by Zoë Archer
Huntley almost said a prayer of thanks when he spotted the river that Thalia had mentioned, with a hill just beyond it, and halfway up the hillside, the welcome dark of a cave. The river’s waters were swollen from the rain, its banks flooded, but it did not look too deep to ford—yet. A few more minutes was all they had.
Huntley led the group as the horses struggled down the bank and into the river. The water surged around them, trying to pull them from their saddles and tearing at the horses’ legs. As they managed to reach the middle of the river, the air was filled with an almighty roar that even obscured the wind and rain. Huntley had been pulling the reins of the pack horse to get the terrified animal to move forward, and he looked up with a vicious oath as the roaring grew even louder.
Hurtling down the river was a wall of water. It moved forward with an unquenchable hunger, tearing up the few trees that grew on the river’s banks and pulling huge rocks from the earth and adding them to its arsenal of water, mud, and debris. But there weren’t only rocks and trees swirling within the flood. Huntley saw beasts, demonic combinations of animals with gaping maws and pointed talons, made of water. As they hurtled down the river, the beasts tore at the land with their claws and teeth, destroying and consuming everything in their path. Already frozen from the rain, Huntley was chilled further when he saw that these water creatures were headed straight toward them.
Thalia managed to get her horse across the river, maneuvering the animal skillfully through the surging water. Huntley’s mare was fighting to reach the riverbank, but the pack horse was too frightened to do anything besides pull on the reins and roll its eyes. The water was rising higher and higher, and now surged up to Huntley and Batu’s thighs as they both pushed and shoved at the fearful animal. The force was so great that some of their bags came loose from their moorings and were quickly pulled into the turbulent water and submerged. Huntley hoped they didn’t contain anything irreplaceable.
“Get to the cave,” Huntley shouted at Batu. “I’ll take care of the horse!”
The manservant shook his head. “I will help,” he yelled back.
Huntley cursed stubborn Mongols, but kept working. They both bullied the pack horse toward the shore, until it finally reached the riverbank, where Thalia grabbed its reins and pulled it behind her as she rode up the hill to the cave, moments ahead of the oncoming wall of water. Huntley was not satisfied until he saw Thalia ride into the mouth of the cave, then turn and wave back to signal her safe arrival.
He had no time to breathe easier as Batu’s horse struggled to reach the muddy bank, its head tossing wildly with fear and exertion. Huntley took hold of its reins and dragged on them hard, his arm burning. The horse was almost to the bank when the wall of water, and the beasts within it, struck.
He felt as though he was being slammed, over and over again, by columns of marble. Water surged all around, and he felt hundreds of claws tearing at him, trying to force him from the saddle. One hand on the saddle horn, and the other desperately gripping the reins of Batu’s horse, Huntley fought to stay mounted. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, he knew nothing beyond the rage of the river demons battling to drown him. His thighs ached in agony as he kept them clamped hard around the flanks of his horse. The only hope he had to survive was to move forward, out of the hellish river.
He dug his heels into his horse. It pushed against the current, sidestepping, and, after what seemed like ten lifetimes, the mare breached the water and made it onto the bank. Though Huntley felt as though his arm was going to fly out of its socket, he continued to pull on the reins of Batu’s horse. The animal burst through the water as the creatures within it continued to claw at its flanks, leaving marks on its hide. Batu bent low over the horse’s neck, urging it forward. They had nearly broken free of the galloping river when a talon reached out and plucked Batu right from his saddle. The man disappeared into the water.
Huntley immediately let go of the horse’s reins, barely noticing when it galloped away. He didn’t care what happened to the beast, but he had to find the man. Through the pounding of the rain and the rising water, he searched for any sign of Batu, barely daring to believe that the Mongol might still be alive. He shouted the servant’s name, trying in vain to be heard above the almighty din.
Thalia’s voice joined his. He turned in his saddle and was furious when he saw her beside him, on her own horse, calling for Batu.
