“Only guarded or unguarded.”
Morgan kneaded his sore jaw where Connach had hit him. Even though the hurts from the assassin were fresher, the aftereffects of Connach’s blow still made his teeth ache. “You’re being honest anyway, which is a switch.” It had hurt to shave and Morgan wondered why he had made the sacrifice for the redheaded martinet.
Connach rose slowly. “Look, Kerry, I’m not going to apologize for my actions the other day or now. I was right and you know it. You must remember what I told you once about Brigid and her connection with Martin Cunneda, or at least, how I am forced to feel officially. Unofficially, I feel exactly the same way.” Connach glanced around the room at the empty dais, the opaque screen. “I would have punched you in any case, just because she’s my sister.
“But,” he walked over to Morgan’ chair as if treading on live rattlesnakes to get there. “I’ve been subjected to more than considerable pressure to get me to change my position. Then that attempt to kill you came up.” A toothy yet ugly smile marred his face. “If that bastard, Maelgwynn, wants you dead, I want you alive and high-profile.”
Morgan found no comfort in Connach’s grimace, but the obdurate mask cracked a little with the next heady words.
“I might agree to accept you as Brigid’s suitor, but only conditionally. As long as Martin Cunneda lives and claims Brigid as his bride, the match planned by my father will be made. If either condition changes, I will not oppose your suit.” Connach laughed shattering the facade entirely. “That’s the best I can do. By our codes you are a worthy suitor. But in this matter it is my code you must heed. It is the only one that counts.”
Morgan sat still for several seconds, not sure whether he had won or lost. It was not a total defeat, but it was no resounding victory either. Connach sat, perched on the table, as if waiting for Morgan to respond. Worry had begun to prematurely line his face. Even though the tired lines had softened, Morgan sensed the granite lay not far beneath the surface. He would gain nothing by pushing the issue just then, but he knew that Brigid would ultimately be his.
He smiled benignly at Connach. “Since you won’t offer me anything better, I accept your conditions for now, but I’ll do my damnedest to get you to change them.” He extended his hand to Connach. “I’ve got a couple of conditions, too.”
“Yeah, what?” Connach reached out to take Morgan’s offer of friendship. His teeth showed in a warm, self-satisfied smile a split second before Morgan’s solid left snapped his head back and sent him skidding across the conference table on his back.
Connach sat up, eyes glazed. His gums were cut and he drooled blood onto the polished surface.
“That was condition one,” Morgan drawled soberly. The pain in his knuckles felt marvelous. One to go, Brother.
When the confused look left Connach’s eyes, another replaced it—blood rage. The tall warrior’s hand blurred to the dagger that hung at his waist, but there it remained.
The unarmed Morgan could only nurse his hand and watch as Connach’s fingers closed around the ornate hilt. Then, the prince relaxed his grip on the weapon and grinned approval.
“Beautiful move, Kerry, just beautiful. I can see now that I should have spent more time reading those trashy novels that glut your bookstores. Remind me to demonstrate that one to the Chullain.” Connach visibly unwound. “I’ve got some other news for you, Kerry.” He spat more bloody saliva onto the table. “We’ve got an airship intact!” His lip was beginning to swell and it gave his mouth a lopsided appearance.
“The guns actually worked, then?”
“We couldn’t test them earlier without showing our secrets to the Brotherhood, but they worked, all right. Blew more than half of the ships out of the sky. The one we saved would have been trashed like the others if the round had detonated when it was supposed to. But it just punched a hole through the gas bag.” He slammed his fist down on the table. “It came down hard enough, though, to kill most of the crew. Only one survived, and he’s not expected to make it.”
Connach was animated, excited. He stepped up to the dais and illuminated the map. “I’ve ordered flak guns set up in every critical Reged city. The last show of strength shook most of the sitters off the fence. Clan Connach has been vindicated. Reged will fight!” He paced the dais nervously. “Every gun we build will mean another quadrarail section out of service. But next time the Hellwinds blow, the Mercian afterlife is going to get much more crowded.”
