He was also aware that the Mercians now had them trapped! They were fanned out in a careful semicircle around them, far enough apart not to interfere with each other’s maneuvers; close enough to insure that Morgan and Brigid/Aiofe could not break through the deadly half ring.
“Nun, Keltaner,” the apparent leader mocked, “Hier staarbst du!” He and his companions feinted attacks, and thrust, moved out of the reach of Morgan’s sword, then began the coordinated attack once again.
Morgan could do nothing more than make ineffectual swings, hampered as he was with Brigid. She was definitely not helping his concentration. He could not shift his hold on her for fear of tearing her arm in the jagged hole, but as long as he held her naked body against his, a strong vibration not unlike that of the stones, yet far more powerful, thrummed beneath his fingers. The feeling was not unpleasant, and considering the circumstances sent a surge of intense pleasure through his body.
He did not need pleasure; he needed above all to fight to Viks without her breast under his hand. He needed both hands around the hilt of his sword.
“For Chrissake, hurry up!” He grunted, knocking away a Vik thrust that had been close to separating his head from his shoulders.
“I’ve almost got it,” she screamed back angrily. “Just make sure you do your job!”
“What do you think I’m doing?” He retorted just as angrily and then vowed to keep his mouth shut. Those skillful veterans were wearing him out with their practiced choreography. Morgan was having trouble just keeping the point of his blade up, and the Viks had been able to move in closer. Their blades were almost able to reach him, and he knew that unless Aiofe could activate the latch, they were finished.
One of the flanking swordsmen feinted a gut strike, and Morgan was fooled into making a desperate counter swing that met with nothing. Two warriors moved in under his guard, and Morgan waited for the bite of the Vik steel. But instead of feeling the blades slice into his body, he felt he falling away from them. He twisted as he fell so that he would not crush Brigid, and released her.
When he hit the stones on the other side of Thorkell’s door, he landed on his shoulder, rolled as he had been taught in jump school, and came up onto his feet, sword still in his right hand. He took no time to examine the passageway in which he found himself. His adversaries were stunned into inaction by the unexpected event, but he knew that the veterans’ immobility would be short-lived. His first priority was to seal the door. It stood wide open, and he lunged for it at the same time the oldest Mercian became unstuck.
Both reached the door at nearly the same time, but the less tired Vik was quicker by a fraction. He was through the opening before Morgan could place his hand upon the stone.
Aiofe/Brigid, who lay at the base of the doorway, scrambled out of the way as the soldier burst through, preventing Morgan from closing off the Mercian invasion. The soldier leered at Morgan and growled low in his throat, waving his short sword. Immediately behind him stood his experienced companions. Beyond them greener but still formidable troops raced into the outer chamber.
Morgan felt cool air spilling down the passageway at his back, and a rage boiled up inside of him. With freedom only as step away he refused to yield either to weariness or the Mercian non-com. He raised his own weapon and advanced on the soldier. He moved forward with purposeful steps and began a vicious swing. Ready, the Mercian brought his own blade up to parry Morgan’s strike, but the Californian had brought a Hollywood variation to this most serious game.
While Mercian attention and efforts were concentrated on Morgan’s move, Morgan simply planted a foot against the soldier’s chest and shoved with all his strength. Startled, the swordsman fell backward, still keeping a firm grip on his weapon. His sword arm remained in the narrow passageway, when Morgan threw his full weight against the door. The Mercian made no attempt to remove his arm; so Morgan did it for him.
Morgan kicked the door fully close and latched it shut. He then sheathed his blade after wiping it on a fragment of Mercian uniform that lay on the floor. He picked up the short sword that had fallen from the soldier’s dead hand and handed it to Brigid.
“Take this, Goddess and start moving up those stairs!”
The one who inhabited Brigid’s body took the weapon, but as her fingers touched the proffered hilt, she screamed. “Kerry! Behind you!”
Morgan swung around in time to see a long, thin arm poke through the breech and fingers fumble for the latch that lifted the bar. Chulainn’s blade slid once more from its sheath, made a swift dart downward, and returned reddened.
