“It took me four weeks to get that last 4D specially outfitted for the sail to wherever in hell this place is. I started long before you bugged out. When I was finally ready to go, Wiscombe’s long-lost niece was grateful enough for my selfless sacrifice that she made me a junior partner. Not that I’ll ever go back to collect dividends.” He laughed a sound that was the breaking of icons to Morgan’s ears. Wiscombe’s niece. PacSail still alive. Kettelmann started rocking from foot to foot, shifting his body fractionally toward the door with each movement.
“I don’t need that shit anymore,” he said in a musing voice. “Thanks to the late, great Aethelric, I’ve got everything I need right here.”
“Kendra dump you when she discovered you were bisexual?” Morgan asked with a heavy disdain, tensing for the steel. When it did not come, he loosened his fingers and prepared for the moment. Kettelmann’s aim never wavered greatly during Morgan’s thrust, but his eyes widened slightly. The evidence of his sexual ambivalence was, after all, wetting the bed behind him.
“I always suspected that you were about to break out of the closet.” Morgan shifted his feet slightly. Kettelmann was nerve-close to making his own move at any moment, and Morgan needed to be as ready as he could be.
“Sounds like you had to leave home to find out if the boys really were better than the girls, hunh? How was it sweetheart?”
Kettelmann did not respond verbally to Morgan’s taunt, but his mouth became a thin, pinched line. The thumb-thick bolt pushed further toward Morgan’s chest but it began oscillating noticeably as well. The strain is beginning to tell! Morgan screamed inside his skull.
“You aren’t going to get to me that way, Morgan,” the German rasped, wetting his white lips with the tip of his tongue. He began to rock to a faster rhythm.
Morgan knew that he had definitely scored.
“I think I’ll kill you right now just for the sheer hell of it,” Kettelmann said between clenched teeth, but I don’t want the Cadets of Gascoigne to crash unsere party now.” He paused and steadied the heavy bow.
“Aufwiedersehen, Keltaner Drek” he called, lapsing entirely into Mercian-accented German. His fingers closed around the handle.
Morgan tore his hands from his head and dove to the floor, rolling onto his left shoulder. Almost magically, the pistol was in his hand! He brought the weapon to bear on the German as he continued his roll toward the bed and awkwardly snapped off a whispered shot as the room revolved around him.
A saucer-sized depression appeared in the wall a hands-breadth from Kettelmann’s head. His intended target flinched away from the point of impact, cut on the face and neck from flying shards. He screamed incoherent curses at Morgan and fired the crossbow.
Morgan felt a red-hot wire sear his back between his neck and the corded deltoid muscle of his right shoulder. His right arm fell instantly numb and the pistol dangled impotently in his weakened grip.
Kettelmann cackled wildly and scooped Cunneda’s weapon from the floor before the nobleman could react. He tossed the bow at Morgan with a contemptuous laugh.
“Hier, Narr. Ein Geschenk von der Mercianen Regierung.”
Morgan ignored Kettelmann’s insult and let the spent crossbow fall to the floor at his feet. His thought processes became strange and gave him the illusion of rapid acceleration so that he seemed to inhabit an altogether different reality than the others in the room. He had experienced the same sensation only once before, in the seconds before an unavoidable head-on collision. Physical action slowed down until all the players became deep-sea divers, performing an ill-conceived ballet with weighted shoes.
Kettelmann gracefully pivoted with the pistol in his hand. He shoved the weapon through the thickened atmosphere until it pointed at Morgan’s upraised head.
Morgan’s own body dwelt in that dangerous slow-motion world as well, and he was unable to will his computer-fast brain to pull muscle tissue and bone into its superior time frame. He could only stand and watch death approach. He was aware that Cunneda had reached his dagger unmolested and was gripping it to throw.
Kettelmann exerted a pressure on the trigger, turning the flesh curiously green beneath the nail of the index finger.
Morgan could only stare, his body useless.
Then time collapsed back upon itself with a crash.
The door behind Kettelmann flew inward, smashing into the German’s side hard enough to deflect his aim and to send him stumbling toward Morgan. Behind him, Brigid spilled into the room. The weapon discharged, cratering the far wall instead of killing Morgan.
