The stars bled a deluge of tears over Hernshore before the fabric of the heavens tore and washed them all away. That was what Ma had seen knelt before the world tree in the mandala of blood. The end of it all in gore and chaos. And so, it had come to pass. All around her was death and violence, neighbour against neighbour, friend against friend.

  For centuries The Stag and Snake had been a convivial centre that through the simple alchemy of hops, barley, and conversation drew the town together. All that was drawn to it now was death, which squirmed through splintered windows and shattered doors. From the oak beams, ancient plaster showered down, shaken loose by the convulsions of the earth. The sandstorm outside followed the wyrmals in. Its howling formed an unholy harmony with the squall of battle cries and shrieks of agony.

  A pack of glaucous-eyed wyrmals, include an urchin child with a distended belly and filthy green shorts, encircled Mrytle Gaves. She poked at the closest two with the point of her garden sheers. Knees visibly shaking, a wet patch spread from her crotch. She hadn’t seen the one behind her until it sank its teeth into her cheek. Dropping the sheers, she flapped ineffectually at the wrymal, who was Derek Churley, the tubby, grey-haired school caretaker. The rest of the pack fell up on Mrytle, their clumsy weight and frenzied groping dragging them all to the floor. Mrytle screamed and pleaded, but there was no one available to help. They all had their own battles to fight.

  Ma herself put her shotgun barrel under the chin of the rabid incarnation of Sarah Farnsworth and pulled the trigger. The top of the blonde’s head exploded in a crimson spray that freckled Ma’s face, as Sarah was lifted clear of the flagstones and flung back.

  Reliable Colin Barstow wielded a crowbar at two rabid foes. He smashed one away, then the other, only for the first to come on again.

  Ma shrugged off pair of clawing hands, turned and unloaded her second cartridge into the wyrmal’s stomach. The wretch bent double at the waist and flew back, skidding on his backside. It didn’t even acknowledge the hole blown through its middle in its struggle to get up, and when its legs failed it because its spinal column was destroyed, it started to crawl towards Ma. She met it halfway, gun raised, and brought the polished wooded stock down with all her strength on its skull, once, twice, three times.

  More ammunition was in the pocket of her wax coat. As her fingers closed around the cylinders, she screamed, a hideous pain exploded in her lower back. Her hands would no longer do what she wanted, and the shotgun clattered on the ground. Back arched in agony, Ma felt herself being lifted onto the tips of her toes. She tried to scream to relieve the torture but could not. As close as a lover ready to whisper in her ear, Grundig Fletcher’s mooning face appeared over her shoulder.

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  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it, you old boot?’ He twisted the meat hook on which Ma was impaled. It stirred through her internal organs and an ululating scream burst forth from her throat.

  ‘Sing it loud, let Herne hear you. Maybe that tree humper will come and save you.’ Fletcher cocked his head beside Ma’s, as if listening. ‘Nope, doesn’t look like it.’

  Ma’s hand spasmed in her pocket, gnarled fingers crawling like shrivelling spiders through the fire of pain. The cartridges tumbled out of the way and the hard edge of her pruning knife met her touch.

  Another twist of the hook, shredding Ma’s liver, and Fletcher softly soothed. ‘Shh, shh, shh...’ He kissed a tear on her cheek. ‘It’s time for a change. At least you will play your part.’

  Ma managed to close her fingers around the handle of the knife. She’d sent Fin off beyond the veil that morning as a mercy. It had been the old dog’s time. Evidently, it was Ma’s time too, but it was Fletcher’s as well. So, it had been shown to her. This day of blood. A deluge to end it all.

  ‘The time of the Stag is over,’ Fletcher hissed.

  Ma pulled the knife from her pocket too late. Fletcher flung her from his hook. She clattered into a table and stool. Glasses smashed. The stool toppled to its side and kept Ma from lying flat, propping her up under the small of her back. She coughed and blood, hot and metallic, spilled from her mouth. Her legs were numb and useless.

  Armed with his hook and clever, Fletcher loomed, looking down his nose at her. ‘Sugnar is coming. She will be free; the time of the snake is h…’

  Fletcher’s prophecy was stabbed in the throat from behind by the four tines of a gardening fork. He blinked, tried to see what was poking through his neck, like rusty nails. A frown worried his brow as he attempted to say something, but instead he spat up blood and collapsed to his knees. He looked to Ma for an explanation, who held the man’s gaze until his eyes clouded over and his weapons slipped from his fingers. With effort, Ma turned her gaze up to Judith Sharky, who placed a foot on the butcher’s back and kicked him off the fork. His lifeless body fell face first into the flag stones.

  Judith crouched next to Ma, brandishing her makeshift weapon because the melee was far from over, at least for her.

  ‘Can you move?’ she said.

  Ma patted her hand. ‘I’m sorry, pet.’ Her breathing was wet and shallow, each small breath a pained struggle.

  ‘What are you sorry for? None of this was your doing.’

  ‘I’m still sorry.’ Ma’s words came out as a croak; Judith was barely there. A salty sweet breeze caressed Ma’s face. The gentle, rhythmic shushing of waves breaking on the shore seemed so close.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ Judith seemed to say from as far away as a childhood memory. Even at that distance, she’d didn’t sound convincing.

  The waves lapped at the shore. Ma had never seen the sea up close. Her entire life, she’d wondered what it was like. And all that wondering was nothing to its magnificent expanse. A dog barked from down the beach. Ma turned to see Fin gambling in the shallow foam of retreating waves. He buried his nose in it, sneezed, bounced away from another frothing surge and barked with joy, tail wagging.

  It was a perfect day for a walk with her favourite hound, and her old arthritic knees didn’t feel arthritic anymore.

  There was a whisper of a voice that called her name. It was probably the breeze. Her old boots stood empty on the sand. She picked them up and flexed her bare toes.

  Fin barked for her to follow, turning in a circle after his tail, like he did when he was a puppy.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ Ma said, and began her long stroll along the shore with her faithful hound.