A Scandal in Battersea

by Mercedes Lackey

  As short as the hobs were, the monsters generally didn’t notice them until it was too late, and one or the other had gotten up underneath their target and chopped a leg nearly in half or executed a perfect gutting strike.

  As for Robin—she got glimpses of him bareback atop what appeared to be an enormous black stallion. She knew better than to think it was anything of the sort, of course. A pooka, most likely. He was flanked on either side by two more of the beasts, which fought viciously, lashing out with all four feet and snapping flesh and bone with their teeth. And flanking them were creatures that looked to be half man, half tree; as tall as the trolls, with hair and beard of leaves, clothing of bark, and rough skin that seemed half skin and half bark. The creatures seemed impervious to stings, bites or claws, and waded into the monsters, tearing them apart with their bare hands. Green Men! She’d never seen one, only heard of them, mostly in the Arthurian tale of Gawaine and the Green Knight.

  And yet . . . the monsters still kept coming.

  Nan struck, and struck, and struck until her arm felt like lead and her breath burned in her throat. She longed for a chance to rest, but the never-ending torrent of monsters gave her no chance. And just when she was certain things could not get worse, the strange chant of the seven girls rose several notes and took on a tone of urgency.

  She looked up from the struggle in front of her for a moment . . . and was sorry she had.

  The Queen herself had appeared, slithering through the open portal.

  The hood of its robe had been cast back, and its eyeless face was in full view. It was the color of rancid butter; its head was covered with a nest of ever-moving tendrils, like wire-thin worms. Where its eyes should have been were shallow pits; it had no nose, either, just two slits in the middle of its face. In place of a mouth, there was a round, lipless orifice ringed by needle-like teeth, like that of a lamprey.

  It moved with a curious gliding motion, and what emerged from the sleeves of its robe were not arms. Just as Nan had guessed, what served it for upper appendages, and probably lower ones too, were something very like tentacles.

  A thing with a head like a skinned panther charged at her, and Nan was forced to take her attention off the Queen. When she looked again, it had not moved; it seemed to be surveying the battlefield. Looking for what? Nan couldn’t imagine.

  But that was when she noticed it was surrounded by an almost-invisible bubble. Like the shields against magic she had seen the Elemental Masters produce—except that this shield, as evidenced by the sparks when bullets struck it, was impervious to physical attack.

  Oh no—how can we counter that?

  It appeared it was not sharing its protection with its underlings, but that was the only bright spot in this increasingly hopeless fight. She wanted to try and back out of combat to see if her mental powers could be used as a weapon, but she couldn’t do that without putting people behind her at risk.

  Superficially this was a stalemate. In actuality they were going to lose unless something changed in their favor. The enemy had an ever-renewing source of monsters. They only had those who had assembled here.

  In desperation, Nan reached out to the only person who might be able to come up with an idea at this point.

  She sought for, and found, Holmes’ mind. He had exhausted all the ammunition for his revolver and had resorted to his singlestick. We have to shut the portal! she thought as hard as she could at him. And then a thing with giant, razor-sharp crab-like pincers lunged for her, and she spent the next couple of minutes dueling with it for her life.

  It was Roan who finally dispatched the beast from underneath; as it collapsed, she glanced up again to see the creature’s shield momentarily drop, as it lashed out a tentacle to ensnare Grey. “Grey!” she screamed in warning—not that she could have been heard over the riot—but Grey was smarter than that, and dodged up into the ceiling where it couldn’t reach her as Neville dove in and slashed at the extended tentacle with his beak in passing. He scored a hit too, severing the tip right off. The creature uttered a piercing, keening cry of pain, which redoubled as a handful of bullets struck it. The shield snapped up again immediately, and the monster howled its rage and pain.

  So, you can be hurt! Evidently some of the soldiers had seen that as well, for a ragged cheer came up from along the walls.