Tensed, Cunneda moved to throw his dagger at the madman but checked his arm when Brigid tottered toward Morgan, blocking his toss.
Screaming obscenities in German, Kettelmann pushed past her and sprinted out of the room.
Morgan’s scrambled to his feet. Sensation had begun its painful return to his fingers, and he was able to hold the pistol firmly once again. He looked at the other two men. No orders needed to be shouted. Reacting as one they ran from Thorkell’s tomb and raced after Kettelmann, guided by the sounds of hard-soled boots against marble flooring.
Ahead of Morgan the captured pistol whispered again.
At the junction of two corridors, Morgan found the first body. A youthful sub-optio lay sprawled on his back with his breastbone broken into bloody splinters. Cunneda knelt and closed lids over the already glazed eyes.
“Oh, gods!” Connach made the sign of the Sacred Wheel. “The boy’s rifle is missing!”
Morgan swore. That made Kettelmann ten feet tall. The three men grimly left the dead soldier and proceeded cautiously down the broad passageway. They had covered a scant twenty meters when a staccato burst from below them was answered by another automatic weapon, followed by silence.
“The quadrirail platform!” Cunneda shouted. Forgetting caution, they ran toward the dying echoes of gunfire.
A young woman, one that Morgan recognized as being in Brigid’s unit, lay quite naked and quite dead against a wall. Her head lay against a bare breast as if she had simply dozed off. A stitching of red holes across her lower chest told Morgan that she had dozed off forever. The ancient Celtic magic of nudity in battle had never anticipated protection against high-velocity death. Her M-16 was also missing. Kettelmann was collecting a formidable armory.
The faint whine of a fast-disappearing car reached Morgan’s years and he rose from the girl’s side. “Can you find out where he’s going?” He asked, addressing Cunneda directly for the first time since their initial encounter.
“Yes,” the nobleman answered in a voice devoid of pompousness and class-consciousness. “But I think we all know.”
Cunneda crossed to an exact copy of the two-headed god that dwelt beneath the House Connach and placed his soft aristocrat’s palm against the hard bronze one. Two glowing points of light appeared on a detailed route map mounted on the wall. A thin tracery betrayed the path taken by Kettelmann: Caerwent Harbor.
“Get us there, Martin,” Connach commanded, but the nobleman was already communing with the idol.
“I will have our car stopped one station before Kettelmann’s. If the gods are kind, the Mercians at our stop will not have been alerted. We should be able to kill them easily,” he added with the confidence of a man whose combat experience was limited.
Morgan knew that the only easy thing in combat was getting wounded or killed, but he held his tongue. He pressed his eyes with the heels of his hands, exhausted. The sun was already up; their timetable was badly off, and the war was less than an hour old! The going would be much rougher since the Vik garrisons would be awake and functioning even if unalerted, but Morgan knew that there was nothing to do but to press on. And they would press on to an enemy naval base which was certain to be expecting them and their attempt to rescue or destroy the fragile sailboat that could ensure Mercian domination of the planet if the Viks could discover her secrets.
Easy, he told himself with heavy irony.
A car screamed int
o the platform area and opened its doors as Greenfeld, the senior optio, Patrick, and the possessed Brigid clattered, out of breath, down the staircase.
Brigid/Aiofe, Morgan saw with relief, was now clothed in combat rig and carried two M-16s. Uniforms were plentiful as the Celtic forces were beginning to trust to the magic of nakedness. Morgan was glad that Aiofe had chosen to cover Brigid’s disturbingly beautiful body. The glowing copper limbs and firm breasts were not designed with combat in mind, and he would have found her nudity an uncomfortable complication.
“Hurry!” Cunneda shouted, plunging Morgan back into reality. The nobleman beckoned to the trio to enter the car.
Greenfeld and “Brigid” complied without questioning, but the stoic Patrick remained outside and extended a large, sealed packet to Connach.
“My Lord Connach,” he began without expression. “General Cador has just arrived through the Mirror terminal and has taken command here by order of the Council.”
Morgan watched Connach’s face fall, then harden as teeth were clinched. The prince listened in silence.
