“If the ship and I survived the flight over, I’d try to drift back down to Reged if the wind was favorable and if the Vik Windmasters didn’t know they’d let a ringer in. But—if I got knocked down over there—supposing that I was able to walk away from the crash—I’d have to shoot my way out or hope to be hidden by one of your resistance fighters.” He changed his pose and strutted over to Connach and slapped both of the Celt’s palms. “Ah sure as hell won’t pass for a native, will ah?”
Connach laughed and took Kirkpatrick’s hand in his grip, turning him so that he faced the seated commandos.
“Gentlemen,” he said, grinning. “I’d like you to meet the Free States Air Force.”
Morgan was not happy even though Connach lifted his house arrest immediately after the meeting. Freedom came with a price.
“Damn it, Ian. The boats will be exposed and tempting targets for those Hellwind Riders if they’re spotted. Find another place to work on the balloon and leave the boats under cover.”
“Look. The balloon has to be filled with hydrogen, and it’s a big gasbag.” Connach shook his head. “There’s no place in the city that’s both big enough to house the thing and not expose everything around it to the possibility of a disastrous fire. When we get everything put back together and load the gondola with bombs, the danger is even greater. The boat facility is both remote and big enough to do the job. No, you’ve got to move the boats out. Do what you have to do to protect them, but do it!” He then abruptly left the sputtering Morgan.
He agreed with Connach’s logic even though he disagreed with the tradeoff in safety for the boats. The boat storage facility was high enough to accommodate the raised masts of vessels much larger than the PacSail sloops. He knew that it was ideal for the damned war balloon.
Resignedly, Morgan followed Connach’s orders, but not before commandeering a large team of House Connach and Chulainn laborers and artificers. In three days, the seven craft, their hulls, topsides and masts painted a dull, non-reflecting black, were relaunched into the inner harbor. He ordered them hidden from the air by requisitioning every fishermen’s net he could scavenge and had them joined and formed into a huge camouflage netting which spanned a substantial curve of the bay. The invasion craft finally lay safe, he hoped, protected by woven fiber, Druid magic, and a blind faith that Vik bombardiers were as stupid as the Connach hoped they were.
It was a slim hope. The enemy was never as stupid as war planners believed they were. That, Morgan knew for a fact, and he worried.
Two days after Morgan had watched Le Fay slip into the water, Connach summoned him to his quarters. It was the first such invitation Morgan had received since he and Brigid had been found making love. When Morgan arrived, he found a strange delegation gathered in the room that constituted Connach’s outer office. Castillo and Connach stood to one side of the room. The aloof High Druid, Maelgwynn and a younger, aesthetic-looking Druid often seen accompanying the gaunt holy man, brooded in the other. A gap of hostile silence separated the two factions. Hoping he looked calmer than he felt, Morgan stepped into the room.
With a look of almost pathetic relief, Connach pulled Morgan to his side of the room. It was then three to two in favor of the warriors. Morgan saw Connach’s tense expression relax a fraction.
“The healers have told me that the captured Windrider has regained consciousness and can talk. We,” he indicated the three comrades-in-arms, “will try to discover what we can about the airship and the state of things in Caerwent. They,” he gestured, Morgan thought, dismissively at the hooded figures, “are going to save his spirit for Belenus and see if the monsters who were so eager to eat the mainland are now ready to accept overtures of love and conciliation.” Then he spoke rapidly and in English, “This pair of carrion birds has been on my back ever since Grandfather collapsed in the Council Hall yesterday. They smell victory; it’s written on their faces.”
A pool of acid formed in Morgan’s gut. Death—especially sudden death—appeared to be one of Maelgwyn’s specialties. He turned as casually as he could manage and deliberately caught the High Druid’s eye, making certain that he was recognized. Then he let an easy smile play over his lips. Maelgwyn’s face remained a mystery to Morgan, hidden as it was in the shadows of the cowl, but the priest’s fingers tightened on the staff he bore. Good! Let him wonder what happened to lizard-tongue. Let him doubt his own powers and overestimate mine. While his skin crawled with the remembrance of Scatha’s assassin and his body required mental crowbars to force movement, Morgan slowly winked at the Druid leader and turned with feigned insouciance back to Connach.