  But being wounded only infuriated the thing more. It howled, which seemed to have the effect of redoubling the other monsters’ fury. That was when Karamjit’s guard dropped for a split second. He was hit badly, collapsed, and was pulled back to safety by the psychics behind him—and a moment later, Agansing was knocked unconscious and likewise rescued.

  They’re doing it. They’re wearing us down. Taking us out of the fight one at a time.

  We can’t win this. . . .

  Despair flooded over her for a moment. Then her resolve hardened. Then we’ll end it like the three hundred Spartans.

  But just as she steeled herself for a mad rush at the monsters, the strange high-pitched chanting, which had carried right over the sound of the fighting, faltered.

  And the monsters paused for a moment; every gaze, whether friend or foe, turned toward the sheltered area behind the Queen Monster where the seven girls had been chanting.

  One girl sagged in the arms of the rest. Next to her, Holmes was jabbing a hypodermic needle into the neck of the next, while Puck waited beside him on the huge black “horse,” standing guard so no one could touch him. Neither the Queen monster nor her minions seemed to understand what he was doing, nor how to counter it.

  It was over in moments; the last girl collapsed and Puck pulled Holmes up onto the back of the pooka—for that was obviously what it was now that Nan got good look at it—and the three of them executed an impossible leap that brought them to the side of the room and the line of soldiers there.

  And the void vanished.

  With a hellish screech, the Monster Queen sent her minions hurtling back into battle while she turned her attention to the prostrate girls. But Holmes must have given them an enormous dose of morphia or some similar drug; no effort the Queen expended revived them for more than a second. Furious now, the Queen turned back to those opposed to her, just as Sarah caught Nan’s attention with a frantic wave.

  Nan fended off four of the legs of a spider-thing and opened her mind to her friend’s. Busy!

  The spirits say that the girls’ souls are in the Queen.

  So?

  They’re still alive in the Queen. Otherwise their bodies would be dead, too.

  Nan snatched Roan out of the jaws of something like a crocodile covered in hair and blinded it with a slash across its eyes so that it went blundering into the mob, snapping at friend and foe alike. She knew what Sarah was saying: kill the Queen, free the girls’ souls, and they might return to their proper bodies.

  Or might not. Right now, the Queen was the least of their worries, even if they could figure out some way to bring that shield down. And right now, even though reinforcements were no longer pouring through the portal every minute, the odds were still not in their favor. Well, ask your spirits if they can pry the girls away from the Queen. That might weaken her.

  She had no more time to spare for Sarah; they had already lost Agansing and Karamjit, and that only left five fighters to guard the psychics. One of those was down, too. How many soldiers had they lost? And what about the magicians on the other side of this mob? How were they faring? The Queen might not have her reinforcements, but she could still win this battle, and once they were all out of her way, she could probably reopen the portal herself—or wait for the girls to revive—or turn seven of the patients or staff here at the hospital into more of her soulless minions. There had to be at least seven of them who were virgins.

  The Queen suddenly uttered a piercing cry that did not sound like a command, but Nan’s attention was captured by the sound of a horn on the other
side of the room, where she had last seen Holmes and Puck.

  It was the call of no ordinary horn. It held in it the lonely howl of a single wolf searching for his pack, the wail of a fury looking for vengeance, and the triumphant cry of a victorious elk. It made the hair go up on the back of Nan’s neck, and the small part of her that was not already terrified by the situation they were in gibbered with horror and demanded that she drop everything and hide.

  Because something as dreadful as the Monster Queen had been called, and would without a doubt answer.

  For Robin Goodfellow, Oldest of Old Things in all England, had summoned the Wild Hunt, and when one such as Robin calls, that which is called invariably answers.

  The last time he had called it in her presence, she and Sarah had been children, and he had ordered them to close their eyes as it arrived. She had no such luxury today; with body weary and aching, wounded, and sweat-soaked, she had no choice but to keep fighting. But there was no doubt when the Hunt arrived.

