Celtic Fire

by Alex Archer

  “An eye for an eye,” she said, and there was nothing sane in her voice now. “I’m a literal kind of girl, Mizz Creed.”

  Annja felt the pressure ease and the pain diminish from searing to simply agonizing. Then she realized that Awena had lifted the sword intending to pluck out her eye with it or else drive the blade though it into the back of her skull. She didn’t have a chance to think; she had to react. The bucking had freed her right hand from beneath Awena’s weight, and Annja felt Joan’s sword in her hand even as she saw the slashing blade come down. She barely stopped the killing blow inches from her face, metal sparking on metal as the two swords came together.

  She saw the shock in the other woman’s face, the lack of understanding.

  She’d been robbed of her justice.

  Annja didn’t hesitate; she slammed her left fist up into Awena’s face, a clubbing blow that connected with her chin and sent her head rocking back.

  Awena lost her grip on the sword. It clattered to the floor.

  Annja scrambled to her feet, breathing hard.

  Tears stung her face.

  Every inch of her skin felt as though it were on fire. Her sleeve was black and smoldering where it had touched the sword. She didn’t want to think what her face looked like. She focused on the sword in her hand.

  “I don’t want to kill you, Awena. This doesn’t have to end like this. One death doesn’t cancel out another. That isn’t balance, that’s just two corpses.”

  “Shut up! I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.”

  “There’s already been enough death. Please. Leave the sword alone.”

  But Awena wasn’t prepared to give up on her vengeance. She picked up the burning sword again. She wanted Annja to pay, and lunged at her, slashing wildly. She had no skill with the weapon, but pure rage made her more than dangerous.

  Annja parried blow after blow, fending off the attacks, knowing that, like any fire, Awena would burn herself out. She didn’t have the stamina to match Annja, even if the blade somehow imbued her with unholy strength. It had to end, eventually.

  Beads of sweat streamed down Awena’s face.

  The room was cramped, the low ceiling making it difficult to fight properly.

  There was blood around Awena’s mouth, too, from Annja’s fist.

  Again and again Awena swung, coming at her, but the intensity of the attacks lessened as she tired. Annja felt the strain, too. The muscles in her sword arm burned where it had been touched by the blue flame.

  She gritted her teeth and tried to get through again. “I didn’t kill him, Awena. It was an accident.”

  “I don’t believe you!” the woman spat, her attacks becoming more frenzied and ferocious as her frustration boiled over. She didn’t seem to care if Annja hurt her or not. There was no thought to defense.

  “But that doesn’t mean I’m lying,” Annja pleaded. “Please. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Liar!” Awena screeched, and launched another dizzying flurry of blows, all with the sole intention of cleaving Annja’s head from her shoulders.

  Annja blocked each one, swords ringing out as they clashed.

  Tears rolled off Awena’s face.

  Grief.

  Failure.

  Annja couldn’t kill the woman in front of her.

  Awena seemed to shrink in on herself, drawing a single breath before launching the next swing.

  Annja knew that this was the moment to strike.

  One chance. One opening. That was all she needed. She had to end this now, before one of them was seriously hurt.

  She charged forward, leading with her shoulder instead of her sword, and cannoned into the woman. The impact drove the wind out of her opponent even as the flaming sword cut through the air harmlessly.

  Awena lost her footing, driven back by Annja, and Annja fell on top of her.

  Both of them tumbled to the ground, their bodies so close that a sword was useless—unless it was made of fire and its very touch could burn and blind.

  Annja pressed a knee against Awena’s forearm, keeping it down, then drove the hilt of her own sword into Awena’s wrist, springing her hand open like a trap. Awena howled in agony, the sword spilling from her fingers. The flames failed the moment the contact with Awena Llewellyn’s hand was broken. Annja couldn’t think about it. Somehow Awena found some final ounce of strength and reached up, grabbing Annja’s hair.

  She tugged hard, tearing it out at the roots.

  It was Annja’s turn to scream at the sudden pain.

  She swung her left fist as hard as she could, hammering it into Awena’s nose, and felt the sickly rupturing of cartilage beneath the impact and the wetness of blood, but the woman didn’t release her grip. Instead, Awena writhed and bucked and tore at Annja’s hair until she had to shift her balance and release the arm that had been trapped beneath her knee.

  They both scrambled to their feet.

  Awena kicked out. It wasn’t exactly graceful, but her foot connected with Annja’s wrist and the sword spun out of her hand. The fabled blade skittered beneath the desk and disappeared back into the otherworld.

  Awena grabbed her own sword, the blade reigniting as soon as her fist closed around the hilt.

  She looked up, hair falling across her face.

  Weaponless, Annja charged, throwing herself at the woman. She slammed into her, driving her back. Awena took the full impact of the charge and stumbled, unable to cope with Annja’s momentum.

  One backward step became two, became three, and then she was falling, the burning sword flailing in the air.

  The room filled with the crash of glass as Annja carried Awena into the window.

  And Awena kept falling through it.