He stepped down. “We needed to show everyone that the Viks could be stopped without incurring punishment from the gods. They’re beginning to understand that now. But if Grandfather hadn’t been able to cow most of the other clan leaders, those guns would have remained silent, and a beaten Reged would have been ready to sue for peace.”
Connach’s hatred for the Viks colored his face, and Morgan knew that he had to be tiring of fighting politicians and priests, and knew the lust for real combat was upon him. Combat was nothing to lust after, Morgan knew, but he also knew that he could not convince Connach of that.
“Want to see the airship that we knocked down?”
Morgan was in no position to refuse him anything. He nodded a silent affirmative.
“It’s in a warehouse down by the boat ramps. Come on.” He stopped when Morgan made no move to follow.
“What’s the matter, Kerry? Haven’t you forgiven me yet?”
“No,” Morgan answered truthfully. “We’re not even. Not close.”
Connach paled. “Wiscombe?” He looked hard at Morgan as if searching for concealed weapons. “How can I pay you for the life of a friend?” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
“The price will be high,” Morgan whispered back. “I haven’t figured it out yet, but it will cost you.” He stood up, perversely glad that he had increased the worry behind Connach’s eyes, yet he felt ashamed at the same time. “I’m ready to go now, Ian. Just answer me one thing.”
“If I can,” Connach replied, shifting his feet.
“You can.” Revelation hit him like a Vik bomb even before he spoke. “Those niches in the garden and in the Great Hall. What do they hold?”
“They hold the treasures of a House that has never fallen into Nero’s trap. The skulls of the enemies of the Clan Connach!” he crowed triumphantly, then grinned crookedly at Morgan. “I’ll show you something even better when I think you have become a true warrior again.”
It was the Californian’s turn to worry.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Morgan watched as Connach stalked around the fighting machine’s corpse, poking at the wrinkled skin that resembled a gargantuan elephant hide with the elephant poured out. The circular entry hole was visible from Morgan’s angle, but a fold in the gray material hid the exit wound.
“I had the fighting gondola and its damned explosives and suspension cables taken to a place known only to members of my House. There they’ll be picked over by a team of loyal Connach Druids and filids,” he said.
“I’ll take no chances on the Brotherhood.”
Warriors, spies and Morgan would have to content themselves with the empty gasbag, which was nothing but a shapeless heap on the floor of the gutted warehouse. Morgan did not think there was much to see, but Connach circumnavigated the enormous room without stopping, grunting to himself, seeming to get some kind of inspiration from the crumpled bag.
Morgan was not impressed. The Goodyear Blimp would make the Mercian device look like a party balloon. A single shaft of light penetrated the building from a gap in the ancient stonework and illuminated a crumbling skull niche as if it held a priceless, religious relic. Morgan stared, fascinated.
“Nero became a Christian, didn’t he?” His incongruous question echoed in the near-empty space.
“After I had spent some time in your world, I realized that,” Connach answered, looking as if he had just awakened from a dream.
“Same with your Timothy of Emona.”
“That seems to fit the pattern.”
“Then what in God’s name happened to the Christians? And why the hell aren’t you guys Catholics or Baptists?” The crumbing skull’s empty eye sockets held Morgan’s gaze.
“Pure Christianity is almost as dead as old Theobald over there,” Connach indicated the niche with a careless gesture. “The early Christians needed persecution in order to survive as a movement. It may sound strange, because they were fighting for the freedom to practice their faith. But that act of fighting was necessary; it gave them the strength and unity of purpose they needed in those early, critical days on your Earth. Here, they suddenly found themselves unopposed and even encouraged. They couldn’t handle that as well and simply faded into near non-existence although enclaves of them still exist in parts of Asia where the Viks have never gained a permanent foothold. Some aspects took hold in our religious life, but you might not recognize them.”
