“I could follow in my car…no, I suppose not,” said Jac. “Even if I promise I won’t hare off to catch the Druppe ferry?”
“I really don’t think you’ve stolen the ring,” said Mari. “But it probably is better if you come with us.”
Mari did not mention the dicky seat would be no more uncomfortable than anywhere else in Lawrence’s car. There was also a chance she was wrong and the ring had been stolen by Jac or one of his students. To guard against that possibility, she delivered a witch’s glare from under the brim of her hat, encompassing all the students. If she needed to find any of them in the next few days, they would not be able to hide. A few of them winced as her eyes briefly flashed with green fire, but they did not protest.
The drive back passed largely in silence. Jac did not complain about the discomfort of the dicky seat, but he did keep moving, as if there was some chance of achieving a better position.
“Where to, exactly?” asked Lawrence, as they neared the village.
“Do you have a butcher’s? Or a general store?”
“Neither one,” replied Lawrence proudly. “But Mrs. Hobspawn at The Lamprey can usually spare a few chops or some sausages if anyone’s missed a delivery from Hawsey’s Meat or the Everything Stores.”
“The Lamprey to begin with, then to the village green,” said Mari.
#
“Do you really know where the relic ring’s got to?” asked Jac plaintively, as Mari emerged from the tempting interior of The Lamprey, bearing a brown-paper-wrapped parcel that was already stained with leaking blood.
She had taken longer than she’d hoped, having to several times decline Mrs. Hobspawn’s offer of “one for the road, witches drink on the house.” It had been much harder to decline a cup of tea and a massive ham sandwich. She hadn’t had lunch and her stomach hadn’t recognized the rock cake as food, but as an imposition.
“You’ll see,” replied Mari. She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. Her certainty had diminished a little now it was to be put to the test.
Her return to the village had been marked, and the stop at The Lamprey had allowed time for her original welcoming party to gather back at the green, with reinforcement by various other inhabitants of Nether Warnstow. Sergeant Breckon was making himself useful by ushering people back from the road, allowing Lawrence plenty of room to pull up. But they all rushed over again as soon as he turned the engine off.
“Now, now, make way, make way for the district witch!” roared the sergeant.
The crowd parted as Mari walked over to the war memorial, unwrapped her parcel and laid a nice chop on the bottom step. Turning around, she asked Lawrence, “Is your dog’s name just Bella?”
“In full it’s Isabella Bird, because she’s always off exploring the world,” said Lawrence, rather surprised. “Oh, her full pedigree name is Isabella Bird Dawn Fire Russet-Russet. Why?”
“You’ll see in a minute or two, I hope,” replied Mari. “And she’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
“What—”
Mari drew a slim ivory and silver wand from her sleeve.
Lawrence swallowed his question and there was a general shuffling backward, away from the wand.
She tapped the chop with it, speaking a spell that fell from her lips with a noise like branches scraping across a window, a sound that was either comforting or unsettling depending on what you were expecting. At the end of this strange vocalization, the name “Isabella Bird Dawn Fire Russet-Russet” rang out.
A hushed silence fell. Mari took off her hat, wiped her brow, and put the hat firmly back on again.
There was an “ooh” from the crowd as Bella the russet Labrador ambled across the green, as muddy pawed as ever. Catching sight or scent of the chop, she accelerated, rushed to the step and ate the meat down in several gulps before anyone could think to stop her. Finished, Bella lay down on the step and pretended it hadn’t happened.
Mari tapped her on the head with the wand. Surprised, but not upset, Bella sat up on her haunches. A moment later, a slightly rueful expression came over the dog. Her big brown eyes widened, her jaw reluctantly opened and some nasty gagging sounds emanated.
Mari stepped back. Bella lowered her head and vomited profusely on the grass below the step. Chunks of barely chewed chop came out first, followed by more indistinguishable and longer digested mush, and then with another but much louder “ooh” from the crowd, out came a bright red ring of dragon bone, big enough to fit a thumb.
“Thief-wards don’t stop dogs,” explained Mari.
