The Harry Ferguson Chronicles Box Set

by William David Ellis

  “This is the line. Once we cross it there is no going back. There will be guards here, and the naga, possibly even Long and Cadmus as well. We will have to fight our way through and back. If we survive, we will be outcasts, and the Nazis will hunt us down. Are you sure?”

  Belle Rodum paused and closed her eyes, counting the costs. Then they heard a scream that sliced the dungeon gloom like a razor. The hair on Belle’s neck stood on end and her blood ran cold. Fawkes clenched his massive knuckles and an angry grimace rode dark upon his features. The scream was different somehow, and when it came again it seemed wrenched from a throat that despised fear and only screamed because it could not help but scream. It was a raw, hoarse animal cry, wrung from a soul consumed by an anguish that would not end. It was extremely intimate, almost like viewing a rape behind one-way glass. It was the naked agony of a person stripped of everything but their basest essence.

  Belle’s lips curled and her teeth bared. She looked up at Fawkes and growled, “I am now!”

  Fawkes grinned back at her. “Thought you might be.” And then ripped the door off its hinges.

  The room was huge. Steel girders enforced the stone ceiling. Hot bright lights hung from the girders, giving the people gathered around the naked figure on the steel operating table unhindered view.

  Belle moved faster than any athlete alive and felt like she was crawling toward the man chained on the table. Nazi guards swept their guns toward her, but Peter Fawkes’s sword cut them in half before they could bring their guns to bear. The sword glowed blue and resonated a high-pitched harmonic. Fawkes heard a different tune.

  “Reminds me of old times!” the speaker sang to Fawkes. “You were always the blade master, and it feels good to be in your hands again.”

  Fawkes’s face lit with delight as he danced the dance of the sword, every swoop, every step an unconscious ballet.

  The only beings quick enough to give Fawkes and Belle pause were the supernaturals in the room, and with snakelike quickness they bolted, first drawing back, then instantly reversing that position when they realized Belle and Fawkes were alone.

  Shyama, the naga with four heads, reared and struck, her heads hissing and spitting out venom that sizzled when it hit the stone floor.

  “Give me control, Fawkes!” the sword cried. “There are too many of them!”

  “Ha! Been too long, can’t do that anymore… but it’s okay.” He huffed aloud, ducking below the strike of one of the naga’s cobra heads. The serpent’s strike ran straight into the back hand of the red giant slicing it off its neck. The head tumbled, squirting the foul metallic blood of the shifter against the walls and the people close to her.

  Belle, seeing that Fawkes didn’t need her help, turned her full attention to Cadmus the Greek demigod and Laden Long the dark clergy. They both wore surgical gloves and were covered in the blood of the man on the table. A quick look at him stunned Belle. It was Harry Ferguson. His skin looked like railway lines crisscrossed it. Each line was a single red streak sewed together with crude silk stitches. He seemed held together by the incisions. Belle’s stomach reeled; Cadmus had no such problem. His long knives, one in each hand, drove toward Belle. She found herself in trouble, stunned by the first slash of his knives. He could strike from two directions at once, and he was powerful. His blows came rapidly. She pared them but was forced back. His strength was brutal, and when her foot slipped a blade struck across her arm, leaving a ragged red cut. Cadmus kept advancing, pushing her back, hammering her with his weapons.

  She saw an opening and swung. One of his knives flew across the room. Now the fight was even. Her face lit but quickly fell as Cadmus laughed and drew a larger sword and dropped his other long knife. He pushed her back, pressing closer. Sweat stung her eyes, but she had no time to wipe her face and the salt started to blind her.

  Fawkes must have seen her situation or been warned by the speaker sword. Running toward her, he plowed into Cadmus with his massive body, knocking the demigod to the floor. Belle did not hesitate and her blade flashed and hummed its metallic song as she brought it down.

  “Stop!” Long shouted, pointing to a scalpel that Dr. Oberheust held against Harry’s throat. Belle paused. She saw the crazed gleam in the scientist’s eyes and knew Harry was a heartbeat away from the dark.

  The naga screamed, taking advantage of Fawkes’s movement to help Belle. Fawkes turned to face the massive serpent. His sword slid into its chest at the same time as one of the two remaining heads, cobra mouth wide, clamped down on his chest, pushing its great fangs through him.

