by J. R. Rain
I felt... invincible.
I felt powerful.
I felt unstoppable.
The blue energy wrapped around my arm. Around and around like a living thing, and I watched, fascinated, as it seemed to take hold of me. It felt comforting, natural. I felt it wanted me as much as I now wanted it. I raised the very spear I had been planning on destroying... and held it up high overhead. The army before me, the vast and limitless army, stopped swirling and raised their weapons as well.
This isn’t me, I heard myself think, but the voice was distant and lost in what could only be described as a newfound sense of power. I suddenly wanted to control people, control lands, control empires. I wanted to control all of them with an iron fist. I wanted to destroy at will, to grant pardons if I felt so inclined, to control destinies and fates and the world.
But it wasn’t me, I knew. No, it was something else. It was something not from here, but something that very much wanted to be here, and it had been unleashed, and I knew it would only be a matter of seconds before all rational thought left my brain. I knew, in a matter of seconds, Major Allan Quatermain would cease to exist and something else would rise up to replace me.
And in this moment of pure triumph, while all rational thought began to slip away, something hit me, and hit me hard. Even worse, something fought with me, and grabbed at the staff in my hands. I felt myself fight back and was dimly aware that I was fighting someone who looked familiar. And, in a moment of terror, the very thing that I had already come to love—the Spear of Destiny—was wrenched from my hands. I heard the scream escape my lips, but it was not really me screaming, and I felt whatever entity had possessed me flee in that moment.
And, as I blinked and fought to maintain consciousness and my sanity, I watched as Isaac Goldstein snapped the spear shaft over his knee. A spear, after all, wasn’t a spear unless it was attached to a shaft. I saw the strange logic in that now, as blue light after blue light winked out of existence.
And just as I passed out, I had a brief glimpse of the greatest army on earth deteriorating into nothing...
Epilogue
Magdalena College,
Two weeks later
“Are you sure you want to do this, Major?” Dr. Byrd asked.
I was in the process of wrapping the Holy Lance (or, more accurately, Unholy Lance) in an old army blanket of mine. We were in Dr. Hannah Byrd’s office; she was at her desk, favoring one side of her body, and he was sitting in a student chair. Both watched me as I stood over them.
“I have never been more sure about anything in my life,” I replied, and glanced over at Hannah. She was looking healthy and happy, and there wasn’t much more I could ask than that. “Well, maybe one other thing.”
She smiled in return and might have blushed a little, too. The past two weeks had been tame, compared to the days leading up to the melee in the desert. Hannah had been looked after by Turkey’s finest doctors. Miraculously, the spear had not hit any vital organs. Now, two weeks later, she was nearly as strong as ever.
“I would like to offer a formal objection,” Dr. Byrd stammered behind me. “I spent a lifetime trying to find that particular artifact. It should be studied. It has historical significance. It needs to be in a museum. It needs...”
“To be destroyed,” I said calmly. “And your objection has been duly noted and dismissed.”
I finished tucking the corners of the blanket into a neat bundle. Yes, two weeks earlier, I’d been sure that I’d lost her. Now, looking at her across the desk, I couldn’t help but revisit the events that had taken place since the battle had ended at the Aurelia dig site outside of Nicomedia.
We’d spent several days of recovery time in a Turkish hospital in Istanbul. Once recovered well enough, we made the trip back to London. The Nazi hunters had taken heavy casualties, but their objective had been met. They’d eliminated several prominent Nazis in the battle and captured several more; they would stand trial for their crimes in Israel. Eli and David had come to look in on me while I was in the hospital and the three of us had been watched over and remained in the care of the three Americans from the moment the battle had ended until we were safe in London. Even though I had eventually collapsed in the battle, I was told that no one, but no one, could pry the iron rod from my hands. Although everyone from Isaac to Dr. Byrd had tried to convince me to give it up, I would not let it out of my sight. I knew, firsthand, the damage it could do. I knew also how it could turn a good man bad.