“Get back to the cave, damn it!”
“I can’t lose him,” she shouted, and called Batu’s name again.
Under any other circumstances, Huntley would have forcibly returned Thalia to the cave, but a man’s life hung in the balance. He, too, shouted for the Mongol as they searched, their horses moving gingerly down the bank. Thank God that the wall of water had moved on a bit, the beasts inside as well, leaving churning floodwaters in its place. They called and called for Batu until their voices gave out, and Huntley was almost resigned to the fact that the loyal servant had drowned, when he felt Thalia reach over and grip his sleeve.
“There,” she shouted, pointing a little further downstream. “He’s there!” He followed her direction. It was true. Batu clung to the branches of a partly submerged tree that was moments away from being torn from the ground by the water. He looked exhausted, barely able to hold on for much longer. As one, Huntley and Thalia kicked at their horses and rode toward Batu’s precarious salvation.
They reached Batu, and Thalia managed to get him to release his grip on the tree, but not without prying his fingers loose from the branches. Huntley grabbed Batu’s waist and swung the battered man in front of him, knowing that the nearly drowned Mongol had hardly any strength left and would not be able to hold on without support. Huntley gripped Batu, holding tightly to keep the servant from sliding off the saddle and into the river. The horses were also worn out, and Huntley and Thalia weren’t faring much better. Huntley nodded at Thalia. It was time to seek their shelter.
With a final burst of effort, Thalia and Huntley pushed their horses enough to get them up the hill and into the cave. It was a blessed relief to be out of the punishing rain at last. Everyone slipped from the horses’ backs to the ground. Freed from the burden of their riders, the animals retreated to the rear of the cave, their hooves clattering on the rocky ground. Batu’s horse no longer made up the caravan, having disappeared in the storm.
From their vantage, they could see down into the gorge, where the river continued to rage. The banks had completely overflowed, and the river itself looked to have been changed from a quiet stream of a foot’s depth to a torrent over seven feet high. The storm kept at it, howling winds swirling around the mouth of the cave. What had been a relatively peaceful day had been torn to pieces by a vengeful, sentient storm.
Huntley held on to Batu, who could not stand on his own. Both Huntley and Thalia helped lower Batu to the floor, leaning him against the wall of the cave. The servant’s breathing was shallow and labored, his eyes closed. Thalia cast Huntley a worried look, and Huntley held up his hand to ask for patience. As Thalia carefully held the manservant’s lolling head, Huntley produced his flask of whiskey and dribbled a little of the alcohol into Batu’s mouth. Batu coughed twice, but managed to revive a bit.
Thalia, kneeling on the ground, sagged with relief. She said something to Batu in Mongolian, and he answered, smiling at her weakly. He then looked at Huntley, crouched to his left, and spoke again in Mongolian, before closing his eyes, completely sapped.
“He says that his English washed away in the river,” Thalia translated. “But he wanted to thank you for saving his life. And,” she added, “I want to thank you, too. You saved us both, again.” She fought to keep her eyes level with his. “You humble us with your courage when we’ve asked nothing of you.”
Huntley, battered, soaked, tired beyond comprehension, sank beside Batu. His legs stretched out in front of him while his arms hung limply to the ground. He wrung out his last remaining ounce of strength to tip the flask to his own mou
th, gratefully sipping at the warming whiskey. He offered the flask to Thalia. She took it and put it to her lips. Huntley closed his eyes. He didn’t want to watch her drink from exactly where his mouth had been.
“Now’s the time you repay me,” he rasped. When he heard the cap replaced on the flask, he opened his eyes. A slight flush stained Thalia’s white cheeks, but he didn’t know if it was a result of the whiskey or his demand.
“Very well,” she said. “Name your price.”
Huntley forced his arm up and took hold of her wrist as she was returning the flask. Her skin was cold and smooth under his grasp. Her eyes flew to his.
“The truth,” Huntley growled. “We don’t take another step further until you’ve told me everything.”