  Laden Long stared at the death dance of the naga and the giant and smiled. “Two problems solved with one small battle.” Then he turned back to Belle, putting out his hand. “Now that we seem to have that settled, why don’t you step back and give me the thorn, Belle. Harry will live a little longer.” He paused. “We might even let him sleep through the night… and if you are good we might even place a morphine bag on the IV pole. And really give him some relief. What do you say, Belle?”

  Belle was still panting from the battle’s exertion. Long’s words infuriated her. Her eyes darted back and forth. She raked her brain for another option. Her heartbeat slowed and she forced her breathing to steady. Finally, she pulled her sword away from Cadmus, reached into her pocket, withdrew the thorn, and placed it in Long’s outstretched hand.

  “That really wasn’t that hard, was it?”

  Guards poured through the broken door and surrounded her; a dozen guns leveled at her from point-blank range. Long motioned to a guard, who grabbed Belle, forced her hands behind her, and cuffed them with silver thorn cuffs.

  “Why are you doing this, Long? Why not just kill him?”

  “Oh, Belle, is your memory so short or have your passions stolen it? Don’t you remember Harry has to be a willing sacrifice?” Long’s eyebrows rose, his head cocked slightly, and in a matter-of-fact tone he added, “If I were you, Belle, I wouldn’t be as worried about what is going to happen to Harry as what is going to happen to you.”

  Chapter 34

  Sarah blew across the sky, a flaming comet, only comets didn’t fly so low or breathe out fire, annihilating enemy troops along their path. Finally, after only a few seconds, she saw Kusaila. He was on the ground in the middle of a legion of enemy cavalry. Sarah dived into the fray, realizing that Kusaila was not only attacking the hordes who had attempted to devour his people but also protecting a small detachment of his own warriors. These men, more wounded than not, had been Kusaila’s advanced guard and had sounded the warning, saving their people from the first waves. They had bought time with their blood for Kusaila’s other soldiers to form defensive lines. Of the original five hundred, only fifty remained and they were exhausted and bleeding. But all still fighting. And with them stood Kusaila, a mighty wall of flame. Crushing and burning, clawing and breaking all that would come near his friends.

  Sarah dived among the thousands of dark-clad soldiers that threatened to sweep over her warriors like an angry flood. She broke into them, her talons slashing living blades. Blood fell, a terrible rain drowning the cries of the dying. A terrible song, screams and groans, falling into horrible sync. Then she realized she was adding to that song with her own voice; she was singing her song, the beautiful song the North Star had given her. He had said some dragons rode into battle singing; she never dreamt she would be one of them. A smile settled across her face as she killed and defended and turned back the wave until, like the sea after a storm, the tide broke and a stillness greater than the loudest clamor fell.

  She breathed in gasps, heart thundering like a desert rainstorm. The silence was not total—the cries and groans of her people broke through her stupor. She turned toward the mass of bodies. Kusaila still stood, bent with fatigue, blood dripping from his claws. She ran toward him, shrieking and shifting. The ever-present fireflies swarmed around her. Kusaila raised his tired head; he had heard her and saw her running toward him, her dragon shrieks fading like old echoes
into Sarah calling out his name.

  As their eyes met, he shifted, turning from dragon warrior to desert king in a slow heartbeat. He smiled a weary smile and opened his arms to her. Joy leaped in her heart. Then he started and turned toward the retreating enemy and then back to her. He gathered her in his arms, surrounding her in his strong embrace. Then she felt it. Thump, thump, a thousand arrows like hailstones fell from the sky, piercing the survivors, both enemy and her own. Kusaila’s body shuddered but he held her tight, shielding her from the deadly pestilence that fell all around them. It lasted only a few seconds, but when the last arrow crashed into the earth, her world fell with it. She watched as pain swept across his features. He looked down at her. A forlorn smile crept across his face. His body began to jerk. He tried to speak but blood came where words longed to be. He gasped, then his eyes lit, as he looked beyond her into the sky. Sadness bowed to a joy she knew belonged to the North Star and his heralds.

