The little man screamed his rage and swung his sword at an advancing Paladin, beheading the soldier. He turned, looking for his next victim––but the closest Paladin was twenty feet away across the lawn, and he had seen Wee Paul’s startling re-appearance and bloody despatch of his colleague. Raising his gun, he accounted for the midget with a minimum of bullets.
Wee Paul had made his final bow.
“No,” Ajia cried.
Beside her, Fletcher indicated a boggart crouching fifty feet away behind an huge mock-Roman urn. The stunted man appeared to be commanding the fight back. “Samsor!” Fletcher yelled. “Retreat! Behind the castle!”
If the boggart heard him, he gave no sign, but poked his gun from his cover and accounted for another Paladin.
“Look!” Ajia cried.
The newly arrived Humvees were disgorging their personnel, Paladins in battle armour toting rifles.
“We don’t stand a chance,” she breathed.
Then, as she watched, something remarkable happened.
The relief force of Paladins turned their guns on their comrades and mowed them down where they stood. She saw one of the newly-arrived Paladins with a shoulder-mounted RPG launcher take aim at a Paladin armoured car: the weapon jolted, smoke issued from its muzzle, and the vehicle exploded in a ball of flame. Screaming personnel tumbled from the wreckage, blazing like human torches.
The defending Paladins, under attack, turned and began fighting back, and for ten minutes the bloodiest battle Ajia had ever seen raged without cessation or concession across the lawns before her.
“What the…?” Fletcher began.
“Mutiny,” Ajia said.
She ducked as Humvees and armoured cars belonging to both sides exploded like powder kegs. Of the six newly-arrived Humvees, only one was still intact, and few of the original Paladins defending the castle remained standing. Only the soldiers barricaded in the entrance, manning the .50-calibre machine gun, were left fighting.
As she and Fletcher watched, hardly able to believe the miraculous turn of events, the last Humvee accelerated along the drive. It approached the castle at speed, zigzagging to avoid the .50-cal’s shells. It reached the entrance, swerving at the very last second. The figure behind the wheel lobbed a grenade into the entrance and ducked as the blast blew shards of timber and lacerated flesh in every direction.
Then the driver leapt from the cab and sprinted into the castle.
And Ajia recognised the Paladin.
It was the very same one who had watched her being escorted from the warehouse and who, just days ago, had coldbloodedly murdered Mr LeRoy’s lover, Perry.
Major Wynne.
She was aware of the knife in her hand, and her desire to use it.
Ten paces to her right, Wolfson was rolling on the ground with a Paladin, snarling his hatred. As she watched, Cuhullin the Hound gained the upper hand. With a ferocious yelp, he opened his huge jaws and bit into the soldier’s skull, cracking it with a sickening crunch.
Fletcher called Wolfson to his side and the dog-man bounded over, bloody and sweating but elated.
“Find Mr LeRoy and Smith,” Fletcher ordered. “Tell them the battle is almost won. Then bring them in when I give the word, okay?”
Grinning, Wolfson took off across the lawn.
Ajia looked at Fletcher, and he nodded.
Together they left the cover of the urn and sprinted towards the castle’s shattered entrance.
Chapter 35
ONE HOUR EARLIER, Derek Drake had unlocked the door to his study on the top floor of the castle’s west tower and strode into the room, smiling at the thought that he was coming home. He had always felt an affinity for the castle, but in the past could never work out quite why he felt so at ease here. Now, thanks to Emrys, he knew. This part of the world was his ancient stamping ground, after all. His ancestral birthright.
He crossed to the solid oak table, opened the Nuclear Briefcase and set it down, and next to it the walnut carrying case containing the Holy Grail.
He was all set for the showdown, and he was supremely confident.
Ajia Snell, Auberon LeRoy and his bunch of murderous misfits might still be at large, but Drake had sacked the incompetent Wynne and Noble and mobilised his remaining Paladins. They were in position around the castle now; Drake was impregnable. Also, reports from his ministers bolstered his confidence. In the Channel, three British warships were containing the Russian battleships. Meanwhile, the SAS squad was in position on the border of Estonia, and his admiral aboard the HMSNautilus was ready and awaiting his command.