Fortunately, some nomads had used the cave to camp recently, leaving behind a decent-sized pile of dry wood that Huntley used to build a fire. The blankets were relatively dry, but their clothing was soaked, and they knew that if they wanted to prevent sickness, they would have to let the clothing dry near the fire. Huntley first saw to the horses, removing their saddles and packs. Afterward, Thalia shyly retreated to the back of the cave and removed her wet clothes, while Huntley and Batu promised not to watch. Huntley made himself stare at the fire, trying not to listen to the sounds of Thalia disrobing, but he could mark each garment as it was taken off: first the robe, which would uncover her shoulders and arms; then the boots and socks, revealing her feet; trousers next, peeling off of her legs, one, then the other. There was a moment’s hesitation, followed by the sound of smaller cotton items being removed. Great God, she’d taken off her underwear, too.
Her bare feet slapped gently on the rocky floor of the cave as she approached the fire. Huntley saw that she had wrapped a blanket just above her breasts, holding it up with her free hand while the other spread her clothing in front of the fire. He knew he shouldn’t stare, and there were other, larger issues to deal with, but he was moonstruck by the sight of Thalia Burgess’s bare shoulders, her slim arms and creamy neck. Her black hair hung down, as she tried to shield her blushing face with its dark curtain. She didn’t have the arms of a lady of leisure, and he couldn’t help but admire the small bunching of muscles that moved there as she arranged her clothes.
She eased down next to the fire, drawing the blanket tight around her. As she did so, he caught a flash of slender, strong leg and hoped that he was too tired and cold to let that affect him. He felt his body stir, his cock lifting. Apparently, he was going to have to be suspended in the middle of an ice floe to be unmoved by her. If only one were handy.
Huntley helped Batu to his feet, and the servant had enough energy to take himself to the back of the cave and disrobe. After Batu had returned, also swaddled in a blanket, it was Huntley’s turn to strip. It didn’t take long, and soon there were three groups of clothes drying in front of the fire. Huntley noticed that Thalia’s eyes kept straying to him and the parts of his body that his blanket showed. It was the same pattern, over and over again: her gaze would wander to him, fasten on him—his shoulder, the length of his arm—then, as if chastised, skitter away. Yet never for long. This repeated itself many times. He wondered how many partially clad men she had ever seen. Doubtful if any of them were built like a common laborer…or soldier.
“It’s hard to know where to begin,” she said, after they were all settled.
“Let’s start with that Norseman in the storm and the beasts in the water.” Huntley could hardly believe he was saying such words, but it had been a day that defied imagination, and seeing Thalia Burgess partially dressed was only one part of it. “Tell me what the hell that was.”
She stared at the fire, as if readying herself for his response, his disbelief. “The storm and flood were summoned by Mjolnir, the True Hammer of Thor,” she said after a moment. “Whomever wields it can call forth a storm that would tear Asgard from its very foundations. The rains it causes create a flood more savage than a hundred wolves. It was stolen from its sacred burial mound in Norway two years ago, but this is only the third time it has been used.”
“Someone found an old hammer in a pile of dirt,” Huntley said, “and just used it to try to drown us.” Patent disbelief dripped from his voice.
Thalia looked up sharply at him. “You asked for an explanation, and I’m giving it to you. Whether or not you believe me isn’t my concern.”
“Fair enough,” Huntley conceded. “Let’s assume that what you’ve told me is true. For now. Who stole this hammer?”
She tightened her jaw. “I’m not supposed to tell you this.”
“Think you can’t trust me?” Huntley scraped out a laugh that had no humor in it. “Sweetheart, I’ve been shot at, not only by bullets, but with metal wasps that punched through solid brick. I’ve been abandoned on the steppe, nearly struck by lightning, and come this close to drowning, and all in service to you and your mission, whatever the hell it is. I’m more trustworthy than the damned Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“I could tell you some colorful stories about him,” Thalia said with a tiny smile.
