Morgan was cleaning non-existent dust from the Nighthawk’s chamber when he noticed Kirkpatrick and Connach screaming and gesturing to each other. Whatever was said was lost in the screaming of the wind, but urgency was printed on their faces. He holstered his pistol and had already decided to move up forward when Connach caught his eye and beckoned to him.
Morgan yelled his apologies to the soldiers on either side of him and waded through packed bodies to the bow station. The gondola bucked and trembled constantly, making the short trip an exercise in balance, coordination and shouted apologies.
“Bag’s hit!” Connach screamed into Morgan’s ear.
“How bad?” Morgan yelled back, wondering if it was possible to appear unruffled under those conditions.
“Badly enough! Don’t know if . . . can make it!”
Morgan swallowed hard and peered through the unshielded forward port. He knew that they were over channel waters, but he could see nothing below in the moonless dark. No enemy airships rode near them, giving Morgan no altitude gauge. The sea could be two kilometers, or two meters beneath the deck.
“Better . . . unship . . . rafts!” Connach yelled.
Each of the teams carried an inflatable raft which was to be used to rendezvous with the Reged flotilla if Connach’s filids were able to refloat the boats. Only beneath them Morgan saw no friendly craft—just unfriendly waters and, he imagined, the grinning jaws of Vik orca soldiers.
He swiftly calculated the chances for survival in the rafts and shuddered. “Ditch them!”
“What . . . you . . . say?” It was too dim to see Connach’s face, but Morgan did not doubt the expression. Connach hated to give anything up.
“Ditch them!” Morgan shouted. His throat was raw. “We . . . never reach . . . shore . . . alive in raft! Orca! I say . . . dump all but weapons . . . and ammo.” His vocal chords felt flayed and he was relieved when he saw Connach nodding in agreement.
In seconds, the bomb port was opened. Its weighty iron door was the first object jettisoned, followed by three folded rafts. Daggers and axes pried stubborn fittings loose. Chulainn ripped the remaining crew seat from the deck and pitched it into the whistling darkness like a beer can. Kirkpatrick’s crew had to restrain enthusiastic dismantlers from cutting the few vital controls into scrap as the gondola lost its interior. Morgan’s remedy was immediately successful. The craft rose perceptibly as deadly weight was pitched into space. Even precious rations were sacrificed. They would have to live off the land, which increased their chances of discovery by the enemy, but it could not be helped.
What Morgan could not tell was the rate of descent in relation to the rate of gained rise. The descent was most surely steady, while the rise was sporadic, accompanying only the periodic ejection of material. There was not much left to throw out, Morgan saw. Only the weapons and the Mirrors remained, and they could not be sacrificed.
Connach touched Morgan’s shoulder and pointed ahead. Morgan leaned forward and peered through half-slitted eyes into the wind. A second line of breakers lay not more than a hundred meters ahead. They were going to make it!
His cry of exultation died in his throat. Above the surf, blotting out the stars loomed a steep cliff wall. The sinking craft could not top it, even with the Winged Spirit pulling up on the shrouds.
“What now?” shouted Connach. “Jettison rest and . . . clear top? Or. . . land . . . on . . . beach?”
Clearing the cliff would mean abandoning weapons and facing the Viks unarmed. Landing on the beach would be dangerous in the confused currents near the rock walls. A bad landing might spell the end of the expedition before it began. Yet, Morgan knew it had to be the beach, despite the dangers it posed. He took a breath and leaned toward Connach.
The gods took the decision away from him. The craft lurched heavily, tossing men and remaining equipment into tangled heaps. With no remaining handholds or tie downs, Morgan was thrown to the deck and skidded painfully against a bulkhead. The descent to the beach was no longer theory; it was a freefall-elevator fact. Above the howling of the wind and the cries of injured men, Morgan thought he could hear the ripping of fabric as the gasbag failed.
“Kirkpatrick!” He roared, crawling toward the pilot. “Can . . . you keep. . . away . . . from cliff?”
“Think so . . . Going to try . . . like hell!” Kirkpatrick answered, face glistening with perspiration in the faint, predawn light.