Morgan unfastened the flap on his right thigh pocket and reached inside. “Get moving, Goddess. Now!” He ordered, pulling the battered radio repeater from his pocket.
“But the Mercians,” she replied, hesitating on the bottom tread of Thorkell’s private staircase.
“I’ll take care of the Mercians,” he snapped. “Get going!”
He listened to her footsteps long enough to determine that she had followed his orders, and then he examined the smashed box that lay in his palm. Another Mercian soldier stuck his arm through the hole, daring Morgan’s blade, but behind the foolish soldier, Morgan could see a crowd of Mercians poised to swarm into the passage as soon as the opening was forced.
Morgan prayed for two things as he held two bared wire-ends in his fingers: that only the case had sustained damage and not the circuitry, that the repeater, if it worked, would only detonate one particular block of C-4 in Caerwent.
Ignoring the Mercians behind him, he took the stairs two at a time, attempting to place as much territory between the plastique and his back. Out of breath, he paused, leaning against the wall, and lifted the box to his eyes where he could examine the contents for critical damage.
He had not completed his scrutiny when a loud shout below told him that the Mercians were now on his side of the wall! He touched the bared ends of the wire together with a wry smile on his lips. In the next instant he was knocked to the ground by a tremendous concussion and was covered by a choking mixture of pulverized stone and mortar.
CHAPTER THIRTY
He heard a faint murmur of voices ahead and motioned to Aiofe to halt. He pressed an ear to the panel that turned Thorkell’s passageway into a cul-de-sac and listened.
“You spoiled a perfectly good trophy with that head shot,” someone was saying, “but perhaps it can be repaired for your clan hearth.”
Morgan nodded grimly, satisfied that only “friendlies” would be discussing the finer techniques of headhunting. He pressed the release and stepped into the room, pulling his companion after him.
Martin Cunneda stood as if transfixed, staring in their direction, a smoking pistol clutched in his right fist, and with a look of total disbelief on his face.
Connach had turned from the chamber window at Morgan’s entrance. His hurried glance took in both battered intruders.
“Belenus!” he cried, breaking the awkward silence. “Thank the gods that you were successful!” He smiled at the woman he thought was only his sister.
Morgan saw, with relief, that Ian’s look held no suspicion, yet when he glanced back at Brigid/Aiofe, the beautiful face was again writhing as if consumed from beneath the skin. The resourceful spirit was engaged in an active battle for control with the awakening and utterly mad Brigid.
“No, Ian,” Morgan said as calmly as he could manage through a choking despair, “I was not as successful as I had hoped.” As he spoke, Brigid’s face hardened as one persona became dominant. Her mien had solidified into the physical reflection of the madness within, horrible for Morgan to witness.
“It is I who have failed!” Brigid shrieked in a single, demented voice. “But there lies the one that has made me thus,” she hissed, almost crooned. She ran swiftly to the huge bed that Morgan had barely registered and draped herself over the figure that lay upon it. When she slowly straightened, her face and breasts were smeared with the gore that had exploded from the shattered head that Mo
rgan guessed once belonged to the former scourge of Caerwent.
As his dismay grew, he also became aware of the other figure on the bed. Not a dead tyrant, but a man very much alive, frozen in the act of lacing his crimson tunic, a man very well known to Kerry Morgan. But before he could deal with Jay Kettelmann, he had to stop the demented creature he loved from again dipping her fingers into Thorkell’s open skull and bringing them to her greedy mouth, sucking them clean before dipping them back into the hideous trough. A thin, toneless humming accompanied the ghoulish feeding.
He hesitated no longer. He stepped behind her in a single stride, took a thick handful of tangled hair in his fingers and jerked her completely around. One of her hands was still moving toward her mouth with a dripping pink gobbet when he hit her solidly for the second time on the point of her chin.
She sagged in his grasp, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. A moment later, her dark irises dilated and rolled upward.
“Gods! What have you done! Connach was on Morgan in an instant, sword half drawn.
“Take over!” Morgan grunted to the limp Brigid as he threw out his free hand to stop Connach’s sword arm.