“Do you think that bastard, Maelgwynn, set another of his dogs loose on your grandfather?”
“I don’t know. The healers tell me it is his heart, but there are compounds known to the Druids which can cause a pretty convincing heart attack. Most of the healers follow Maelgwyn’s orders like pet dogs, and Maelgwynn is trying to prevent our expedition to the mainland at any cost. That pious asshole has demanded that the Council must sue for peace.” The prince shot the priests a contemptuous glance that needed no translation. “You know what kind of peace we would get from the Viks as long as they hold the cards—slavery. And if my grandfather dies, we’re in large trouble.”
“Most likely you’d be named clan chief in his place, wouldn’t you? And High Chief after that.” Morgan feared Maelgwynn and the evil forces he commanded. He knew his fears were reasonable. He only stood a chance of surviving in that world if whoever succeeded Connach’s grandfather was strong enough to counter the Druid’s influence.
“Sure, they’d name me all those things,” Connach answered, bitterly. “But I don’t have the power or the influence he’s built up over the years with the theocrats,” he said, unconsciously responding to Morgan’s unspoken fears.
Connach spat onto the stone floor, pointedly in the direction of the priests, addressing the entire room in Pan-Celtic, “Let’s go, shall we? Before the pig dies on us.”
The younger priest opened his mouth as if to answer Connach’s insult, but Maelgwynn stopped him with a poisonous look and haughtily swept from the chamber, a tangible anger trailing after him.
The House of Healing was a massive structure with the glassless windows and doors characteristic of that city, yet, as Morgan entered with his companions, he knew that the building would be free of insect pests. The hospital had the fresh odor of the surrounding countryside and had none of the disgusting disinfectant smells that smothered free breathing in the hospitals of his world.
A white-robed Druidess led the two brittle contingents to a guarded wing of the labyrinthine building. Armed warriors were positioned at both ends of a short corridor, giving the free atmosphere a sudden prison taint. A young but tough-looking gregalis in Clan Chulainn colors stood squarely in front of an open door, holding a double-bladed ax in the ready position. He halted the group five paces from his post.
“Do you know me, Private?” Connach asked crisply.
“Aye, Lord. Your group may pass,” the soldier replied, including Morgan and Castillo with a glance. “But what of these priests, sir? Will you vouch for them?” The disarming twinkle in his eyes made Morgan grin and Maelgwynn fume.
Connach’s mouth fought its own urge to smile. “For the moment, they are part of my group, Gregalis. Let them pass as well.”
The young soldier raised his weapon in salute and stepped aside.
Morgan entered behind Connach and Castillo. The bright room contained a red-robed healer, an elderly nursing Druidess, a wide couch and a bronze figure of the Horned God, Cernunos. A dying man completed the set.
His shrunken, sallow face stared expressionlessly at the ceiling. A heavy pectoral with the horns of Cernunos lay upon the man’s thin chest. The amulet was set with a score of blue stones that glowed faintly with an internal light. The Priestess, her outstretched fingers gently resting on the amulet sat at the head of the couch, compassion evident in her wrinkled features.
; Morgan took in the scene and sniffed. Unlike the corridors outside, the room stank of herbs, and of impending death.
He followed Connach and Castillo to the enemy airman’s right side; the priests moved to his left, the schism driven deeper by a hospital couch. The Mercian’s eyes ceased staring at the ceiling and flickered with a dull hatred at the hawk-faced holy man who had crushed three white mistletoe berries with a hand press and then touched the sticky residue to the helpless man’s brow, cheeks and chin. The eyes became impassive again as they came to rest on Connach’s grimly set face. Morgan realized that the military was something the dying man understood.
Connach leaned close to the figure on the couch. “Waas iss Ihr Naam?”
Morgan was jolted. He had been stationed in Germany as a young second lieutenant and understood Connach’s question. Mercian was clearly a Germanic dialect. Sure, it was the Germanic tribes that destroyed Rome, inherited Europe.
