Age of Legends

by James Lovegrove

  “I had a feeling you might say that.”

  “Well? The very least you can do is allow me an audience with it.”

  Drake mulled it over, then nodded. He got stiffly to his feet and extended a hand to Harriet. “Come on, then.”

  HARRIET ENTERED THE chamber with trepidation. She told herself it was silly to be nervous. She still half believed it was all some elaborate contraption Derek had devised for himself, a means of coping with his grief over Emrys Sage. She herself had been fond of Emrys but hadn’t had the deep love for him that Derek had had. Perhaps he blamed himself for Emrys’s death, even though the helicopter crash had been nothing but mechanical failure, nobody’s fault but fate’s. Perhaps Derek had gone to great lengths to bring his mentor back from the dead, as it were, in order to expiate guilt, or else torture himself.

  Perhaps, unbeknownst to her, her husband had been functionally insane for years. Driven mad by self-reproach and the pressures of his political position.

  The thought sent a chill of horror through her which she struggled to dispel.

  The Holy Grail sat before her, its onyx body and attached jewels glistening splendidly. She felt the hairs on her arms stand up. There was a crackle in the air like static electricity. Maybe it was just static electricity. The air was dry in here, aridly climate-controlled.

  “What should I do?” she asked in hushed tones.

  “I don’t know,” Derek replied. “I just try to be respectful.”

  “Should I kneel?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then don’t. Just talk.”

  Harriet gazed at the chalice. How did you address a relic imbued with heavenly power? If, that was, it really was the Grail and really did possess some sort of divine intelligence.

  She cleared her throat. “Umm, Grail? This is Harriet Drake. But I’m guessing you know that, if you are the Holy Grail.”

  “Harriet. It’s been a while. How good to see you again.”

  She almost screamed. The voice was emanating from the chalice but seemed to shiver through her head like the ringing of a gong. And it was Emrys, right down to the heavily aspirated “H” and the rolled “r’s” of her name, which Emrys had always made a meal of.

  “Are you… Are you real?” she stammered.

  “As real as you, my dear, if not quite as lovely-looking.”

  In life, Emrys had never shied away from unctuous flattery towards women. It seemed the Holy Grail version of Emrys was keeping up the habit.

  “How is this even possible?” she said. “How can it be happening?”

  “God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform,” the Grail said. “It’s well past time that Derek introduced you to me. A husband should withhold nothing from his wife, and vice versa. Marriage is man and woman becoming one flesh, indivisible. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes,” Harriet said hesitantly. “Are you still Emrys Sage, then, or are you the Lord speaking through the medium of Emrys Sage?”

  “Which do you suppose?”

  “I don’t know. This is so far outside my normal experience, I’m not sure what to think.”

  “What do you believe, Harriet?”

  She had her hands clasped to her chest, as if in prayer. She wasn’t aware of putting them there.

  “It’s all too much. I don’t think I can take it in.”

  “I understand,” the Grail said.

  “I need air.” Feeling dizzy, she turned and stumbled out of the chamber. Derek followed.

  Outdoors, she breathed deeply until her head settled. Derek stood beside her, a solicitous arm around her waist.

  “Better?” he said.

  “Yes. It’s… My God, Derek, it’s extraordinary. Whatever’s happening in that room, whatever’s causing that phenomenon––extraordinary. It makes me think anything is possible. And all this time, you’ve known about it and I haven’t.”

  “I should have shared it with you sooner.”

  “Better late than never.”

  She turned to him. Her heart was pounding and she could feel her face was flushed with excitement.

  He was looking at her in a way he hadn’t for ages. As if seeing her anew. As if it was the first time he had laid eyes on her at that Christmas party at the Savoy, all over again.

  On impulse, she leaned in and kissed him. Hard. Passionately.

  He reciprocated. This was no bedtime peck, nor a delicate public display of affection for the TV cameras. This was a kiss Harriet felt, tinglingly, all the way to her toes.