The Celt spun away from Morgan’s touch and completed his draw. “I will kill you for this insult to our House!” he snarled, his eyes not looking much saner than his sister’s seconds before.
“Stop this! I am all right now, Ian,” Aiofe said with Brigid’s mouth and straightened up easily, removing Morgan’s hand from her hair. “Kerry only did what he had to do.” She placed a bloody hand lightly on Connach’s hand...the one tightly clenched around the handle of his sword and looked up at the prince with no trace of madness. “My ordeal has left me somewhat unsettled, Brother. Forgive me. Forgive Kerry as well.”
Despite the fact that “Brigid” had recovered with an unnatural swiftness from Morgan’s sharp blow to her chin, Connach relaxed and sheathed his weapon, apparently satisfied with the explanation.
“Brigid,” Morgan said, trying to keep his voice natural, “You know the House Cunneda. Why don’t you locate the bathing chamber and clean up. It should feel welcome.” When she trotted away obediently, he felt an intense relief. It was difficult enough for him to look at the body of the woman he had made love with so many times during his period of house arrest and realize that she no longer knew him. It was just as difficult to know that the one in temporary command of that body did love him and wanted to physically consummate that passion. She had made that clear to him in Thorkell’s tunnel, very clear. The memory of that calculated touch lingered most inappropriately in his mind.
He crowded the princess—spirit from his thoughts by redirecting them toward the hated figure on Thorkell’s bier. Kettelmann’s face had taken on the color of tile grout, and his fingers trembled noticeably as he continued lacing the tunic he wore.
Morgan stared wordlessly at him as he had done on so many occasions across the polished oak expanse of the PacSail boardroom table.
Breaking eye contact, Kettelmann spat on the floor and leaned back, feigning relaxation, ignoring the oozing mess that lay behind him. For what seemed like minutes to Morgan, nothing happened. Then Kettelmann shattered the brittle standoff.
“Hello, loser,” he sneered endearingly, his face still putty gray with shock.
Faced with impossibility heaped upon horror, Kettelmann’s charming personality had not been noticeably improved by the change of universe in Morgan’s judgment. Any tendency toward sympathy had been purged from Morgan’s mind as soon as Kettelmann opened his mouth. It was replaced by the uncivilized desire to soccer-kick Hot Dog Kettelmann’s head through Thorkell’s unglazed window. His hands clenched and unclenched as he strove to control his mounting anger. Kettelmann is an asshole, he told himself, not necessarily evil. Give him a chance. He straightened his clawed fingers and forced a smile. It was insincere, but it was a smile.
“Let’s forget the past, Jay,” he began reasonably enough.
The German smiled back at Morgan with a slow display of his Hollywood-perfect teeth. Bright spots of color returned to his face, and his pose lost its rigidity as he leaned forward.
“Fuck you.”
Morgan’s head snapped back as if he had been hit. Then he moved swiftly toward Kettelmann, fully intending to score a goal through the window. He reached out to grab a fistful of Mercian tunic when the arrogant sailor’s quiet, slightly accented voice reached his consciousness through his anger.
“You can stop right there, Morgan.”
Morgan stopped. An iron bolt pointed unwaveringly at the center of his chest. He had not seen the big Mercian crossbow that had lain somewhere near the bloodied bed, but it was obvious that Kettelmann had.
“Kerry!” Connach snapped from behind Morgan.
“Forget it, magician,” Kettelmann almost whispered. “If either you or your pretty friend moves, Morgan becomes instant shish-kebob.”
The movement behind Morgan ceased, and he knew that Kettelmann had been taken seriously.
“OK, Morgan, listen carefully to me. Read my lips if you have to.” Those lips were twisted into Kettlemann’s accustomed sneer.
Morgan looked from the now slightly wavering bolt, then to the German’s face. Kettelmann’s eyes revealed too much. No matter what was promised, no matter if he cooperated or not, Kettelmann had decided to kill him.
OK, has-been,” Kettelmann said, his accent thickening, “move against the wall for starters.” Without taking his eyes from Morgan, he made a sharp gesture with the bow, which plainly included Connach and Cunneda.