“What about Nero and Timothy then?” Morgan was stunned that the faith he had grown up with, the faith he had almost lost in the aftermath of the horrors of battle, the faith that was as much a part of his being as his own blood, had all but vanished so easily. The philosophical foundation for an entire way of behaving was gone. He was shaken far more than he would have earlier thought possible. Connach’s voice came to him from across that moral void, pulling him back to the only reality that counted.
“You should have read on, dear Brother. Emona was in Gaul. When Timothy and his new convert stepped foot on the auld sod, Timothy quickly recanted, guiding the new holy man along a different path to eternity. Nero’s second conversion, in time, became an entirely Celtic experience, unfortunately for all of us. Don’t get me wrong, Kerry. Love is OK, but only in its proper place.”
Morgan smiled. “To paraphrase a famous line from an old, old film, Heee’s baaack!” He felt better than he had in days.
“What?”
“You did it yourself. You just reestablished Christianity into Celtic life.” He laughed and pointed to himself. “Me, Castillo and most of the folks you brought over, my friend. Of course you brought the competition over as well…David Greenfeld. As for persecution to give Christianity the fire to survive, there’s always Maelgwynn and Company.”
“I’ll be damned!”
Connach’s last comment was still bouncing from the high walls when Morgan sensed it coming.
Morgan first heard a low rumble, like a Mac tractor idling in his West Harbor driveway. His native California instincts, sharpened by periodic encounters with the phenomenon, told him not only what it was, but warned him to get outside and as far away from the aged structure as he could. The stones that formed the century-old warehouse walls began to gnash together, chewing mortar into a lime-gray dust, which rained down to the floor.
“Ian!” Morgan shouted over the increasing din. “Run, for Christ sake! Let’s bail out of this trap!”
Connach, his head and shoulders coated with mortar fallout, stared owlishly at Morgan from across the room where his pacing had taken him.
“I think you’ve got a point!” He then began to run, leaving clean evidence of his passage and athletic ability in the widely spaced footprints on the dust-covered envelope.
Morgan was not out-distanced by much. The two new world-class sprinters, one limping noticeably, gained the entrance simultaneously with the roller coasting ground wave. Outside, the Earth growled and writhed as if in pain. Solidity vanished as the skin of the land aped the sea in convulsed spasms. Trees swayed and twisted like kelp in the grip of a crosscurrent, surrendering branches to an anchorage that could no longer be trusted.
Lurching and flailing their arms for support, Morgan and Connach reached the wide, empty boat ramp. There they braced themselves, grasping iron mooring rings while the harbor shook and rode the mad earth. The waters of the bay, agitated into confused seas became an unnatural surf that beat and pulled at the two men. Only the iron rings and the rough surface of the ramp saved them from being dragged into the cauldron.
Then it stopped.
Senses overwhelmed, Morgan shakily surveyed the area around him. Some megalithic stones had fallen from buildings already damaged by Vik bombings, but the harbor and that part of the city he could see from it, still stood—whole. An uncontrollable shaking overcame him, an adrenaline reaction that embarrassed him and compelled him to reach for a piling to assure him with its solidity. He looked sheepishly toward Connach.
He didn’t have to worry. The nobleman was hugging his own piling. His wiry hair had been pulled into long, unruly ringlets by the weight of the filthy water dripping from his head. His tunic was sodden and decorated with red and green badges of seaweed.
“You’re a regular fashion model,” Morgan croaked.
Connach’s eyes crinkled with a vestige of good humor. “We match.”
“Why didn’t that damned thing pull down the city?” He pushed away from the quay and stood unsupported. “That was the most powerful quake I’ve ever felt, and I’ve been through a few good ones.”
Connach laughed. “The old buildings out there,” he pointed to the stone warehouses, “and those in the city proper were constructed long before the Disasters, and managed to survive earth movements more severe than any your Earth has experienced in its present geologic period. Those buildings still stand because our geomancers are good. A trembler like that isn’t going to shake them apart.” He put his arm around Morgan’s shoulders in a brotherly fashion and chuckled annoyingly at the disbelieving expression Morgan knew he wore.