  “Derek. Oh my God, Derek…”

  Prodding into her thigh was the unmistakable, forthright outline of an erection. Her hand groped down to touch it, clasp it.

  “The poolhouse,” she breathed. “Quick.”

  There wasn’t a moment to waste. They scurried to the poolhouse. Harriet wrenched the gauzy drapes shut. She struggled out of her clothes. Derek was fumbling with his shirt buttons. She tore the garment off him, then unlashed his belt and dragged his trousers down.

  The erection was still there, tenting the front of his underpants.

  They fell together onto the cushioned wicker settee. Harriet was wet, desperate, ready.

  It was glorious. It was sublime. One long hymnal hallelujah.

  AFTERWARD, THEY AMBLED back to the house, hand in hand.

  In the hall, Major Wynne was waiting in a chair, checking his phone. He snapped to attention as Drake entered.

  “Sir.”

  “Wynne.”

  “Ready to report on last night’s events, sir.”

  “Not now, Major,” his employer said. “It’s a lovely evening. Harriet and I are going to have cocktails out on the terrace. You look tired. Go home, get some rest. We’ll talk again in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harriet Drake did not catch Wynne’s eye as she and her husband sauntered past. Wynne was used to this. It was important she and he gave away nothing. They were cordial but formal with each other at all times, unless they were alone.

  What struck him as strange, though, was the dishevelment of her clothing. And, come to think of it, of Drake’s. His shirt was missing a couple of buttons. Both he and Harriet had a bit of colour in their cheeks, too, and their hair was mussed.

  It was almost as though…

  No. Couldn’t be.

  But as Wynne drove to Stronghold, he couldn’t shake the thought that Derek and Harriet Drake had just been having rampant sex.

  Chapter 18

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN over Sherwood Forest, and the moon was high and full.

  “Okay, I’ve been doing the maths,” said Fletcher. “If Puck can put a girdle round the Earth in forty minutes…”

  “Ooh, look at you with the literary references,” said Ajia.

  “I was a soldier. Doesn’t mean I’m a moron. Now, the Earth’s circumference is twenty-five thousand miles at the equator. That works out at a mean speed of around six hundred miles a minute. Is that how fast you can go?”

  “You know I can’t. If I did, I’d probably suffocate or explode or something. I think Shakespeare was using a bit of artistic licence there.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to be quick, girl. No two ways about it. Are you ready for this?”

  He was bantering in an attempt to keep her spirits up and her nerves at bay. He wasn’t quite succeeding but Ajia appreciated the effort.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, “even though I look like a baglady.” She was wearing clothes borrowed from Fletcher: a pair of jeans and a black hoodie. The jeans were cinched at the waist with rope, to hold them up, and rolled at the cuffs. The hoodie was as baggy as a balloon.

  “Got to blend in,” Fletcher said. “Everything you had on was too light-coloured. You’d stand out like a sore thumb in the dark.”

  “I know, but still. Also, this facepaint stinks.” Her face was smeared with stripes of black and dark green in a camouflage pattern.

  “What do
you expect? It’s made out of wild spinach and dirt. Look, are you going to whinge all night or are you going to recce?”

  “Recce.”

  “Right answer. You can do this, girl. Just don’t take any stupid risks. Run, pause and look, keep running.”

  “And don’t get seen.”

  “Most important of all. Don’t get seen.”

  “Good luck, Goodfellow,” said Smith.

  “Come back safe,” said Mr LeRoy.

  Ajia looked at the old man and thought, If now isn’t the appropriate moment, I don’t know when is.

  “I go, I go,” she said, as Puck to Oberon in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, “look how I go, swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow.”

  “Or from my bow,” said Fletcher.

  “Yeah, because it’s all about you.”

  Fletcher smirked.

  And Ajia ran.

  SHE RAN THROUGH moonlit woodland, through a dapple-flicker of silver and black.