I had been at a loss as to how to dispose of the Spear of Destiny, when, upon arriving at Magdalena College, I’d discovered that we were in time for a celebration of sorts. And not just any celebration. Indeed, nearly the entire college had come out to commemorate the burying of a time capsule, not to be opened for a thousand years. It took little time for me to formulate a plan.
Hannah’s voice interrupted my reverie. “You are ready, then?”
“I am,” I replied, winking at her, then turning to face her father. “Professor?”
“I’m certainly not!” he replied. “This is madness.”
“You better than anyone, knows the real madness this iron rod can cause, Professor.”
“Well, there is that,” he grumbled. “But I don’t have to like it.”
“Like it or lump it,” said Hannah. “Isn’t that how you used to put it to me?”
“Over a bowl of porridge, perhaps, but this—”
“Let’s go,” I announced cheerily, interrupting the family quarrel, scooping up the wrapped spear and starting toward the door. My actions put an effective end to the discussion and soon, our three pairs of shoes were clicking on the flagstone as we progressed down the hall, descended the stairs and made our way into the open air.
Gathered on the grounds outside the main building was a mixture of current students, alumni, administrators and other officials. Those individuals made up the encircled group, which looked on as various persons, fraternal organizations and other groups added their items to the time capsule and announced the significance of their proffered item.
Hannah, Julius and I arrived just as the head administrator made an announcement in a loud voice, “Are there any other items to be added to the time capsule before we put it to rest for a millennium?”
“Just one,” I said, stepping forward with the tightly wrapped woolen blanket.
“Major Evelyn Allan Quatermain,” the administrator smiled as he spoke my name. “A very distinguished alumnus, indeed. We are delighted to add whatever item you have to our time capsule.”
“I’m thrilled to be a part of the occasion,” I lied, hesitating only a moment before tossing the spear into the open capsule. I stepped back.
“And would you like to enlighten us as to what you have added to our capsule? And, of course, its significance in being passed on from our generation to the generation a thousand years from now?”
I glanced at Hannah, who was delighted with the fact that I was in a difficult situation. I raised an eyebrow and mouthed to her: Would you like to help me out here?
She shook her head and winked. Fat lot of help she was.
“It’s a trifle, really,” I stammered. “Nothing more than an old iron curtain rod I’d snatched from my dorm room when I was a lad here. No real significance to the future.”
“I see,” the administrator paused a moment as he puzzled over what I’d said. A sly grin began to spread across his face. “I believe you’re being coy, Major Quatermain, but I’ll respect your privacy concerning the item and we’ll allow those in the future to decipher its significance.”
I nodded in appreciation.
“Are there any other items to be added?”
No one else came forward, though the administrator asked twice more before finally ordering the time capsule to be sealed in front of the crowd of onlookers. Hannah, her father and I turned away along with the dispersing crowd as workers began to cover the heavily fortified iron box with soil and sod.
“Well, that’s
done,” Dr. Byrd groused. “I hope you’re happy.”
“Happy to be alive, yes.”
Except he clearly wasn’t in the mood, but had no recourse at that point. Without another word, he turned away from us and started along the walk that would lead him toward Pembroke College. For the first time in a long time, Hannah and I were alone.
We walked silently back toward the main building. I reached out and took her hand. She let me. I was happy. Damn happy. I opened the door, allowing her to pass through and then joined her as we walked down the hall to her apartment.
“I suppose you’ll be returning to Sandhurst, then?” Hannah asked as we reached the door into her apartment.
“I thought I’d hang around here a few days and enjoy the festivities,” I replied. “I know some people. I can probably make arrangements to be put up over the weekend.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it,” she replied, unlocking the door and pushing it open. “You are welcome to my apartment.”
“I wouldn’t want to be an imposition,” I replied.
“Major Quatermain,” she purred, drawing me through the door and closing it behind me. “I’m a modern woman.”