“ . . . Bin Helgaard. . . Adelbloud. . . . “The reply was weak, gasping, and Morgan had to strain to hear.
“Quickly, Lord Connach,” the healer cautioned. “I’ve kept his pain at a bearable level with moran’th root but his life is rapidly leaving him. Too many things are breaking down.”
“We’ve got to find out how good our chances are of knocking out that airbase over there,” Connach groaned in English.
“Daas . . . daas iss wie — der Kettelmann — spraakt,” the Wind Rider breathed, a rattling beginning in his throat, spelling the end of his personal war against the Celtic holdouts.
The old Druidess shook her head in resignation; not noticing the stunned looks on the faces of the soldiers behind her. The stones that studded the bronze pectoral were fading, flickering out. Connach and Castillo stared speechlessly at the Mercian.
“Kettelmann!” Morgan broke through their trances. “Quick! Ask the bastard if they’ve got the boat, too!”
“Windritter Adelbloud! Wo iss Kettelmann’s Boote?” Connach barked the Mercian gutturals like bullets, but without results.
The Wind Rider’s filming eyes registered no understanding. Connach looked questioningly at the healer. Three stones faded into dull opacity, and the healer shook his head; he was looking at the High Priest and not his prince.
“Do something, healer! Keep him alive and conscious one more segmentum; that’s all I ask!”
“I don’t think he’s got one more segmentum left on this earth,” the old priestess said feelingly, turning her back on the angry Maelgwynn who was making furious hand signals at the healer. Unaware of the silent battle being waged behind her, or ignoring it deliberately, the old woman pressed her creased forehead upon the amulet of Cernunos and chanted softly.
Morgan smiled as Reged’s spiritual leader fumed impotently. The Mercian’s waxen face colored slightly and his eyelids fluttered open. In the moment of dissolution, the soldier struggled to focus his wavering gaze on the enemy commander.
“Boote! Kettelmann’s Boote!” Connach yelled.
“Kaer — Kaerwedt.” The stones flickered out in unison and became as lifeless as the Wind Rider’s flattening eyes.
Morgan, who had watched the drama with a curious detachment, looked up slowly and found Connach staring at him with an expression that contained fear.
“They’ve got half a Mirror, Kerry. If Thorkell knows what he’s got, he’ll force some mainland Druid to build the other half. He’d use it, too. Life means nothing to that bastard!” He turned to Castillo. “Tony. Assemble the teams now. The timetable’s just been moved ahead!”
It had begun at last. The commando teams were to set sail for the mainland at full dark on the following night. Morgan’s team was targeted for the seaport town of Duleek which lay thirty kilometers up the coast from Caerwent. The Lothians were to be turned loose in their home civitat, and Connach’s group was to hit Caerwent itself.
Morgan was ready for action and would have allowed the accompanying adrenaline surge to dominate him as it dominated the other men but for two things: a gut feeling that he would never see Brigid again once he left Verulamium harbor and Connach’s rare honesty about the Mirror, for the Mirror was key to their success on the mainland.
“There is now no time for the resistance forces to duplicate the arms we would bring to them,” Connach had begun simply enough. “Once we reveal ourselves on the mainland, it is all or nothing. I opt for all! Therefore, each team will carry and set up Mirrors in their target areas immediately after contacting members of the resistance.
“As soon as he is signaled, Navarchus Castillo will begin sending our mainland brothers and sisters every weapon we can produce.”
It was then that Morgan chose to ask the question he should have left unasked.
“Once we set up the Mirrors, why not send troops through as well as weapons. Doing it any other way defies even Celtic logic as far as I can tell.” Morgan gave Connach a mocking smile, knowing that he had openly framed the question that had been troubling each of the PacSail victims. Their face told Morgan that he had guessed correctly. Connach was fixed in place by the eyes of his “mercenaries.”
The Celtic prince cleared his throat uneasily. He was not smiling. “I wish I had the power to do just that, my friends. My people have had the Mirror for many years. As a transport device it is unequaled, but it has certain – ah—limitations.” He stepped down from the dais to stand with the group of Californians. The gesture was unnecessary. He had their undivided attention. It would have taken a Vik raid on the briefing room itself to divert the 4-D sailors.