  The light in the room dimmed, the walls seemed to thin, then disappear, and they were all somehow standing, still fighting, in a snow-buried, mist-covered meadow. Nan somehow understood this was an echo of the meadow that had been here long before the hospital had been built. Confused now, the monsters spread out, and the Queen reared up to her full height, screaming unintelligible commands at them.

  And then, breaking through the mist, came the Hunt in full cry.

  First came the hounds—black as velvet with fiery eyes, they circled the monsters and humans alike, bellowing and baying in tones that made Nan want to clap her hands over her ears and sink to the ground lest she go mad. Then came twenty riders and their leader, all on horses as black as the hounds with similar eyes; they also circled the group and halted before Puck. Puck’s mount bowed before the one-eyed leader, and Puck saluted him.

  The fighting had completely stopped. The monsters appeared to have no idea who to attack, and the Queen seemed struck dumb.

  In fact . . . they weren’t moving at all. And neither were most of their friends.

  That was when she realized that she couldn’t move either.

  No, she realized. None of us can move. The Huntsman has frozen us in place. This is his ground, and he can command us and everything on it.

  “Oldest of Old Things,” said the leader, in a voice like something coming from a tomb. “What is this that has come into our England?”

  “It is Death,” Puck replied steadily.

  “It is Wickedness,” Holmes stated, looking up fearlessly into the eye of the Huntsman.

  “It doesn’t belong here!” cried Nan from where she stood, whatever passed for the blood of these things running down her sword and dripping onto the ground. At least we can talk! “Huntsman, will you hunt? Will you drive these things out, or send them to their fate?”

  The Huntsman looked over the heads of all the creatures between himself and her, and she sensed she was being weighed and measured, and if she could have shivered, she would have. “And will you Hunt beside me until I release you, Battle Maiden?”

  Sarah gasped. “No—” whispered Memsa’b. Nan knew why. Since that day one summer when the Huntsman had claimed a murderous ghost as his prey, she had studied the Hunt, and she knew all about it. If you promised the Huntsman you would Hunt with him until he released you—you might hunt for an hour, or a year, or . . . well, there were those in his Hunting Pack who had not been released in centuries.

  But if this was what it was going to take—

  “I will,” she said, raising her chin as Neville flew to her and landed on her shoulder.

  “I Hunt too!” the raven declared, and the Huntsman laughed.

  “Well said! Hunters!” he called, making his horse rear and prance. “Bring the lady a steed!”

  She found that she could move again. Behind her, she heard Sarah whimpering. One of the riders trotted out of the pack, leading a riderless horse. Nan mounted into the saddle and settled her sword in her hand. “I’m ready,” she declared.

  “Then we fight!”

  The monsters unfroze. The Queen let out another one of her hellish screams, not at all disturbed by the change in her surroundings. And the black horse leapt, and carried Nan into the heart of the fighting.

  No longer confined to the space between the four walls of the hall at the hospital, both sides spread out, and the fighting broke into little groups. Now the psychics could come into their own; now that they could see targets clearly, they could concentrate on one whose opponent was faring badly, wrest control of the creature from the Queen for a crucial moment, and give the human a fighting chance. The soldiers had exhausted their ammunition and were laying about themselves with bayonets and swords, often helped by one or more of the Hunters. Nan was surrounded on all sides, but the horse, whether it was demon or spirit or merely another form of Elemental, was as much of a fighter as she, and laid about itself skillfully with hooves and teeth. The Hounds of the Hunt did their share too; fearsome as they were, they were no match for the monsters one-on-one, but they could harry and distract, and so they did, like dogs keeping a great boar at bay while human hunters moved in with rifles and spears.

  She lost all track of time, lost track of everything except the next monster to be cut down. Until suddenly, unexpectedly, she chopped the head off a thing like a stick insect with huge, venomous jaws, to find there were no more foes. Or at least, there were none in her immediate vicinity.