***
It was later, and Hannah was fast asleep.
I sat at her apartment window, smoking a cigarette and thinking back to what Isaac had said after our surreal battle with the undead. Many of the Nazis had been arrested and would have their day in court. Of course, many had died. One had escaped.
“Adolf Hitler,” I had said.
“Yes,” said Isaac, and he had looked truly pained as he had stood over my hospital bed in Turkey. “We found no trace of him.”
“Maybe he returned to hell with the other ghouls,” I said.
“Maybe.”
“But you don’t think so,” I said.
“I don’t know what to think about any of this, Allan. But I am glad you are well. Now, I must go.”
And go, he did, to fight the good fight. There were, after all, many more Nazis on the run. I wished him well, but it was not my fight. At least, I didn’t think so.
If Hitler had survived, then that was my fight, and I knew I wouldn’t rest until I found that bastard. He had done much to hurt me, and countless others. He needed to be brought to justice, one way or another.
But that was neither here, nor there. For now, I sat and smoked and did my best to forget the power that had surged through me, consumed me, and made me believe, if even for a few seconds, that I was destined for greatness.
Well, there was always tomorrow.
The End
Major Quatermain returns in:
The Garden
coming soon!
Return to the Table of Contents
Also available:
The Lost Ark
by J.R. Rain
(read on for a sample)
He was a yuruk, a Turkish shepherd, and he was trouble.
He and his goats were up from Lake Van as part of the autumn migration. Lucky for me, my bar sits right smack dab in the middle of their migratory route. Perhaps it’s no coincidence, then, that a sign outside my bar has a picture of a goat circled in red with a line drawn through it.
As the evening wore on, the big yuruk had amassed a considerable bill. He also amassed a considerable amount of alcohol in his blood stream. Drunk as a skunk, I decided it was time to cut the big fellow off, and had Pascal drop off the bill at his table.
Pascal consisted of my entire staff. I liked Pascal, even though I was fairly certain he stole from me. Considering his parents were both dead and he was raising his little sister alone, I tended to look the other way at his mild thievery.
From behind the bar, drying glasses with a towel, I watched closely as Pascal dropped the bill off at the goat herder’s table. The goat herder promptly tore up the bill. Pascal said something—or tried to say something. In a blink of an eye, the yuruk was on his feet and swinging. Pascal, all five-foot-two inches of him, dropped to the floor in a heap.
I have a motto in my bar: No beating my help.
I tossed the towel over my shoulder, stepped around the zinc-topped counter, and, after three long strides, hit the yuruk as hard as I could square in the face, just under his eye. The big head snapped back violently. His sandaled feet lifted high in the air. And a moment later, he skidded to a stop on his impossibly wide shoulders.
Certain I had broken a knuckle, I reached down and helped Pascal find his feet. The little Turk raised his hands up into knobby fists. His fists wobbled. “I can handle him, Sam bey,” he said. His voice was slurred, and he was looking toward the blank wall next to us.
I tapped the kid’s shoulder. “Over here, Pascal.”
He turned, lost his balance, and would have fallen if I hadn’t held him up by the nape of his neck. His nose, I saw, was a complete mess. Broken no doubt. It would need to be packed later.
“Why did he punch you?” I asked the kid.
“He says you charge too much for beer.”
“I do,” I said, “but I make up for it in atmosphere. Did you tell him about the atmosphere?”
Pascal nodded eagerly. More blood dripped free. “I tried to, Sam bey, but it’s a fairly difficult concept for a desert nomad.”
On the floor near me, the big shepherd was unsteadily finding his feet, shaking his massive head.
“Go get some ice, Pascal,” I said.
“If you insist, Sam bey.”
“I insist.”
The kid nodded and moved erratically toward the back of the bar.