“The foreign . . . lord’s ring! Let me touch!”
The acolyte dragged himself to Morgan’s side and grasped the hand that wore the blue stone with a grip that Morgan could not have shaken off. The boy placed his other hand on top of the pilot’s head in a splay-fingered manner that reminded Morgan of an earlier attempt to give an airman more strength than he possessed.
Instantly an electric-like current passed through Morgan’s body, and the ring burned his finger painfully with a cold fire. He clenched his jaw to keep from crying aloud, feeling his strength flow through the blue drain and into the Texan’s body. The acolyte was slumped, his hands trembled, and Morgan knew that he was not the sole donor in the spiritual transfusion.
Kirkpatrick was no passive participant in the bizarre sharing of energies either. Perspiration soaked the man’s tunic and splashed upon the iron deck plating. His head rolled weakly with the gondola’s motion. Morgan worried for the black pilot’s life but lacked the strength to shout a warning to the priest.
By then, Morgan could see the cliffs clearly. Cruel fingers of stone reached for the craft but came no closer. Kirkpatrick had successfully halted forward motion.
The gondola then sank more rapidly, dropping toward the narrow beach below. It hovered momentarily as a groaning Kirkpatrick made a supreme effort to lessen the effects of the erratic turbulence they had encountered.
Then as Morgan watched, Kirkpatrick’s body stiffened and gave a violent shake. The pilot screamed once, unleashing all the agonies the last moments must have cost him, and fell senseless to the deck.
As Morgan caught the unconscious pilot, a massive blow twisted the stripped and weakened gondola, popped rivets from unbraced deck plates, and flipped the machine onto its side. The gasbag settled over the wreck like a blanket covering a dead man’s face.
For suspended seconds, Morgan heard only silence inside. Outside, the surf pounded, hissed and pounded again. Then Greenfeld cried out in agony, and Connach began shouting orders.
“Cut away the envelope! Someone give me a light!”
A light appeared almost at once, and in the bluish tint of a glowlight, men disentangled themselves from each other and from a junkyard of gear. Daggers were drawn and half-dozen soldiers hacked at the enfolding skin. One warrior did not rise from the debris. The war was over for him before it had properly begun. The Lothian, Dongall, his head crushed and misshapen, lay beneath one of the Mirrors he had salvaged for the flight. The tincture of the glowlight masked the true colors of blood and gray matter that oozed from the broken thing that had once been the seat of a capable mentality.
Next to the dead Lothian lay David Greenfeld, conscious still and in a great deal of pain. Morgan was the first to reach the crash casualties. It took only a glance at the Lothian to realize that the man would never leave the beach. He crawled to Greenfeld’s side, hoping that only one grave would be dug in the sand.
“Took you long enough,” the Jew said through clenched teeth. “I’ll call another ambulance company next time I fly with Connach Airlines.” He tried to laugh at his own joke and failed. “What’s a man with two elbows on one arm to do?”
Greenfeld’s left arm had developed a new bend between the elbow and shoulder.
“Do you hurt anywhere else?” Morgan asked with unfeigned concern.
“How the hell should I know?” Greenfeld answered in a strained voice. “My arm has got all my attention right now.” He shifted his weight and screamed once. There had been a grating sound that Morgan could hear over the noise in the wreck. Greenfeld’s eyes were rol
ling up, showing white.
“Don’t move, David. I’ll get help.”
Morgan looked through the gondola for the man best able to relieve Greenfeld’s pain. “Morgan of the House of Connach here! Where’s the Druid?” The acolyte appeared at Morgan’s side in seconds.
“Never mind the Lothian. He’s gone. This one can use your help right now.” Morgan roughly shoved the frightened priest at Greenfeld.
“As you wish, foreign lord,” the holy man said with as much dignity as he could manage, caught between personal fear and the authority in the form of the exotic soldier. He managed to open his medipouch with shaking fingers, but spilled none of its contents.
Satisfied that Greenfeld was in the best hands at the moment, Morgan squirmed through a port and onto the beach. He located Connach seated on a piece of driftwood and reported the status of the two casualties without elaboration. The warlord was nearly invisible in the shadow of the cliff and Morgan could not see his face as he listened.