Bella lunged forward to swallow the ring again, but Mari grabbed the dog’s collar and hauled her back.
“I’ll give that a wash in the pond, shall I?” asked Lawrence. Clearly, as Bella’s owner, he felt he was expected to retrieve the ring from the vomit.
“No!” shouted Mari and Jac, but Lawrence had already picked out the ring from the noisome pool. He gripped it gingerly with the tips of his thumb and forefinger, but somehow the ring slid fully on to his thumb.
He gasped, made a choking sound and fell to his knees. Scales began to form on his throat. Shining thumbnail-sized scales of gold-edged scarlet. His back rippled alarmingly with the hint of wings beginning to form. His eyes turned entirely red. The awful dark red that was almost black, like the crusted blood of an old wound.
Mari pointed her wand and began to speak Brythonic words of power. A brute-force attempt to stop the draconic identity subverting any more of poor Lawrence’s body before she compelled it to return to the ring.
If she could.
Even after so long immured under the earth, the dragon contained within the ring was powerful. Princess Inga would have known its name and the words to compel its service, but Mari did not. She could only set her strength against the worm.
Power against power, with no finesse.
Even if she won, it would be fatal for Lawrence. His body would be destroyed, either by the dragon’s emergence or by the magic Mari must employ to prevent it.
But it had to be done, or the dragon would fully manifest and all the villagers present would die, and many more soon after. Nether Warnstow and all the villages from the sea to Morcoln would burn, before Sir Henry or some other powerful wizard or witch could intervene.
Mari reached deep inside herself for a word of power that she had learned but never used. But before she could bring it, sharp and terrible, into the world, Jac pushed in front of her. He raised a small, heavily engraved bronze box, with the lid open. It was impossible to see what was inside. Indeed, it didn’t seem to have an inside, only an absence of one.
He spoke a simple spell; one Mari did not know and afterwards could not recall.
Next came a painful, metallic ringing, like a cymbal crash-struck too close to Mari’s ear. She flinched. Lawrence screamed and roared at the sky, flames bursting from his mouth. A moment later the ring flew from his thumb to the box. Jac slammed the lid shut and locked it with a golden key he wore on the chain of black iron around his neck.
Lawrence fell to the ground. The scales faded from his neck, his clawing hands relaxed, no fire came with his panting breath, his eyes became human once again. Dr. Ware rushed to his side and felt the pulse at his neck.
Mari looked at the box Jac was tucking away inside his coat pocket.
“I might not be good with wards, but I do know a thing or two about powerful ancient relics,” he said. “We always have to be ready for little antics like that.”
“I’m glad you were,” said Mari sincerely. “I think I might have mastered the dragon, but poor Mr. Evenholme would not have survived. As it is, he seems to have escaped the worst. It wasn’t in him for long.”
Lawrence had managed to sit up. Dr. Ware checked his throat, but not in an urgent, worried way. Most of the other villagers crowded around, asking questions that presaged the likely transformation of this event into years or even decades worth of anecdotes to come.
Mari let Bella go. The dog rushed to her master and
began to lick his face. Her vomit-laden breath prompted Lawrence to leap to his feet without assistance, indicating he was recovering very well indeed.
“Lawrence! What are you doing? Why is everyone fussing over you, and what has that dog of yours done now?” The vicar’s shrill cries grew louder as she hurried over from the church.
“I think a speedy exit is called for,” said Mari.
“Yes,” replied Jac, but he made no motion to leave.
“Would you like to have lunch, Dr. Jacoby?” asked Mari. “The food looked rather good at The Lamprey and…” she glanced at the pool of dog vomit nearby and wrinkled her nose “…despite the circumstances, I am absolutely starving.”
“I would be delighted, Dr. Garridge,” said Jac.
Of course, by the time they’d idled their way to The Lamprey, talking six to the dozen about Norse princesses, capture boxes, the differences in wards of wood and bone and metal, and much else, the lunch hour service was finished, and Bella had somehow got ahead of them and vomited again on the pub’s doorstep.