  She moved away from the bunker in an ever widening spiral, testing her footing over the uneven terrain before launching herself into full Puck mode. As she ran ever faster and her heart pumped in a measured, even rhythm, she felt more than just adrenalin coursing through her system. There was something else, over and above the fear-inspired hyperactivity. A resolve born of determination to help the those she was coming to think of as her people.

  Solid, static immovable objects flickered by her, while moving things like the occasional owl and bats were caught in slow motion. Sounds were protracted, slurred: the ululation of an owl sounded like the long drone of a foghorn.

  She saw no sign of the Paladins that Reed Fletcher said were surrounding the forest. She was wondering if the news report had been mistaken when she heard the rumble of a vehicle to her right. She veered and sprinted through dense woodland, covering two hundred yards in a little over five seconds, and reached the lane before the vehicle passed by. As she slowed, the world returned to normal, the vehicle’s engine noise crashing towards her.

  She crouched and watched as a Paladin Humvee appeared round a bend on the lane. A helmeted figure stood tall in an open hatch, clutching some kind of thermal imaging device. Ajia ducked back into the cover of the ferns as the vehicle swept past.

  She counted ten seconds as the engine noise died in the distance. A mile along the lane, to the south, was the lay-by where they had left the Land Rover.

  Her plan hinged on whether the Paladins had found the vehicle.

  She emerged from behind the ferns and switched immediately into Puck mode. The even surface of the tarmac made running at speed a joy. The world slowed around her. She wished she had the ability to slow everything down, even when she wasn’t sprinting. She’d be able to show the bastard Paladins a thing or two, then.

  She came to the lay-by and slowed, moving into the undergrowth at the side of the lane and approaching the Land Rover cautiously. She slowed and made a tentative circuit of the vehicle, ensuring there were no hidden goons in the vicinity.

  Then she pulled Mr LeRoy’s car keys from her pocket and slipped in behind the steering wheel.

  This was the most dangerous phase of her grand plan, of course. It had taken all her powers of persuasion to convince Smith and LeRoy that her scheme made sense, and wasn’t suicidal madness. Fletcher had just looked on, silent, with a cynical curl of his lip, while her friends had tried to dissuade her.

  She’d fought her corner and ended up telling them that she was doing it, whether they liked the idea or not.

  She wound the window down and listened.

  Five minutes later she heard the distinctive engine noise of a Humvee, heading south. She wondered if it were the vehicle she had seen earlier, making a return trip.

  When she judged it was just a couple of hundred yards away, she started the engine and accelerated out of the lay-by, heading south ahead of the Paladins.

  She felt vulnerable. It was all very well when she was protected by her ability, but now she was, when all was said and done, a sitting target.

  She glanced into the rear-view mirror. Fifty yards behind her, the Humvee came into sight. The Paladins would be on the alert for any vehicle active in the area, but they knew that Ajia and two others had fled Dorset in a Land Rover. The car would red-flag the bastards like nothing else.

  Ajia accelerated, and on cue a dazzling searchlight lit up the interior of the Land Rover. She ducked, half-expecting a hail of bullets. But the Paladins, murderous thugs though they were, would still have to exercise a little caution. The killing of an innocent farmer wouldn’t look good splashed across the front pages of the local paper. Even smarmy Major Wynne would have difficulty explaining that.

  The Humvee was closing on her. Ajia increased speed, drawing away. The Paladin’s vehicle was built for endurance, not speed. The advantage was with her. She would lead them a merry dance for a few miles, then ditch the Land Rover as planned and sprint like crazy back to the bunker.

  That was the plan, at least. But she had thought without the possibility that the pursuing militia would summon cohorts. With heart-thumping alarm, she saw a blaze of headlights up ahead as an armoured car rounded a bend and bore down on her.

  Reflexively she spun the wheel––a quick twitch to the left and then to the right––and she chicaned past the Paladins without ending up in the ditch. She rounded the bend at speed, glancing in the rear-view. The curving hedge obscured the lane to the rear, and she was unable to see whether the vehicles had collided. There was no sound of impact, but at least the oncoming vehicle would have impeded the progress of the Humvee.