“Not a very good start, eh?” Connach said at last and turned to watch the soldiers transform wreckage into neat piles of stacked gear and arms. He waited until Greenfeld and the Druid emerged from the gondola before speaking again.
“We’ve got to get off the beach, and damned quickly!” He said urgently to Morgan, “and we’ve got to do something about the ship. As soon as a Vik patrol stumbles onto the gutted hulk, they’ll know that something strange occurred here.”
A flash from above caught Morgan’s attention as another Vik airship exploded mysteriously—too far over the channel for Reged guns to have reached it. Both men watched the orange fireball blossom and fade.
“Blow the goddamned thing up.” Morgan was the first to speak. “That would scatter the pieces too far and in too many directions for them to guess anything.”
“I agree, but we’d have to get well clear. It wouldn’t do to bring a Vik patrol here by direct invitation while we’re here on the beach.” Connach stood and began to pace, reminding Morgan of the day in the stone warehouse.
An optio minor ran, out of breath, up to the ruminating Connach and saluted hastily. “Lord,” he panted, “Clan Chief Chulainn wants you to know that Mirrors One and Three are damaged beyond repair.”
“Very well,” Connach replied his face still invisible to Morgan. “Tell the Ax-Wielder to continue with the clearing out of the gondola. When he’s finished, have him report to me.”
“Yes, Lord,” the young man acknowledged and darted across the dark beach to the broken ship.
“We may make it yet, Kerry,” Connach said with confidence appearing in his voice once again.
We may make it yet, Morgan thought in response, but it won’t ever get easy.
Within minutes after the boy’s departure, Coel Chulainn lumbered up the beach and verified that the gondola was empty of everything incriminating except for the body of his countryman. Connach listened quietly, and then had Chulainn gather the three teams before him.
He was a dark figure above them on a small rise. Morgan thought it was a touch too theatrical but that it might be effective enough with the dramatic Celts assembled around him.
“Warriors,” Connach said, “each of you is to claim your weapons and gear and to assemble by teams in the hollow to my right. Team One will carry the remaining Mirror. Team leaders, get your men moving! Greenfeld, stay here.”
A lone man remained with the High Chief. Morgan slowed, and then reversed his walk to the beach. His team could carry on without him this once. Greenfeld was his friend. He might need help. The Romans took no wounded with them, he remembered, and these were Romanized Celts.
“Greenfeld,” Connach was asking, “can you make it?”
If the Jew answered incorrectly, Morgan feared he might join the dead Lothian. Morgan crossed his fingers.
“I can carry my body gear and my pack but I’ll need help with the M-16, Lord.” His left arm was bound to his chest but his voice betrayed none of the pain he must have felt. Morgan watched Connach, hopefully.
“Good.” With that word, Greenfeld lived.
The Lothians were the first team to form in the hollow, and the Ax-Wielder joined the tableaux on the rise.
“We’re ready to go, Lord Connach,” Chulainn said eagerly.
“I knew the Lothians would be the first,” Connach said.
Chulainn grinned whitely.
“I will leave it to you, Ax-Wielder,” Connach ordered, “to ensure that both damaged Mirrors and the war-balloon will have no more significance for the Viks than the sand we stand upon. Twenty segmenti. Is that time enough?”
Chulainn grinned a second time. Morgan knew that the Lothian was enjoying the thought of action, any action.
“Time enough.”
“Lord Connach!” The acolyte interrupted, calling from where the Lothians stood. “What shall I do with the Lothian, Dongall?”
“Bury him deep and above the high waterline. But first you shall exchange clothes with him,” Connach said brusquely. “You stand out like a marble milepost.”
“My lord, how should I bury him here? This is not sanctified ground.”
Connach groaned aloud and spread his arms wide. He waited until all of the teams were present before speaking.
“This ground has been sanctified by the blood of the tens of thousands of innocent men who have been slaughtered by Thorkell and his killers! Their spilled blood is worthier in the sight of the gods than the self-righteous mutterings of any traitor priest like Maelgwynn. Dongall’s spirit will join with those of earlier martyred victims and cry outrage to the heavens! We are the instruments of revenge, not missionaries to preach proper observance of ceremony!”