  Sarah started to scream as Kusaila’s great frame went limp, but she was instantly in the presence of such glory that her screams cut short. A golden aura surrounded Kusaila. Then his unbroken and magnificent spirit stepped out of his wounded body, stood, and began to walk invisible stairs. Before he had ascended more than a few feet, he was met by a thousand other dragons and their riders. At the head of the hosts was the great King, the North Star. He looked at Sarah, nodded, and then turned his attention to Kusaila’s spirit.

  The King dismounted and embraced Kusaila. Sarah glimpsed that Kusaila was not the only one rising from the earth; hundreds of others also gathered to meet the King. For an instant she was overwhelmed by the sight, but then her attention was pulled back to Kusaila. He continued to move through the sky, then he stopped and turned back to her. His face glowed, his eyes bright with delight. For a second, sadness, a strange visitor among the joy, crept across his features; then he spoke. “Sarah, I have served my people and my King and I saved you. I love you, Sarah, and every moment we shared. I am grateful that you chose me. You gave me life and were the great light among my shadows. Thank you. You still have much to do.” He paused a minute, then slowly added, “Go to your dragon rider, Sarah, do it with joy. Goodbye, my Sarah.” Kusaila’s image blurred. Surrounded by the fireflies, then like a windswept cloud he shifted and was gone.

  Chapter 35

  Belle stared at Harry’s tortured body. He was pale with blood loss, and his face was frozen in horror. He appeared to be unconscious, but she could not be sure because his eyes were swollen shut. She started to turn her gaze when she saw him shiver. A guard pulled her away from the bloody butcher’s table, but not before she heard a hoarse whisper. “Why did you… betray me… Belle?”

  A wicked smirk stained Laden Long’s face, and he nodded to the guard holding Belle back. He released her and she knelt before Harry’s broken body. “Harry? Harry?” Her voice trembled, betraying her heart. “What do you mean, betray you? I didn’t betray you, Harry.”

  Harry’s mind was wandering dark drug-induced paths. In one he kept walking into the dungeon where he saw Belle Rodum laughing and handing the thorn over to Laden Long. Belle turned toward him, contempt etched in her features. “Seriously, Harry, did you really think I cared for you? I’m a witch, dragon rider, not some lovesick damsel in distress. I played you well, and to think you thought I would want to bring your daughter into this world?!”

  Harry groaned as the memory taunted him. He had been betrayed again; a love he thought would break Belle free was a dismal illusion, a despicable deception. Its weight fell heavy against his heart. First Sarah in the cave, then Sarah leaving him for the Berber king, and now even Belle. Despair more dangerous than the knives and drugs that had sliced through his body and mind drove him closer to madness.

  As Belle knelt beside his body, she intuitively laid her hand on his arm. As soon as her flesh touched his, she was in his mind.

  The first thing she noticed was the pounding. A steady rhythmic pounding. The noise gradually subsided but the pressure did not. She felt it in her own chest and realized it was his heartbeat. It was dark and it appeared she was in some type of cave, dimly lit with the glow from a campfire several feet in front of her. As she hurried toward it, she could see Harry sitting on a large rock, staring at the fire. As she drew closer, he turned and faced her.

  For a moment he just stared and then sadness crept into his eyes and crossed his face. It was so intense Belle felt the sorrow press heavily against her own heart. She reached out to him and he jerked back, the scowl on his face as foreign to her as the blackness of his eyes. He hated her.

  “How dare you invade this sanctity!” he snarled. “When will I ever learn some people are not capable of faithfulness? And you especially. You asked me to run away with you, Belle, and then you stole the thorn and laughed. You handed it over to Long. I watched you do it. You mocked me. And laughed as they stripped me and began to cut my hands and legs. They are mutilating me, Belle! And you dare to come here to the last refuge? Have you come to mock me again?” Harry grabbed a burning log from the fire and slowly raised it above his head, about to bring it crashing down on her.

  Belle stared at the burning log wavering in Harry’s hand and whispered, “It wasn’t me, Harry!” She knelt before him, arms down, waiting for the blow to fall. Tears streamed down her cheeks, not from fear, but for him.