“Kerry, if I admitted that that was the worst one I have lived through since I was a small boy, would that help?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, it was. Even one like that won’t make Verulamium come tumbling down. Sure, we’ve been rebuilding the foundations of some of the older structures, or were rebuilding them before this damned war. . . .” He halted in mid-sentence and turned Morgan so that he faced the harbor. “Look.”
Morgan saw and was frightened all over again.
The waters were deserting the bay. A chilling cacophony of wails rose from the city behind him, icing his spine.
“Come on,” Connach urged. “There go the tsunami warnings. The outer gates are already closed, and the sea people have been let out through the nets so they can ride this one out in deep water. Now I’ve got my chance to demonstrate the value of our gates. I wouldn’t let you miss this one.” He sprinted to a staircase that zigzagged up the rock wall and began to climb, vigorously. “Kerry! Get your ass in gear! You don’t want to get caught down here, even with the gates closed.”
Morgan looked at the evidence of a very high watermark on the warehouse wall. He needed no further motivation and swarmed painfully up the stairs after Connach without answering, saving his breath for the torturous ascent. Connach did not even pause at the railed platforms that punctuated the end of each flight. His legs consumed stairs like brown pistons. Morgan, on the other hand, struggled after, his breath coming in explosive gasps, his legs growing rubbery. Injuries and days of forced inactivity had taken their toll.
“One more flight and you can ride,” Connach finally rasped. He was not quite the superman he pretended to be.
The realization gave Morgan extra energy and he somehow made it to the top.
“Good Christ, what’s that?”
Instead of the horsepowered machine that had pulled the Le Fay to the docks below, a rusting metal monster crouched on bright steel rails that ran the length of the cliff top. Morgan stepped onto a protruding hub and pulled himself onto the deck of the device and collapsed, nursing his knee.
Connach was already tinkering with an oxidized boiler as if he knew what he was doing and carefully positioned a bristling array of levers. The cable mechanism rested on a framework seaward of the engine and partially blocked Morgan’s view of the great fjord, but he was able to view rural Reged for the first time. Landward, from the cliff top to the blue-hazed mountains that cradled the city, an asymmetrical patchwork of cultivated fields, interspersed with
ordered groves and orchards spread richly before him. The heavy aroma of fecund earth and green things filled his nostrils, reminding him of the California of his childhood, long since vanished beneath a crust of concrete and asphalt, stucco cracker boxes and crabgrass-choked lawns. The distance-shrunken figures of horse and oxen-drawn implements worked the land beyond him, yet drew him closer to Brigid’s people, not merely because of their apparent rustic plainness, but for their willingness to work with the land without destroying it. That slower pace appealed to the son of a pollution and progress-poisoned world.
He took a deep breath. The air here also stank of rusted steel and heavy grease. The technological travesty he sat upon did not belong to the bucolic setting. It smelled of his old world.
“Ian,” he said, trying to keep his distaste hidden, “what powers this ugly thing?”
“Methane. We’ll never produce enough to give every citizen an eight-cylinder, four-hundred horsepower chromed battleship like your culture once tried to do in the face of all logic and good sense.” He wiped his face with a dirty rag, making it worse. “But we make enough to fuel a few helpful things like this beast.” He turned a knob and depressed a button. A dull whoom blessed his efforts. “This old engine was resurrected from the museum you and Brigid visited. It’s one hundred and fifty-years old. The Druids don’t quite approve of machinery like this or for the quadrirails for that matter. They claim machinery smacks of a Vik mentality. They may be right, there, but I love machines.” Heat waves danced up the stack and shimmered in the clean air.
“Pressure’s up. Let’s roll!” He throttled the tug into life, and from the way his fingers lingered on the controls, Morgan could tell that Connach did enjoy a love affair with the old machine.
After his experience with the quadrirail, he had expected a clanging, jolting ride from the antique, but the only unnatural sound he could discern was a hissing purr from what must have been an advanced type of steam turbine. The ride itself was smooth and effortless in a machine made by a society of reluctant genius.
The Celtic Mirror Page 14