  The Huntsman appeared at her side, out of nowhere. “So Battle Maiden, can you throw a spear?” He offered her something that looked more like a javelin than a spear; she took it and hefted it, and nodded. “Then yonder is the author of all this trouble.” He pointed at the Queen, still protected by row after row of her monsters.

  Nan shook her head. “She’s protected,” she protested.

  “Not from this.” The Huntsman raised the eyebrow over the eye not covered by a patch. “But it is my daughter’s and no man can wield it, only one who is willing to give all for her fellows can give it strength, and only the true-hearted can send it to the mark.”

  Doubt struck her, as she balanced the spear in her hand. Was she “true-hearted”? And what would using this weapon of the Huntsman’s cost her? This was a “fairy gift”—but did it come with a hidden price? What did his words cover? What had he not told her? True, it might kill the Queen, but would it cost Nan her own life? Or would it doom her to ride with the Hunt forever?

  It doesn’t matter what it costs me if our world is safe again, she decided. This has to end now. And she hurled the spear with all her might.

  It flashed like a bolt of black lightning across the distance between her and the Queen. It pierced the barrier that protected the Queen with a sound like the tearing of the world in two.

  And it buried itself in the Queen’s chest so deeply it protruded from her back.

  Everything, and everyone, froze.

  The Queen opened her mouth as if to shriek, but all that came out was a gurgling cry. She wavered in place for a moment, then, bonelessly, she collapsed to the ground and did not move again.

  Her monsters shrieked in a thousand different voices; shrieked in panic, and tried to flee. But the Hounds were ready, and so were the Hunters, and while the humans fell to their knees in exhaustion, or leaned against one another, they hunted down and slew every last one of them.

  When the final monster had been pounded into the ground by the hooves of one of the horses, the Hunt gathered itself around the Huntsman and Nan. Outside that circle waited Puck, Sarah, the Watsons, and Holmes, all of them staring numbly at her, none of them daring to move or speak.

  I never thought I would see Sherlock Holmes speechless.

  “A good Hunt,” the Huntsman said, with satisfaction. “A good kill. And now, Battle Maiden, what shall we do with you?”

  Her heart pounded with fear, and she
was afraid that if she did not keep control of herself she would burst into tears. But she had made the promise, and she had known what she was doing. She would have to honor it. “Whatever you will,” she said, steadily. “I vowed to Hunt with you until you released me. I’d like Neville to stay with me, though, if he wants to.”

  “Hurrrr,” said Neville, raising all his feathers, making it very clear they’d have to pry his talons off her shoulder and bundle him off in a basket before he’d leave her.

  The Huntsman laughed. “And what would I do with another raven? My own are trouble enough. Give me back my horse, Nan Killian, and go with your friends in peace. It was a privilege to see you fight.”

  Feeling lightheaded with relief, she dismounted. And no sooner had she set both feet on the ground than the meadow faded, then the Hunt faded, and last of all, the Huntsman faded away, leaving them all standing in the decimated concert hall.

  The place was an absolute wreck. Piled high with the bodies of the monsters and their Queen, bullet holes riddled the walls, and there was nothing left of the furnishings, sparse as they had been, that was bigger than a finger. And Nan looked around, and suddenly realized that, although there were many wounded or injured, no one had died.

  She sat down abruptly where she was, as Sarah picked her way around the edge of the room to get to where the seven girls were still lying in their tangle of bodies. Nan was wearing the ordinary men’s clothing—riding jodhpurs, a heavy woolen tunic, boots, and a helmet borrowed from the soldiers—that she had been wearing before her transformation. Sarah, too, was back to her divided skirt and jacket. And Neville and Grey were their normal sizes. They both flew down from the rafters, Grey going straight to Sarah’s shoulder. Neville landed in a clear spot, hopped over to her and begged for a lap. She made room for him, stroking him, too exhausted to feel any relief.

  How in the name of God Almighty are we going to explain all . . . this?