But that is another story.
In Opposition to the Foe
By Pamela Jeffs
The rainforest whispers in a language all its own. Its voice is the drip-drop patter of water to the leaf-littered earth and the cackle of bright-breasted parrots in the canopy. But danger covets the cloak of the forest’s dense skirts. It lurks hidden, concealing the wicked teeth and misshapen bodies of those human mutations created in the buru labs but deemed not worthy.
The aliens sent their abominations into the wilderness to die. But humans are strong. Even corrupted, they proved stronger than their creators gave them credit for.
Now, they roam.
They hunt.
And they should be feared, but I’ll brave them today. For word runs hot over the buru comms channels. The aliens are planning a search. Unguarded tech rests out here somewhere.
Whispers of a wreck.
A ship I can, maybe, use against the invaders.
I push open the access hatch leading out from the ancient World War II bunker. The wild ginger clump concealing the entrance parts as the door swings on well-oiled hinges. I step clear.
The light is filtered green and the air smells clean outside. Not like the damp, musty corridors below; corridors filled with everything I own—supplies and munitions. I glance back. It’s not much, but it keeps me safe and it’s a place to call home.
Home.
More like just walls and a roof built from the ruins of our invaded civilisation. But it’s all I have left.
No, not quite all.
I glance up. Soleil is where she always is, sleeping in the branches of the tallest tree. As much as I’ve tried, she refuses to join me below ground. Her eagle head is tucked tight beneath a shining wing and her lion body disappears into the shadows of dense leaves behind. She looks every part a griffin from legend. My heart clenches. As always, I can’t help but remember all she was, and that which she no longer is.
If only I had been braver. If only I’d left my hiding place when she had screamed for me.
Her true voice still rings in my mind—
Aster! Help me!
What I wouldn’t give to change the past. But I can only influence the future. Only protect her as best I can.
I whistle low. Soleil responds, head emerging and bright eagle eyes blinking. She tips off her branch and glides to the ground. I rest a hand on her beak. She keens quietly in greeting.
“Ready to hunt?” I ask, knowing she understands me but cannot answer.
She tilts her head and her golden eye swivels to mine—an eye weighted with the wisdom only a human soul can own; a human soul tied to a mutated form. I sense her eagerness.
I holster the pump-action shotgun across my back and check my ammo belt. On one hip hangs my grandfather’s xiphos. The old man gifted the ancient Greek blade to me when we brought Soleil home. Both are my responsibility now.
“Let’s go then.”
#
The forest never welcomes. It despises our presence here, holding its secrets close. I press forward into the sombre wall of green and black. The vegetation parts reluctantly around me. Spikes pluck at my shirt and the rotten stench of carrion flowers fills my nostrils. I flick away a fly and shoulder my way past a dense curtain of broad-leafed vines. Soleil follows, her cat-like reflexes gifting her silence as she moves through the undergrowth.
A branch creaks.
No sounds are accidental in this place. I ease my loaded shotgun free from the gun slip. The xiphos remains in its scabbard. That’s for close fighting and I’m hoping it won’t come to that.
Another creak.
My gaze snaps up.
The forest canopy falls silent.
I stretch an arm wide across Soleil’s chest. Her wings flare as she shoves her feathered breast against me. Then she stops also, her neck arched back.
We both sense it.
Something approaches.
I lick my lips. A beat of sweat slides down my neck and a mosquito whines by my ear. I glance at Soleil. Her gaze is fixed on the trees.
Snap.
Crack.
The forest erupts.
I squeeze the trigger and the shotgun roars, recoiling through my shoulder. The stench of gunfire chokes the air. The shot hits its mark. A peacock-scaled, half-serpent, half-human female falls from a tree, screaming. Her sibilant cry, slithering from a fanged mouth, burbles away, drowned in the blood-soaked ruin of her lungs. She lands with a muted thump, curled auburn hair a shock of color splayed like a carrion flower across the undergrowth. Her viper tail thrashes, scattering leaf litter and gore.