“When the device was first tested, our filids realized the potential for human travel that it promised. After the first machine parts were sent from Verulamium to Badon successfully, the men followed. Some of them were not quite the same when they arrived, and only the truly brave ones died quietly.”
Morgan looked at Connach in disbelief. The Mirror had been used to bring all the 4-D sailors to Connach’s world. How many did you kill, you bastard? How many besides John Wiscombe lie on your conscience? He stared at his hands. How has your fucking machine changed me? He caught Greenfeld and Evans examining their own bodies, ashen-faced. I wonder how many different ways you are being cursed at the moment, Ian. Morgan sent a particularly obscene oath of his own in Connach’s direction.
Connach paled and his voice cracked as he attempted to continue through the shock that permeated the room.
“You 4-D sailors were calculated risks,” he said, as if pleading for understanding, if not approval. “I tried to insure that all conditions were optimal when you were brought over. There were flaws all the same. Kirkpatrick is the sole survivor to come over in Quantum Leap. Our healers had to erase his memory of the Crossing. I atone daily for losing Jefferson and Antonelli.” He held his hands up in supplication. “I will make no more such risks with those who would fight with us. There would be no army if every fifth warrior was altered somehow and died before even encountering the enemy. And in a hurried situation, who can calculate how many might die horribly?
“Sun storms, the gods locked in confrontation, or just plain human error. It will never be risked again.”
The prince turned and left the room, walking slump-shouldered through his stunned cadre. It could be an act, Morgan told himself. Contrition and humility were not facets of Connach’s character.
“Tonight will be your last night in Reged before we jump off.” The faithful Castillo had assumed Connach’s position on the dais. “Avoid arguments with members of the peace faction, especially the Druid Brotherhood. We’ll have trouble enough with an armed enemy; we don’t need to fight with our own people. Report to this room no later than six hours ‘Voodoo time’ tomorrow. Bring all your gear and be ready to move out. That is all, gentlemen.” He, too, vanished like a wraith without lingering to talk further with any of them.
Morgan suspected that Castillo would try to catch up with Connach. If he was successful, he would probably attempt to do whatever a number two man does to make the head honcho
feel better. Morgan sent another highly inventive curse out to find the invisible Connach and to make Castillo’s unwelcome job harder.
He remained in the briefing room while the other warriors filed out, thinking their own night-before-action thoughts. His own mind roiled with Connach’s terrible revelation, mixed with the thoughts of Brigid. Will she be there tonight? It might be the last time I might feel her, soft against me. I don’t know if I can take that again—not this time, not this war. Hell, it isn’t my war, he told himself. I can still walk out on it, take Brigid and run. But where? The tribal lands beyond the Free States; there a man might hide if we could get through.
His troubled thoughts were interrupted as Greenfeld edged through the thinning crowd toward him. “What the hell is the Druid incantation for invisibility,” he growled quietly.
“Hi, David,” he said aloud.
“God, what a blockbuster!” Greenfeld croaked. His face was pale, and he held out his hands so that Morgan could see their slight trembling. “Checked all your fingers and toes lately?”
“Yeah, I guess Le Fay had a better trip than Quantum Leap.”
“How about…. “
“Sorry. David. Still not in the mood for poker.” Then they were not alone. A third man had joined them, a short, native officer wearing the badge of the Council of Ten and carrying fresh scars from the last raid over Verulamium. An uneasy thought tugged at Morgan’s mind.
“Malo, how are you?” Greenfeld clapped the stranger on the shoulder.
Shit! It’s all over now! Morgan forced himself to look calmly at his nightly visitor, the man he had never met.
Greenfeld had taken charge. In a minute the deception would be revealed and the word would get back to Connach by Druid telegraph.
“Lieutenant, I was just going to invite you and your buddy, Morgan over to my quarters tonight for a little poker. “
This was it!
“Sorry, Lord Greenfeld. Do you mind if I speak privately with the Lord Morgan?” His words held no immediate threat.
The Celtic Mirror Page 16