  Annja stared in horror; she’d been trying to buy herself a second, time enough to reclaim her sword, to disarm the other...but the world slowed down and Awena kept falling. Glass shattered. Wood splintered. The window wasn’t strong enough to keep her inside the house.

  Annja snatched out a hand, trying to catch Awena’s ankle even as Awena clawed helplessly at the air, unable to gain any purchase or stop her inevitable fall.

  And then she was gone.

  Annja stood in the bay of the broken window and stared down at the body below, Giraldus Cambrensis’s sword lying on the gravel driveway beside it.

  Annja breathed hard. “It didn’t have to be this way,” she said, and turned away from the window.

  No matter what the woman had done, though, Annja wouldn’t abandon her as she had her father.

  She wouldn’t just leave her to die—if she wasn’t dead already. She would stay with her until the ambulance arrived, until the police arrived, whether it was to take Awena Llewellyn to the hospital or the morgue. She would stay with her.

  She had no idea how she’d explain it. What could she possibly say that would make any sort of sense to the average person?

  She picked up her bag and cell phone from where she’d left them downstairs in the kitchen and headed outside, already dialing 999 to summon the emergency services.

  She walked around the side of the huge house to the stretch of driveway beneath Owen Llewellyn’s study window. Broken glass crunched underfoot with the gravel.

  Annja stopped the call just as the emergency operator was asking which service she required.

  There was no sign of Awena.

  Chapter 29

  “All I need is for you to get up onto one of the towers,” Roux said.

  “All?” Garin replied. “There’s nothing like expecting miracles, is there, old man? I’m good, but there are special-ops guys crawling over everywhere. We can’t even get in through the front gate, but all you need is for me to somehow reach the top of one of the towers. What did you have in mind? Helicopter in
and drop me from a great height?” Garin suggested facetiously.

  “It’s an option,” Roux said, all sweetness and light, with a look that could have frozen a penguin in an ice floe. “There’s no need to go in through the front gate. There’s no need to go inside the castle at all.”

  Garin thought about what Roux was suggesting for a moment, allowing it to sink in, while his eyes traced their way up the outer walls of the castle. He sniffed.

  “Which tower?”

  There was no point in trying to say that it wasn’t possible; it was, obviously. In Roux’s philosophy there were only problems and solutions. Some problems needed more thought than others, but there was always a means of solving them. That was how the old man was.

  “Walk with me,” Roux said, getting to his feet. He left the table clearly oblivious to the fact that there was still a bill to be paid. Garin slipped a twenty-pound note beneath the saucer of his cup along with his business card—plain black with his phone number and first name in foil, nothing else—and nodded to the girl as she came outside again. The tip was more than the price of the coffee, meaning she was going to remember him for more than just making her blush. With a bit of luck she’d call later. All he had to do was get to the top of the tower, find King Arthur’s cloak of invisibility, get back out and give Roux the slip for a few hours. And then maybe he could take her for a drink. Maybe in Paris. That always went down well.

  “Try not to look too conspicuous, eh?” Roux said as he ambled across the square to the estuary that was alongside the castle. “Remember, we’re just tourists. There are plenty of those—some of them are even taking photos of the guards, but we’re just interested in the battlements.”

  Garin nodded. “Long way up. Or more pertinently, long way down,” Garin said, scanning the stonework for natural handholds.

  “Do you think you’re up to it?”

  “With the right equipment, no problem.”

  Roux shook his head. “No equipment. We can’t risk anything that will leave a trace. We were never here, remember?”

  “Are you insane? You’re asking me to free-climb up the side of a castle in the dark when they’ve got armed guards waiting to shoot anything that moves?”

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t use a rope, assuming you need one to exfiltrate the castle, but no pegs, nothing hammered into the rock. Nothing that will make a sound. You’d need to be able to self-release the rope, obviously, so we could take it with us. But yes, you are right—you would have to do it in the dark.”

  “You are crazy.”

  “Never denied it, but I’m not the one climbing castle walls in the middle of the night. Personally, I’m not sure you are up to it.”

  “Don’t try any of your silly mind tricks on me, old man,” Garin warned. “I know how you work. Remember, I’ve known you for a very, very long time. I’m not going to be fooled into breaking my neck simply because you say I can’t do something. I don’t need to prove you wrong.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Roux agreed.

  With equipment, in broad daylight, no problem. In the dark, sans gear, that was another story. There was one person who was better suited to make the climb than he was, though he wasn’t about to suggest they call in Annja. She had enough on her plate.

  “I suppose you’re volunteering to be lookout?” he said.

  Roux nodded, a wry smile on his lips. He might look like someone’s doting granddad, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a right bastard if the need arose, or that he wouldn’t enjoy it, either. “I’ll avail myself of the shadows down here, yes, and make sure you do not get into trouble.”

  “Hooting like a barn owl no doubt?”

  “If that is your warning of choice, yes. I can do wolves, too, if you prefer.”

  “Funny. I was more concerned about what happened once I was inside—you know, the whole part about finding the secret hiding place of the mantle, which you haven’t actually shared with me. Am I to take it that it is stashed beneath some convenient flagstone on the battlements?”