A cheer punctuated Connach’s emotional statement of commitment. Even Morgan was momentarily moved to consider himself an instrument of a superior moral force and not a governmentally sanctioned killer. The sensation did not last long, however. He knew that he was a kidnapped ex-soldier, brought to Connach’s world because he had shown a proficiency in exterminating his fellow man upon command—no more, no less. He stood on that beach with Reged’s pitifully small commando force only to extract vengeance from the men who sought to harm Brigid by destroying her land and everything she loved. That, alone, was Morgan’s personal commitment.
The chastened young Druid emerged from the wreckage, staggering under the weight of the Lothian’s lifeless body. Connach detailed two soldiers to assist the acolyte, and a hasty grave was scratched out above the waterline. The dead man was then left with a Druid’s robe for a winding sheet and the prayers of his former comrades to speed his soul to the Horned God.
The small force cleared the top of the cliff with no time to spare, when the sounds of detonations reached Morgan. Burning fragments of the gondola and its gasbag were hurled far into the air and fell gracefully, hissing into the sea, briefly flickering on the water like bright sequins. The moonless night soon swallowed even that.
Moving more cautiously after the explosions, the men reached the blacker safety of the rain forest before the violent dawn or a roving enemy patrol could catch them in open country.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The first Vik patrol missed fatally colliding with the commando force by seconds just after the sun pushed over the horizon. The Suevian troopers crashed along the overgrown trail, snapping branches and twigs, laughing and singing, their heavy crossbows slung across their backs instead of carried at the ready. As they passed Morgan’s position, close enough for him to touch, he smelled the sweet, pungent odor that he always associated with Kendra when she was in one of her “party moods”—cannabis. The plant grew wild in the Free States, although Morgan had never known one of his compatriots to use it.
The cannabis-smoking Suevians would have been dead men if Morgan had not restrained the Celts’ desire for immediate revenge. Patiently, he explained that they were too valuable to die or risk discovery in an unimportant skirmish. The Lothians remained unconvinced but followed Morgan’s directions only b
ecause Connach backed them with the authority of his new position. They would not remain in check if they doubted their leaders’ bravery or were denied action much longer. Chulainn watched Morgan with an impatient frown and muttered a prayer to the goddess of war., the one who had nearly caused Morgan’s death…Scatha.
The Dark Goddess must have been listening to the Ax-Wielder and not to Morgan’s Shadow World logic.
“New patrol headed our way,” Patrick whispered to Morgan, watching his lord’s reaction in an obvious manner that amused Morgan. He was aware that the optio had held him in awe after he had bested the Druid assassin. He had been the only soldier to follow Morgan’s non-contact orders without question. Loyalty like that could only be sustained by proof of Morgan’s worth.
Morgan swallowed before speaking. In the Philippine rain forest he had usually been on the other side, with Abu Sayyaf guerillas hiding in ambush. Now he was the guerrilla. Morgan turned back the years and made himself become one of his old enemies.
“Tell the men to do nothing until the rear guard completely penetrates our perimeter. Then, using blades alone, kill them all. There must be no survivors.”
“Aye, Lord,” Patrick replied, eyes shining. His personal lord had ordered action at last!
What followed was a page out of an insurgent’s training manual. The second enemy patrol blundered unready into the middle of Morgan’s loose trap. The point man, inhaling deeply from the clay mouthpiece of a communal pipe, died gurgling, spraying smoke and bright blood as he collapsed. The rear guard fell simultaneously to a Lothian dagger stroke. The three remaining soldiers managed to unsling their weapons when realization of mortal danger penetrated the haze that clouded their judgement.
They never loosed a bolt among them. They died, instead, silently, losing vital fluids from mouths newly carved across their throats. The still twitching bodies were dragged into the fastness of the forest for the jungle to claim, and Vik crossbows were added to the guerrillas’ already formidable weapon collection. Then the shadow men melted into the green tangle to rest until twilight.
The Celtic Mirror Page 19