  She waited. She could hear his pounding heart; its beat had melded with her own. She expected the blow to fall any second, but nothing came. Finally, she heard a noise, opened her eyes, and saw him kneel in front of her. Slowly she reached out to him, her arms gently encircling him. He drew closer. Even in the dark recesses of his imagination she could feel his woundedness. Then she spoke.

  “Harry, I did not voluntarily give Long the thorn. We fought him, Peter Fawkes the red-haired giant and I fought him. Fawkes sacrificed his life to save mine, and yours, and it wasn’t till Oberheust put a scalpel to your temple that I surrendered and gave him the thorn. You have to believe me, Harry!”

  Belle pushed back from the embrace, looking up into his eyes. Desperately wanting to accept her story. Harry stared back, frowning, then asked, “If not you, then who?”

  Belle paused. Her eyes rose to the top of her hairline and then she snarled, “The only one who could take the form of another was Shyama the naga! She must have taken my form to torment you!”

  Harry sighed, relief pouring over him. Then a faint broken smile formed. “I’m glad, Belle, so very glad.” He shuddered and added, “Let me show you something.” A large screen formed and on it, images. Images of Lizzy Ferguson, Harry’s daughter. The images acted like a home movie except they were very vivid. Belle saw Lizzy as a baby cradled in Harry’s arms, then as a toddler covered in chocolate ice cream, and then asleep on Harry’s chest. She saw images of Lizzy as a middle schooler with braces, and a high schooler playing softball. She saw Lizzy in college with her boyfriend, and then she saw her in the library with Harry as an old man. The pictures covered a lifetime but only lasted a few seconds. When the screen faded, she looked at Harry; his face was covered with tears. Her own face was flushed and her nose was running. But she would not have admitted to tears.

  “I’m sorry, Harry, so sorry!”

  Harry just shook his head and said, “You have to go now, Belle, they’re coming for you.”

  Chapter 36

  Brady sat on the cold stone floor of his ancient dungeon cell. Two feet of rock surrounded him and Raleigh. The door to their cell was iron wrapped in welded bands, made to hold monsters and doing a good job of containing him and Raleigh. They had been in the cell for five days. Their food and water were slipped through a slit in the door once a day. Brady was losing weight. He laughed when he realized how pleased his wife would be with the result. She was always on him about shedding pounds. Well, imprisonment in a Nazi dungeon was one way of doing that.

  Raleigh had taken to pacing the middle of the second day. And Brady was inclined to follow him.

  Under the
right circumstances, when they were both at peace or, better yet, on the verge of life and death, they could communicate telepathically. But after a hundred conversations consisting of “Raleigh want out of bad pen, Brady help Raleigh get out” and “Raleigh hungry, when food come?” and “Raleigh hurt” or simply “Where Harry? Him been gone long time,” Brady had given up trying to have more advanced conversations and settled into his own dreamlike world.

  To make matters worse, Brady’s wrists were manacled with silver bracelets. The bracelets had thorn like projections, and each barbed needle pressed into his flesh. Whoever designed the cuffs knew exactly what they were doing and had experience with shifters. Silver impedes supernatural energy, and silver barbs embedded in one’s flesh even more so. Had Brady been able to shift into his preferred Sasquatch form, he would have made short work of the door. But he couldn’t, and with his and Raleigh’s waste collecting in the confines of the small cell the place reeked with ammonia. Brady’s thoughts walked the razor edge of destruction, he was slowly being lured by the dark call to pound his head against the cell walls until he collapsed or killed himself.

  But as the hours passed and he peered into his own darkness, he realized that taking his life would leave Raleigh helpless and alone. And Brady was still beast enough to despise that notion. On the other hand, he was also beast enough to end his friend’s pain and was struggling with the idea of breaking the wolf’s neck. It would be quick and then he could take his own life and the enemy would have lost their leverage over Harry.

  Brady knew, and feared the knowledge, that Harry would find them and plan some reckless and damn foolhardy rescue. But… if they were gone, he would not be tempted to spend his life so recklessly. Finally, Brady exhaled a long breath and breathed in the relief of knowing what he had to do. He had settled the matter in his heart and was going to follow through on his plan. He sat up from the cold stone floor, pulled himself onto his hands and knees, and started to crawl toward where Raleigh lay paused from his constant pacing.