I turned back to the yuruk. He was on his feet now, blinking his head, clearing the cobwebs. He was a foot taller than me, and a whole lot uglier. His hands, I noted, were the size of frying pans—which, for all I knew, helped in the herding of goats. More importantly, those massive hands would make for massive fists.
Duly noted.
And since when did goat shepherds get so damn big?
“I accept your apology,” I said in Turkish, noticing I had taken a giant step backwards. “Now, will you be paying your tab in Liras or on credit? Unfortunately, I no longer take goats as they tend to eat the padding out of the bar stools and make a general mess of the place.”
He focused his dark gaze on me. His cobwebs seemed to be gone, and now he just looked pissed. He balled his hands into fists. Damn big balls. The crowd, composed mainly of local Turks, began chanting my name. I saw money being exchanged. Appears I was the underdog.
Again.
Now the yuruk and I circled each other. I sensed this wasn’t a tango of love. The crowd roared. A young man climbed onto a table for a better view. I promptly told that young man to get the hell off my table. He did.
And then the goat shepherd charged, lowering his shoulders and flaring his nostrils like a raging bull. Or an enraged goat.
I don’t think he expected me to charge back.
Neither did I, for that matter.
***
I tackled him low, sweeping him off his feet. It was an old wrestling move of mine; a classic take-down. One moment he was on his feet, and the next his legs had been swept out from under him, and he was on his back for the second time tonight. And as he fell, I turned my hips and drove my shoulder as hard as I could into his chest. Air exploded from his lungs, and from that awkward position, I landed two hard punches to his thick jaw. The sound of bone hitting bone was sickening, although it appeared to excite the crowd.
Except it only angered the yuruk. He bucked hard. Sent me flying ass over heals into the air, to tumble through puddles of beer and God knows what else.
Making a mental note to have Pascal mop the damn place, I scrambled to my feet. I realized too late that the big son-of-a-bitch was waiting for me. As I turned, I saw a flash of brown knuckles—knuckles as big as walnuts—and then the mother of all explosions rocked my head. Stars erupted inside my skull, and I was driven sideways over a chair and straight to the floor. There was a very good chance I blacked out. Or perhaps even briefly died.
Either way, I didn’t want to move. Ever.
Luckily, the yuruk didn’t feel the need to press the matter. I heard him panting somewhere above me, no doubt regaining his breath to finish the fight. I took that moment to clear my head. Rarely, if ever, had I been punched so hard and so squarely and by such a big son-of-a-bitch.
The crowd continued chanting my name. Someone handed me a beer. I took it and sat up and drank as much as I could, relieved that my teeth all seemed to still be in place.
Finally, I stood on wobbly legs.
The yuruk was breathing deeply, fists up, ready to seriously damage my face. I saw three of him. Each uglier than the next. The images swirled and swam and came in and out of focus. I blinked hard, trying like hell to clear my eyes. I opened them again, and the images coalesced into one fuzzy behemoth. Blood from the yuruk’s cut cheek was spreading down the front of his robe in a bloody fan. I had, after all, hit him pretty damn hard myself.
Still, I didn’t want to fight anymore. No mas. I wanted to go home and crawl into bed and close my eyes and make the stars go away.
And almost as an afterthought, the yuruk reached inside his voluminous robe and produced something long and shiny and sharp. I didn’t find that particularly sporting of him. The knife itself, or whatever it was, was long and curved and looked like something out of the Arabian Nights.
The crowd gave him a wide berth. I wanted to give him a wide berth, too. I had just decided that my best course of action was to run like hell when an expression of utter shock appeared on the big man’s face. As if someone had goosed the hell out of him. Then his eyeballs rolled up into his head and his eyelids fluttered like pinned butterflies. A combination of blood and beer dribbled down from his thick hairline, mingling with the sweat and dirt on his face, streaking his face. The knife dropped from his limp hand, clattering on the scarred wooden floor. A moment later, the big yuruk sank to his knees, then pitched forward in a heap of dirty wool and bad attitude.