  She reckoned she had travelled about three or four miles from Fletcher’s bunker.

  Now for phase two.

  Ajia slowed, waiting until headlights showed perhaps half a mile behind her, then slewed the Land Rover into the side of the lane and jumped from the cab, leaving the driver’s door wide open. Moving at speed, she opened the back doors to give the impression that more than one person had fled the vehicle, then jumped over the ditch. She crawled through a hedge, found herself on the margin of a ploughed field, and ran in the direction of the oncoming vehicles.

  They passed on the other side of the hedge as if in slow motion, engines moaning like tortured banshees. The field had been ploughed north to south, as neat as corduroy, and this helped her progress as she sprinted north, parallel with the lane.

  When she judged she had reached the lay-by, Ajia slowed and pushed her way through the hedge, continuing north over the even surface of the lane. Seconds later she heard shouts, multiple voices so slowed that they sounded almost sub-aquatic. Through the trees on the other side of the lane she made out flickering torches illuminating the forest. She approached them, still running, and made out a cordon of Paladin goons moving through the undergrowth with glacial and almost comical slowness.

  She thought of Maya and the two other brownies, lying dead outside the caravan. All the others slaughtered by the Paladin, Perry and the elves and goblins who had sought refuge at Summer Land. She fingered the knife in her pocket as she ran. It would be easy to take out one or two of these wankers, in revenge, to show Drake and his fascists that he wasn’t having everything his own way. But she stayed the impulse. It would be foolish, just when she’d achieved the object of her plan and lured the Paladins south.

  Later, she told herself.

  She continued along the lane for half a mile, then veered into the forest.

  Five minutes later, when she hauled up the lid on Reed Fletcher’s cut-price Hobbit house, she found Reed and Smith going at it hammer and tongs.

  Almost literally, in Smith’s case.

  He towered over Reed at the far end of the cramped bunker, his hammer raised above his head in a show of unSmith-like aggression. Mr LeRoy danced futile attendance, fingers fluttering at his chin as he carolled, “Boys! Boys!”

  Fletcher looked up from where he cowered on the floor, affecting a defiant nonchalance he obviously didn’t really feel. “Go on, the
n! Do it! For once in your life, be a man!”

  Smith saw Ajia, staring at him, and his aggression withered. He lowered his hammer and let go of Fletcher’s shirtfront.

  “Chrissake,” Ajia said. “So while I’ve been out there risking my fucking neck, you two cretins… Honestly, words fail me.”

  “Reed has had a change of heart,” Mr LeRoy reported, clearly relieved at Ajia’s intervention.

  She frowned. “You’re coming with us, Reed?”

  Smith grunted. “Hardly. And he calls me a coward. He’s decided he’d rather not, all things considered, guide us out of the forest.”

  Ajia stared at Fletcher. “Is that right?”

  Fletcher fussily rearranged his collar. “I said that if you were successful in drawing the Paladins away, then you wouldn’t need me.”

  Ajia felt like asking for Smith’s hammer so she could do what he’d left undone. She took a calming breath. “Reed, we need you. Your expertise. You know this forest like the back of your hand. I might have drawn a few vehicles, but… But the place is still crawling with the bastards.” She hesitated, staring at him. “I mean, how would you feel if we left here without you, and a day later you found us slaughtered out there?”

  “Well said, Ajia,” Mr LeRoy put in.

  “We’re not asking you to come with us. Or join the fight,” she went on. “Just guide us out of the fucking forest, okay? An hour, two. Chances are we won’t come across any more patrols, but just on the off-chance…”

  She told them about her flight south in the Land Rover, and the pursuit of the Paladins.

  Fletcher looked at her, considering. At last he said, “For you, okay? I’m doing this for you, not Smith here.”

  Ajia nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “Right, let’s get the hell out of here, okay?”

  “MY REASONING IS that they’ll have regular checkpoints on all the major roads surrounding the forest.”

  “Your reasoning?” Smith said. “Or is that a guess?”