He wouldn’t be distracted by that enigmatic smile of hers, though he wouldn’t mind seeing it more often. “Some other time. Now, you were telling me about who took this hammer.”
Seeing that he would not give up, she nodded. “I think it would be best if I started at the beginning. Or as near to the beginning as I can.”
“You’re stalling.”
“It may be hard for you to believe, Captain,” she said after casting him an annoyed look, “but the world is filled with magic. Actual, genuine magic. What you saw today was just a hint of the power that is out there. That which we call myths or legends is, in fact, the lore that has developed around this magic. Including the stories about the Norse thunder god, Thor.”
“They write children’s books about him,” Huntley said, recalling some of the stories he’d learned in the dame school he had attended long ago.
“And to most people, the realm of magic is just that, the stuff for nursery tales and academic research,” she continued. “But it is quite real and quite dangerous. All over the world, there are repositories of this mystical power, objects imbued with magic, like Mjolnir, the hammer that belonged to Thor. These repositories are known as Sources. They can be found in every country, amongst every people. England, Scotland, Spain, India, the Americas. Even here, in Outer Mongolia.”
“If that were true,” Huntley cut in as his mind fought to understand, “then how is it that the world hasn’t been destroyed by power-mad dolts? And why don’t more people know about them?”
“Not for lack of trying,” she said. “But the Sources are kept well hidden to ensure that doesn’t happen. They are protected and sheltered from the world at large.”
Huntley thought for a moment. “By men like your father. And Morris.”
She nodded. “There is a group of men and women who seek out and protect the Sources, wherever they are. This group has been around for over a thousand years, but when the nations of Europe began to turn their eyes to distant shores, racing one another to create giant empires, the group became more organized. They had to ensure that the Sources were not taken from their native homes and exploited, not only for the sake of the local people, but for everyone’s sake.” She looked utterly serious, and grim, staring into the fire. “Mutual destruction would be assured if the great nations of Europe were able to harness the Sources for their own blind advancement.”
“That never stopped fools from trying,” Huntley added.
“And they do try,” she confirmed. “Napoleon’s escape from Elba would never have succeeded without the use of Nephthys’s Cloak, which shielded him from the British patrols of the island.”
“But he failed at Waterloo.”
“The Cloak was recovered before the battle.”
Huntley leaned back and considered. He had never thought himself to be very clever, had been an average student, and relied on his gut instinct when it came to soldier
ing. His instinct didn’t know what to make of the yarn Thalia was spinning, though he was becoming more and more aware that it wasn’t a yarn, but the truth. He felt the surface of reality growing soft and porous like an orange, peeling away to reveal a world underneath the one he thought he knew.
“Those men who killed Morris and attacked you,” he said as things shifted and moved into their new positions. “They’re in on it, too.”
“They are part of an organization called the Heirs of Albion.”
“Heirs, hm?” Huntley mused, thinking of the murderous, gently born piece of shit who murdered Morris and who led the attack against Thalia. “They are England’s chosen sons? Upper crust men who kill unarmed men in alleyways and assault women? I hate them already.”
She smiled ruefully. “Trust me, you will come to hate them more. The Heirs are one of the largest and most powerful groups who seek out the Sources for their countries’ benefit, and they don’t care who they step on, or kill, along the way. The Heirs will stop at nothing to ensure the supremacy of England, even if it means murdering their own countrymen.” Thalia looked at him guardedly. “But you’re a soldier. You have served Queen and country for many years. Perhaps you think the Heirs are in the right, that England should reign supreme over all other nations.”
“I served my country,” Huntley shot back, “but I never stood for bullying. I didn’t in the army, and I don’t now. That goes for men, women, and nations. It was them, the Heirs, who stole the hammer and used it against us today.”
She seemed relieved to hear his answer, though it galled him a little that she would’ve believed he sided with those blue-blooded bungholes. “Yes.”