“The Ten wish you to return to Verulamium at once and assume the title of High Chief of all the Free States. Glassus and Llandaff have resigned from the Council in protest over the war, and the Ten are concerned that the government might collapse if you do not return to exercise strong leadership.”
“To Cernunos with the politicians!” Connach snapped jaw thrust forward in anger. “We are going after the boat. The Council can lead itself for a change.” He leaned his long torso out of the car in a belligerent manner. “What about you, Optio? Are you coming with us, or have you switched your allegiance to the House Cador?”
The non-commissioned officer colored, but said nothing. He looked from his prince and met Morgan’s eyes. He nodded once in response to Morgan’s half-humorous wink, one professional to another.
The noncom stepped into the car. “I am with you, my Lord.”
“Good,” the High Chief of all the Free States said, closing the car doors, already having dismissed the unpleasant incident from his mind.
At the same instant, Morgan felt the car begin to roll as Cunneda touched the stones that completed the machine’s instructions. The car whined into the darkness, speeding its occupants toward their linked and separate fates.
Morgan closed his eyes and contemplated their chance of success. They were not very good. Even with the extra rifle brought by the altered Brigid and with the firepower represented by Greenfeld and Patrick, four M-16s and two pistols with half loads did not seem like enough to take on a Vik sea base. Still, he knew well that audacity had won battles before.
The cushion beside him sank and he felt the soft pressure of hair against his face. “You are wounded,” said a voice that was nearly Brigid’s.
He winced as supple fingers pressed his injured shoulder, then he heard the ripping of cloth as she exposed the wound.
He opened his eyes and watched her examined the furrow plowed by bolt. There was concern on her face, and he knew that the feelings she had confessed to him were genuine. The genuineness did not make it more comfortable for him.
Without preamble, she brought her lips to his and kissed him passionately. The power of that contact nearly made Morgan lose consciousness, yet when her lips were removed from his, he felt recharged in a non-sexual way, more vitally alive than he had been a moment before.
“I love you, Kerry,” she whispered in her un-Brigid voice.
“I love you, Kerry,” Brigid told him with her own voice and kissed him again on the mouth.
Morgan’s head swam with the power that surged through him, every part of his body tingling with new strength.
He looked closely at the woman who had just kissed him. Her face was not working in madness nor were her eyes those of a frightened beast. The dark irises of those eyes were warm and reflected an inner calm. He reached out and touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers.
“Brigid?” He shot a quick glance toward Cunneda, but the nobleman was talking with Connach as if the question of Morgan and Brigid had ceased to be of importance to him.
“We may be called Brigid, if you like,” she said, placing her fingers upon Morgan’s “for we are now one in purpose as well as one in body.”
“And that purpose?” He was ashamed of the quaver that entered his voice. He looked quickly again at the others. No one looked in his direction.
She laughed softly and squeezed his hand. “The first is to free our people. The second is to heal completely this body and mind so that a virs nobilis from the Shadow Earth may have a fit mate.”
Again and Morgan looked toward Cunneda, then to Ian Connach. Neither man appeared to be aware of their presence. Greenfeld and Patrick were engaged in their own conversation. It was as if he and the possessed Brigid were not in the same car.
“The others....”
“Can neither see nor hear us unless it is willed,” she said leaning closer to him. “We are not truly invisible, just not important to them.” Her lips parted.
“Check your weapons!” Cunneda’s voice rang out, pulling Morgan back into the world he had to contend with first. “The next platform is our stop. Don’t give the guards time to react.” His voice was assured and firm.
He must have found his balls somewhere, Morgan thought, uncharitably. Still, he found himself examining the pistol he had reloaded from Connach’s pouch in response to Cunneda’s command. His own mouth felt dry and his palms began to moisten with perspiration. It was a normal reaction to the dangers ahead, and not a debilitating one. He flipped his eyes over each of the others, mentally checking their readiness. Cunneda sat at the console, his usually arrogant face grimly set. The palm of his right hand rubbed the frame of the handgun above the grip, but he betrayed no other overt signs of nervousness. Connach, seated behind Cunneda, was as anxious as Morgan was, by his outward appearance. He methodically released one hand and then the other from the M-16 he had taken from Brigid and wiped the gathering dampness on the legs of his pants.