“You and your teary friend do the same. But first remove your pistols from their holsters with two fingers and drop them onto the floor. Then back away from them very slowly. Ich bin sehr nervös, he added in German without apparently noticing the shift.
The realization that his former rival had begun to think like a Mercian and perhaps had become one of them filled Morgan with an added dollop of uncertainty. To a Mercian, the Celts would always be the enemy and an inferior people that must be dominated or crushed. If Thorkell had proselytized Kettelmann or if the madness that Morgan detected in his eyes had pushed him into believing that he was a Mercian, there could be no negotiation. There could be only blood.
Morgan heard his two companions drop their weapons onto the floor behind him. Morgan’s own filthy tunic covered an empty pistol, and Kettelmann evidently thought him to be unarmed. That defied logic, but the German, Morgan guessed, had abandoned logic in favor of a safer madness. He could only speculate upon the events that had preceded his own entry into this room with the possessed Brigid, but he knew beyond doubt that Kettelmann was now a thoroughly dangerous beast.
One accidentally involved madman, armed with a primitive weapon could actually accomplish what the military strength of the Mercian Empire had been unable to do—eliminate the Celtic leadership and thus destroy the carefully nurtured spark of resistance.
Kettelmann’s eyes glittered feverishly, and Morgan knew that a new evil essence had been distilled in that room, an evil as venomous as Scatha’s fangs but as tangible as a red tunic. A transformation was taking place in Kettelmann. Morgan had not known the dead man on the bed, but it was apparent that a dark baton had been offered to Jay Kettelmann. It was apparent, too, that the twisted legacy had been accepted. It had marked the German as plainly as his thickening accent and the refusal to let this tentacle of Mercia’s bid for a continental empire rot where it lay on Thorkell’s sheets.
Morgan studied Kettelmann through slitted lids, trying to judge the moment to make his desperate move. The German had always been a superior athlete and was younger than Morgan by ten years. Morgan felt the weight of that decade drag him down like lead hung on a diving belt, slowing his reflexes. The German was injured and was in a state of near shock. Under normal circumstances that might have tipped the balance in Morgan’s favor, but the cup of evil from which Kettelmann had drunk had engendered strength where strength was needed.
The powerful but
now-impotent pistol was an ironic pressure against Morgan’s right hip, a balance against that evil if he had had but one more round in its chamber. He glanced quickly to one side and saw Connach’s weapon where it lay two long meters from his left foot. He began to calculate the odds. An eternity lay between the time he might begin and end his single bid: unclasping his hands from the top of his head, flinging his body to the left to reach the weapon. Still more time was needed to aim, to apply the seven pounds of pull needed to fire the weapon. A man could be killed many times in that eternity.
The odds were appalling, but he never doubted that he would make the attempt to neutralize the posturing German. He watched Kettelmann minutely; wondering how many milliseconds could be shaved from his reaction time. He felt the heavy ring on his finger and automatically started to send another very un-Methodist prayer to She of the White Wings. Then he remembered that Aiofe’s phone was temporarily disconnected. He would have to make his play unassisted.
“Where’s Kendra, Kettelmann?” he demanded, hoping to distract the neo-Mercian.
“That whore?” His smile was ugly. “I suppose she’s still back at West Harbor, no doubt balling everyone capable of movement as usual.” His febrile gaze danced mockingly over Morgan’s face.
“You were the only jerk stupid enough to treat her as if she wasn’t trash. She was trash and reveled in it. I’m surprised that she never laughed in your face.”
Morgan no longer harbored feelings of affection for Kendra, but he flushed angrily and knew that he had played the fool with her. He took a deep breath and expelled it quietly. He had to remember that it was Kettelmann who had to lose the fine edge of his concentration.
Kettelmann continued to talk as if requiring witnesses to his self-proclaimed cleverness. He had probably forgotten that one of his audiences was unable to understand a word of English, and Morgan decided that Kettelmann would have continued in the same fashion even if he knew that none of his captive audience comprehended his ramblings.
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