He had never felt more powerful.
His confidence communicated itself to Harriet. She pressed herself to him and murmured that he should make the most of the bedroom on the floor below.
The suggestion was tempting. Harriet had never looked more beautiful, or seductive––and there were few greater aphrodisiacs than the knowledge of the power one held over one’s fellow man.
But he couldn’t be distracted now. He had matters of state to settle. He held the future of his great nation, its very fate, in his hands.
At the far end of the table, the phone connected to Whitehall shrilled.
Drake snatched it up. “Yes?”
It was his Minister of Defence. “Word from the Channel, sir.”
“Go on.”
“The Russkie ships are blockaded ten miles off Dover. We’re awaiting your orders.”
“Hold tight,” Drake said. “Prepare to give the order to attack.”
“Very good, sir.”
Next he got through to his man in Estonia. “What’s the situation, Dennison?”
“Reports are coming in that a small force of Russian insurgents have crossed the border at Palo, killing a couple of Estonian guards.”
“And the SAS team?”
“They have a chopper ready and waiting ten miles away, sir. What should I do?”
Drake considered his options. “I’m going to issue an order to strike the invaders forthwith, Dennison. Prepare a statement for Estonian consumption to the effect that Britain will not stand by impotently while the sovereign territory of a staunch ally and neighbour is illegally transgressed by hostile forces.”
“Very good, sir.”
On an encrypted landline, Drake reached his military command centre in London and issued the order for the SAS in Estonia to launch a commando attack on the Russian invaders.
Then he sat back and smiled to himself.
Harriet rubbed his shoulder, almost purring her contentment. “You make me proud, Derek.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “You’ve seen nothing yet, my dear.”
He glanced across at the red button in the centre of the open case. Harriet saw the direction of his glance. He could have sworn that she was swooning.
“You’ll do it?” she asked.
“If needs must, Harriet, then yes. I’ll give the command. Britain won’t be pushed around by a tin-pot dictator.”
And neither will I, he thought.
There was an element of bravado at work here, of course. Drake would not consign millions to a hideous, fiery death, at least not idly and not without a great deal of soul-searching and remorse. Yet he needed to believe he could in order for Vasilyev to believe he would; and believing it was halfway to accepting its necessity.
The look his wife was giving him now only stiffened his resolve. A man might do anything, dare anything, anything at all, just to have the woman he loved gaze at him that way.
A knock sounded at the door, and Major Jakeman appeared. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. But we’ve apprehended a couple of civilians in the grounds.”
“Civilians? Who the hell are they?”
“Won’t say, sir. But they want to see you.”
“Tell them to go to hell. No, scrub that. Arrest them and find out what they want.”
“Very good, sir.” The door closed behind the retreating major.
Harriet moved to the far end of the ta
ble and caressed the open case, the gesture almost sexual. “You’ll really give the command, Derek?”
He smiled. “You think I wouldn’t? Someone needs to take a stand. The heads of state of Europe are a bunch of lily-livered pen-pushers. Vasilyev needs to be shown who’s the––”
His words were interrupted, rudely, by the sudden chatter of gunfire
“What?”
He leapt up and rushed to the window. Harriet joined him, clutching his arm and squeaking with fright.
Three Paladins lay dead on the lawn directly beneath the tower. As Drake stared down, his pulse racing, a mob swarmed over the perimeter wall and surged across the lawn, some armed with guns, others wielding knifes and machetes.
To his relief, the Paladins were rapidly mobilised and battle was joined.
He got through to Major Jakeman. “What the hell’s going on, Major?”
Above the rattle of gunfire, Jakeman shouted, “We think it’s LeRoy’s terrorist mob, sir. We’ll soon have things under control.”
“LeRoy?” Drake’s heartrate quickened. “Report back to me as soon as you have.”
He cut the connection and watched the invaders and his Paladins slaughter each other far below.