Morgan could only see the backs of Greenfeld and Patrick’s heads, but Reged’s self-appointed chief rabbi and Morgan’s former guard both seemed steady enough.
Beside him, Brigid/Aiofe stood and clutched at the overhead bar with her free hand. Her knuckles were white with mounting tension, and Morgan suspected that the human half of her persona was afraid. It is one thing to shoot at a target and another thing to deliberately try to send another being to hell, while he is trying to send you to hell at the same time. Could she die, he wondered? Is she in mortal danger?
“Yes, Kerry,” she said in answer to his unspoken question, “those who inhabit flesh are as mortal as the flesh. If the body dies, so do we die.” She paused. “We are both of us, afraid.”
Morgan swallowed dryly. Aiofe’s confession did nothing to boost his own confidence. He glanced at the wan overhead light. “Can that be turned off from inside?” He asked Connach.
“Unfortunately not,” Connach admitted sorrowfully. “They’re automatic.”
“Use the evening prayer,” Morgan suggested.
Connach’s laugh was bitter. “These cars represent the technological side of us. These benighted lights are manmade, a human miracle.”
The platform lights appeared dimly ahead through the forward window.
“If everybody says the prayer at once, it might work!” Morgan urged.
“The lights are....” Connach started.
“What do we have to lose?” Morgan barked back. He took Brigid/Aiofe’s hand in his. “Oh Lord of light and darkness,” he began. Her voice joined in, then one by one, the others.
The brakes started to squeal as they reached the last line, “...and let thy darkness comfort me.”
A loud pop sounded overhead, and a strong ozone smell permeated the car as it was plunged into darkness. Ahead, a subterranean dawn raced toward them as the platform came into view. Morgan lurched to his feet and reached for the bar that ran the length of the car.
He could feel Brigid/Aiofe trembling through the metal and he brushed her cheek with his lips. “Thanks for hitting the light switch, Lady.”
Her face was damp with more than the humidity of the close compartment. He could think of nothing to say that could give comfort to a flesh-imprisoned spirit and her hostess. Right then, she was just another soldier, and it appeared as if she would be needed.
Through the darkened glass he could plainly see the Mercian station guards. They looked alert and agitated; their crossbows leveled at the slowing machine. One guard had positioned himself beside a farspeaker unit. He would have to be eliminated first so that the alarm would not go out. No one spoke in the car; no orders were issued. The noblemen had evidently decided that this battle should be fought in true Celtic fashion, every man for himself. That would be no good. Morgan drew a reluctant breath.
“Brigid and I will take the guard by the farspeaker. You others hit the one on the right. Fire as soon as the doors began to open.”
He heard Connach grunt his ascent. Cunneda would follow Connach’s example, however reluctantly.
Morgan touched Brigid/Aiofe lightly. “Ready?”
“Yes,” she replied in her Brigid voice. She sounded calm, reassuring him.
The doors began their unlocking cycle, and he edged forward, bringing her with him. Before the sections had parted far enough to admit an outstretched hand, Morgan had pressed the short barrel of his pistol into the outside air and fired. One enemy soldier was flung backward like a tossed sandbag and lay lifeless, pushed into a corner of the platform he was guarding. The dirty tiles beneath him collected the offering to Cernunos.
Then Brigid fired beside him. The explosion and heat from the M-16’s barrel barely entered his consciousness as the rhythm of combat took over. The farspeaker disintegrated into fragments, attesting to the practice the human part of her must have spent on the firing range. He was pleased to find that he had a soldier at his side.
Connach and Cunneda had fired at almost the same instant as Morgan, but their hurried shots missed the Mercian who remained on the platform only long enough to discharge his weapon at the two aristocrats. Morgan doubted that he had he delayed his departure even long enough to admire the fair sized hole he had punched in the car’s skin between the Celts before he fled up the stairs that led to the streets. He had decided, Morgan guessed that a slow to arm crossbow was not a fitting weapon to face the commandos’ bloody sorcery.
The Celtic Mirror Page 36