you, Callow, but it was misplaced. You aren't how you are because you didn't get the breaks in life. There have always been too many people like you, blaming everybody and everything for their suffering because they're too weak to face up to the selfishness or the greed that drove them into bad situations. Doing the right thing is difficult, and there's always some kind of hardship, but it pays off-for yourself, for society, for humanity. You were just too lacking to go down that road. Too pathetic. You wanted things for yourself and you wanted them quick and easy. Face up to it, Callow. All your misery in your life is because of the choices you made."
"No!" Callow protested childishly. "Nobody looked after me! I never had what others had!"
"You said it yourself, the first time we met. Longfellow, wasn't it?" Church drove the nail home harder, enjoying every blow.