His mobile phone sounded. He strode to the far end of the study, a finger pressed to his left ear to block out the sound of the battle.
“Dobriy den’, Prime Minister,” Vasilyev said.
“Ah, Premier Vasilyev,” Drake said, smiling to himself. “Just the man I need to speak to. I’m so glad you saw fit to call.”
“We have the little matter of what is occurring in the Channel to discuss, Prime Minister.”
“You refer to the illegal incursion of Russian battleships into British territorial waters? What is there to discuss, Vasilyev? We have your boats blockaded. Furthermore, if you don’t order their immediate retreat… Well, let’s just say that things might turn a little nasty.”
Drake sensed the Premier’s unease. After a second, Vasilyev said, “You have gained––what is the phrase?––Dutch courage from your pre-empting of the video clip? Very clever of you, Prime Minister, I will give you that. Very clever indeed. But you will soon learn that I do not like to be threatened. Have you heard the news from Estonia, by any chance?”
Drake laughed. “Have you? I think you’ll find that your little invasion force has been wiped out, Vasilyev.”
There was a profound silence from the other end of the line, then the connection was cut.
Elated, Drake strode to the window and stared out. It was obvious, from his vantage point, that the Paladins were gaining the upper hand. It was a bloodbath down there, with LeRoy’s ugly brutes being torn apart by the defence force’s superior firepower and tactics.
Harriet ran a hand through his hair. “You don’t know how it turns me on to hear you talk to him like that.”
His phone shrilled again, and Drake took the call.
“Vasilyev. Somehow, I thought I’d be hearing from you.”
“This means war, Drake!” Vasilyev spluttered.
“Oh, you’re referring to your abortive invasion? War? I’m more than happy to discuss the notion, Premier. In fact, I’ll go so far as to issue an ultimatum. Withdraw your battleships and issue a statement describing the incursion into Estonia as the act of a rogue colonel, and you might not suffer the consequences.”
“The consequences?” Vasilyev echoed.
“I have nuclear weapons trained on Moscow and ready to launch when I give the word. It’s up to you. Do as I say, and save Moscow.”
“You’re insane!” Vasilyev cried. “Or… or you’re bluffing. I, too, have nuclear weapons, and the largest of them is trained on London.”
Drake laughed. “Then call my bluff, Vasilyev, if you dare.”
He replaced the receiver.
He moved to the window to see how the skirmish was progressing, just in time to witness the arrival of more Paladin in the form of six Humvees trundling through the perimeter gates. He smiled. Soon, LeRoy would be grovelling before him, begging for mercy. And Ajia Snell with him.
Then, as he stared down, the arriving Paladins opened fire of the castle’s defenders.
His hand shaking, Drake got through to Jakeman. “Major, what the fucking hell––?”
The reply was hard to make out about the rattle of gunfire and explosion of grenades. “Under attack… Major Wynne, sir… Withdrawing into…” The line went dead.
Drake paced back and forth, Harriet watching him worriedly. He snatched up the land line and got through to his Defence Minister. “Any news?”
“The Russkies are holding fast in the Channel, sir. They’re refusing to budge. And in Estonia…”
Drake’s heart pounded. “Go on.”
“Reports are coming in of a second Russian incursion further along the border. Orders, sir?”
“Sit tight. I’ll get back to you.”
Drake ceased his pacing and stared down at the table, at the Nuclear Briefcase open before him, its red button prominent and inviting. He had already taken the precaution of entering the launch codes. Now, literally at the touch of a button, he was able to unleash hell.
He switched his gaze to the walnut box containing the Holy Grail, opened it to reveal the chalice, then dropped to one knee. If ever he needed Emrys’s sound advice…
“I bend the knee in supplication,” he said.
The Grail did not respond.
Drake stared at the chalice, its jewelled inlay glinting in the sunlight.
“Emrys?”
The Grail remained obdurately silent.
“Emrys! Don’t desert me in my hour of need, I beg you!” He licked his lips. “I bend the knee in supplication,” he repeated.