  “Not quite. No. I will give you directions when the time comes. Not that I don’t trust you, you understand.”

  Garin ignored the barbed comment and continued to pace the length of the wall. “Okay, which tower are we talking about?”

  Roux nodded to the one that looked out toward the sea. “That one.”

  “Well, at least there’s less chance of being seen by any drunks stumbling across the square.” There were boats moored at the quayside. Most of them were small fishing vessels. None of them looked like the kind of place some bohemian would make their home, so the chances of someone spending the night on them were slim to nonexistent. That only left the army to worry about.

  Even from this distance he could see that the blocks of stone had cracks between them wide enough to serve as toe-and fingerholds. They weren’t perfect or evenly spaced, but they would have been a piece of cake for Annja. The problem was she was at the other end of the country chasing a sword.

  Or maybe she wasn’t.

  Maybe she’d already found it.

  The Porsche could do the journey in a couple of hours.

  Might as well get his money’s worth.

  “I’ll call her,” he said, making the decision himself. “If she’s done, she could be here before it’s dark.”

  “Probably wise. Like I said, I’m not sure you’re up to it.”

  “You won’t goad me into it, old man. You won’t.”

  “If you say so.”

  Chapter 30

  Annja felt an overwhelming surge of relief that Awena Llewellyn had survived the fall.

  That was quickly replaced by confusion at how she’d just gotten up and walked away.

  She had to be hurt. Probably even badly hurt.

  How could she just walk away?

  Annja scanned the ground for some sort of tracks, anything that might give her a clue as to where the woman had gone. She had to find her, and not just for her health; she needed to recover the sword. That was her primary objective here. Get the sword. Bring it home. Roux would kill her if she failed.

  She walked a full circuit of the house. There was no sign of her—no freshly trodden path, no trail of blood. Nothing.

  When she had reached the far side of the house she heard the sound of a car engine starting.

  Annja ran, her arm throbbing as the singed material rubbed against the scorched skin beneath. She gritted her teeth and pushed on through the pain, moving as fast as she could, but she was too slow. She came around the side of the house just as a car disappeared down the drive.

  There was no time to waste.

  She raced to the Porsche, heart sinking as she saw that one of her tires was flat.

  She kicked the tire in frustration; it was a mess. The rubber had been melted away, obviously by the sword. Awena had got one over on her, and split with the sword, so technically she’d gotten two over on her. Annja felt her phone vibrating, but she had no intention of answering it.

  She wasn’t ready to speak to Garin and admit she’d failed.

  No, she’d busy herself with something physical to work her frustration out on, then she’d talk to Garin. Maybe.

  Despite the damage, changing the wheel was relatively simple. None of the heat had fused the nuts so it was merely a case of getting her hands dirty.

  Done, Annja slipped back inside the house to clean up before leaving.

  Entering a stranger’s house uninvited, even when it was empty, was strangely eerie; there was nothing but cold silence waiting for her where life should have been. The sounds of her footsteps echoed back to her.

  She used the kitchen sink to scrub her hands, then decided to take another look in the study. There was no way of knowing where Awena had gone, or when, if ever, she would
return now she knew Annja was onto her. She’d taken the sword, but it was doubtful she’d taken the whetstone given its sheer weight and the lack of time she’d had to move it. One thing was for certain—she had an answer to the puzzle of one criminal doing two crimes at two locations. Awena was keeping it in the family. Owen had found the sword, his daughter the whetstone.

  Even though she was partly responsible for it, the sheer devastation wreaked in Owen Llewellyn’s study was shocking.

  A breeze pulled the curtains through the remains of the window. The material snagged on teeth of broken glass still caught in the wooden window frame.

  At first she thought she was wrong and that the woman had somehow come back and recovered the huge whetstone, because it wasn’t on the desk where it had been. But then she saw it, lying amid the torn pages of journals and papers on the floor behind the desk.

  The Whetstone of Tudwal Tudglyd was larger and heavier than she’d expected. It took all of her strength to lever it up enough just to slide her fingers beneath, never mind lift it. Grunting, Annja heaved it up onto the desk.

  There was a full-length mirror on the wall behind the door. Annja didn’t want to look at any lingering damage the burning sword might have left, yet she couldn’t help it; she could feel the tightness of skin across the side of her face and her arm ached bone-deep. She stood in front of the mirror. She looked like she’d been through a small war. Her clothes were singed and blackened from contact with the sword, the sleeve torn and scorched.

  The arm itself wasn’t so bad—only an angry red welt where the sword had burned her, and it was far from lasting. Her face was more worrying; the skin had already begun to blister and crust across her cheek, but again, it could have been a lot worse. She didn’t want to imagine the damage if the sword had been in contact with her flesh for even a heartbeat longer.

  On the bright side, she’d recovered one of the artifacts Roux was concerned about.

  It was better than leaving empty-handed.

  She took a grip of the stone and lifted it again, struggling to find an easy method to carry it as she picked a lurching path through overturned furniture and other debris.