Two more creatures follow. First, a male with muscled forearms and the wicked glare of a deranged psychotic. He aims for Soleil. Her battle cry cuts the air in a shriek that speaks of high places and quick kills. She launches, wings raised and talons extended.
The last creature is mine. I fire. And again. The trigger clicks. Damn. Gun’s jammed. But my attacker’s been hit—left arm bleeding. He snarls, venom on his lips. He isn’t ready to end this fight yet. I toss the firearm aside. I’ll get it back later. The xiphos rings clear of its scabbard.
But the mutant has already crossed the distance. No room for me to swing. He lunges and the flat of my double-edged blade slaps against his chest. He drives me down, coiling his sleek tail to pin my legs. This close, his hot breath smells of rot and sulphurous venom. Clawed fingers find my throat and squeeze. A grip like iron.
My gritted teeth slip and cut my tongue and I taste blood. My lungs burn. I buck and push harder on the blade, trying to twist it, trying to cut the scaled chest pressing down on me. The viper-man’s mouth widens, fangs just a handspan from my shoulder.
This is a stupid way to die.
A stupid place to die.
The soundtrack of Soleil’s battle plays somewhere behind me. Hisses versus eagle cry.
“Hih! Hih!” A stranger’s voice.
The pressure on my neck eases. A trickle of air rakes its way into my lungs. I cough. The mutant looks up and away. His features change—a predator suddenly made prey.
He slithers off me. With a flick of his tail he retreats, scaling the nearest tree and disappearing into the canopy. Nearby, the rustle of leaves betrays the departure of Soleil’s opponent. I lie on the rich-smelling ground, exhausted. Soleil, breathing heavily, moves to stand over me, her stance tense. She cries out a challenge.
I sit up. Everything hurts.
And I see him.
In the clearing with a worn blaster held in one hand and my shotgun in the other.
A buru.
Shit.
#
The buru points both weapons down and away. A sign of peace? Impossible. His kind doesn’t collaborate. They care only for the conquering of planets and the mutation of any native species. Universal domination is their aim.
I keep my blade raised.
The alien moves forward with languid grace—long-limbed an
d lithe with blue dreadlocks coiling past his gold-skinned cheeks and over his shoulders. His eyes are the cruel doorways to his soul, solid orbs of scarlet.
He points to Soleil. “How did you tame that griffinous?”
I’ve never heard a buru speak before. Heavily accented, he sounds something almost between a Greek and French person trying to speak English.
“She’s got a name. Soleil.”
His chin tilts. “Soleil. How is it she is so quiet?”
I can’t tell him even if I wanted to. She has always been that way around me, like I tether her to reality or the past, somehow. “She’s special.”
He moves closer still, a cautious step—the type you take when approaching a wild animal. His black metal armor seems to soak up the light.
“Were either of you bitten?” he asks. “I can help you, if you will let me.”
My hand tightens around the hilt of my blade. “You help us, buru?”
The alien’s thin lips quirk up. “I have a name, also. Dinuth.”
“I don’t care.”
“Perhaps you should. Some say I am special too.”
I get to my knees. “I don’t believe you.”
But before Dinuth answers, Soleil stumbles. Her legs crumble and her head collides with the ground.
“No!” I cry, scrabbling to her. Froth bubbles from her beak, her gaze roams wildly, following shadows that I can’t see. The buru appears by her head. He runs a long-fingered hand over her beak and down her neck. His blood-colored eyes flick to mine.
“She’s been bitten. Viperion venom will kill her within the hour unless you let me help her.”
Viperions. So that’s what his kind calls those human-snake hybrids.
“You bastards made those things.”
“Yes. But I can save her from them, too.”
I glare at him then look back at Soleil.
I can’t help her.
But maybe he can.
“She dies and I’ll kill you. You hand us over to other buru to experiment on and I kill you.”
Dinuth moves to my side and hands my shotgun over. “We are without issue then, for I have no desire to depart this life, I assure you.”
Relics, Wrecks and Ruins Page 7