The study door open and an voice––a very familiar voice––spoke to him, “It’s no good, Derek. I no longer inhabit the Grail.”
Drake struggled to his feet and whirled to face the newcomer.
And stared in disbelief.
Beside him, Harriet gave a gasp.
Edward Winterton stood just inside the doorway, incongruously armed with a submachine gun, and beside him was his daughter, Neve. A small, dumpy woman Drake vaguely recognised stood beside the young woman.
Drake felt himself trembling. The arrival of Winterton, seemingly from the dead, was enough of a shock––but even more shattering, and inexplicable, was the sound of his voice.
Rich, deep, and singsong…
Welsh.
“Emrys?” He shook his head. “No. No, it can’t be.”
The big, silver-haired man smiled. “Why not, Derek? If I could inhabit the form of the Grail, then what would be so difficult about taking over, albeit temporarily, the body of your bête noir, Edward Winterton?”
“Emrys, is it really you?” Harriet gasped.
Drake gestured, reaching out an arm as if in supplication. “But why, Emrys? Why take on his body?”
Winterton, or rather Emrys, gave a heartfelt sigh. “Because I am sorely disappointed in you, Derek. I have been for a long while. And the time has finally come to act.”
“Disappointed?” Drake tried to laugh. His legs felt weak. “No. No, this is some kind of… of joke. A charade. You’ve… you’ve disabled the Grail somehow, Winterton. You’re imitating Emrys. That’s the only way this make sense.”
Winterton’s patrician features relaxed into a smile. “If that’s the case, then how would I know that, on your last meeting with me, Emrys, I told you who you were? That you were the eidolon of King Arthur, and that you should come here, to Avalon?”
Beside Drake, Harriet gave a shrill laugh, “King Arthur?” she cried. “But Derek isn’t King Arthur, you fool. He’s Jesus Christ!”
Drake turned and stared at his wife. Was the woman stark, staring mad?
His voice faltering, he said to Emrys, “What do you want?”
“As I said, Derek, I’m disappointed.”
“But why?” Drake reached out again. “I owe everything to you, Emrys
. Everything. I trusted you.”
“And I trusted you, Derek, but that trust proved to be misplaced.” Winterton hesitated, then went on. “After the crash, when I found myself inhabiting the Grail, and in receipt of untold power. Power to bring forth the eidolons, to rouse the folkloric hordes to life for the good of all Britain. I had long since seen you as our great unifier, Derek, and so I invested you with the spirit of Arthur, that other great unifier. You would be the leader who would rally the citizens, I thought, and bring pride back to our country. I was and always will be a patriot who believed in the ineluctable superiority of this nation and its people. But I never thought that we had the right to abuse that power.”
“Abuse?” Drake echoed weakly.
“It started even before you were a politician, but the Summer of Terror,” Winterton said, “your willing sacrifice of innocent victims so that you could blame the atrocity on Islamists and gain political advantage…”
“What is he talking about, Derek?” said Harriet. “Innocent victims?”
“Hardly surprising that you’ve never told her,” said Winterton. “There are some deeds too appalling for a man to share even with his wife. Your husband, Mrs Drake, instigated the bombings himself. He colluded with the secret services, setting up the rash of so-called terrorist attacks that became known as the Summer of Terror. It was a textbook example of what the Americans have dubbed a false flag operation. And when Edward Winterton was informed about it through a whistleblower in the same secret services, he confronted your husband. In return, you, Derek, engineered the circumstances which caused Winterton’s fatal heart attack.”
“Derek? Is this true?”
His lack of response was all the answer she needed.
“The Summer of Terror.” Winterton shook his head sorrowfully. “That was when my misgivings about you set in, Derek. But still I told myself it would be all right. The means justified the ends. In hindsight, after the helicopter crash, I perhaps should never have bestowed on you the power I did. I thought, however, that I could still keep you in check and temper your tendency towards excessive behaviour. I kept voicing my concerns over some of your more extreme policies. Remember?”
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