Ghosts of Empire

by George Mann

  “Roland Horwood?” said the first man. He had an English accent of the sort that could only be achieved through years of boarding school education. Horwood let the moment stretch. The man coughed.

  “Look, we’re here to see a man named Roland Horwood,” said the second man. This one was American, with an East Coast drawl. “Is he here?”

  Horwood looked from one of them to the other. “Yes,” he said. “I’m Horwood.” He ran a hand through his hair. It was still damp. He hadn’t had time to wash or change, and he was still wearing the clothes he’d slept in. He smoothed down the front of his shirt. “And you are?”

  He could see the American man was beginning to grow impatient.

  “Peter Rutherford, from the British Secret Service,” said the first man, “and my colleagues, Mr. Gabriel Cross and Ms. Ginny Gray. An associate of yours, Sir Maurice Newbury, gave us your address. He thought you might be able to assist us with a rather pressing matter.”

  Horwood appraised the man with new eyes. The Secret Service. And visiting on Newbury’s recommendation, no less. He supposed he’d better hear them out. He stood back, beckoning them in. “Well, Mr. Rutherford, you’d better come in, then.”

  He ushered them through to the living room, cringing at the state of the place. He’d have been more embarrassed if he hadn’t felt quite so unwell. He supposed there was only one thing for it. “Drink?” he said, as the three of them looked for somewhere to sit. He hurried over to move a pile of books from an armchair so that the woman could sit down. She smiled graciously. He decided there was much to like about her.

  “No, thank you,” said Rutherford. The others echoed the sentiment.

  “What, none of you? Well, no doubt it’s terribly rude of me, but I’m going to have one anyway.” He grabbed a half-empty bottle of red from the top of the bureau and sloshed it into a glass, which he found on the coffee table amongst some abandoned teacups and newspapers. He drank it down thirstily, willing it to do its work. Then, realizing that his guests had taken all of the available seats, he pulled out a small footstool from beneath one of the other chairs and perched on that, meaning he was sitting a full head and shoulders lower than the others. “So, Newbury sent you, did he?”

  Rutherford looked at him slightly askew. “Yes. He said you were something of an expert in elemental magic.”

  Horwood couldn’t help but beam at the compliment. “He did? That’s very kind of him.” He met Ginny’s eye, and then looked away, embarrassed. “How can I be of assistance?”

  Rutherford took a moment to fill him in on everything they’d learned so far about the Russians, their unusual powers, and their interest in the London Underground.

  Horwood sat in silence throughout it all, listening intently. He didn’t know if it was the wine, or the sudden realization that these people held the key to helping him understand what had been going on with the avatar—why it had seemed so restless of late, and who had attacked it the other night—but he was starting to feel a lot better.

  “The Koscheis haven’t been seen since the war,” he said, drumming his fingers upon his knees. He was feeling agitated, excited. “But it was always believed that the order survived, slowly rebuilding. The rituals they perform, the power they harness—it’s primal, raw, fundamental. It’s not to be messed with.”

  “Oh, we have no intention of messing with it,” said the American. “We just need your help to know how to stop it.”

  “To stop it…” Horwood leaned forward on his stool, elbows on his knees. It wasn’t particularly comfortable. “There’s very little you can do to stop it. There are wards I can show you, patterns you can mark on your skin to help disperse the elemental energy if it strikes you, but the only way to stop it is to fight fire with fire, so to speak. Or rather, fire with water.”

  “Sir Maurice explained a little of this,” said Rutherford. “He said it was possible to fight back by harnessing the opposing elemental force.”

  Horwood nodded enthusiastically. “Yin and Yang. Fire and Water. Life and Death. Yes, that’s correct. But it takes someone of great ability to wield such power. The Koscheis have trained for years, and these rituals are all but forgotten in the West. I can think of no single person with the capacity to do what you’re suggesting. And there are what—five, six of them?”

  “At the very least,” said the American. “Probably more.”

  “Then I can see no means by which you can oppose them. Protect yourselves, yes, but go against them head to head? You’re lucky to have survived the encounter.”

  “We were rather hoping you might volunteer your services,” said Rutherford.

  Horwood gave a nervous laugh, which he immediately regretted for fear of revealing his cowardice. “I’ll help in any way I can, Mr. Rutherford, but please understand—whilst I’ve studied the esoteric arts, I’m no practitioner. As I explained, I can help provide you with protective wards, to understand the nature of what you’re up against, but I fear I’d be of little use to you in the field.” In truth, he was both intrigued and appalled by the notion of facing living, breathing Koscheis. The order was legendary—if morally questionable—but to see them wield such power would be magnificent.

  Still, there were other things he might do to help. Now that he had a fuller understanding of the threat facing London and the Empire, the reason for the avatar’s return, he might work to guide it, to help it root out the festering corruption in their midst.

  “Then what do you propose we do about these Koscheis?” said the American, interrupting his train of thought. It was an impertinent question—who was Horwood to tell the Secret Service how to go about their business? Nevertheless, he bit his tongue.

  “Look to their plans. Find out what they’re doing, and run interference. That’s the most effective way to combat an enemy such as this. Their rituals depend on accuracy. Get in their way, prevent them from seeing through whatever it is they’re plotting. Oh, and don’t allow yourselves to be killed in the meantime.”

  “Can you think of anything else that might prove useful to us?” said Rutherford.

  “There is one thing,” said Horwood. “A legend from Anglo-Saxon times. A pagan tale of the days when the beings of the otherworld walked amongst men, and all cowered in their wake.”

  “Go on,” said Rutherford.

  “In the early days of the seventh century, long after the Romans had abandoned London, the Anglo-Saxons founded a new settlement, close to the walls of the ruined metropolis, in an area that now encompasses much of what we know as Central London. They called this new town Lundenwic, and it soon became the center of trade and commerce in the region. As such, it became a target, too, a prize sought by many who would claim its treasures as their own.

  “So it was that an Anglo-Saxon dry, by the name of Aldwyn, raised an entity to defend the borders of Lundenwic against a Danish raid; an avatar of the ancient land, birthed from the soil of the town itself. This entity took the form of a great warrior, its living shell formed from twisted vines and branches, its spirit imbued by the will of the people it was sworn to protect—those of Lundenwic, who would see the Danes repelled.” Horwood moistened his lips. He had their attention now; they were all hanging on his every word.

  “It worked. The entity joined battle, fighting alongside the brave warriors of Lundenwic, and the Danes were unsuccessful, losing half their number before fleeing back to their boats. Aldwyn was heralded a hero. With the battle over, however, the entity returned to the soil: its shell withering, its spirit dispersing.

  “And yet it is said that the entity lived on, and lives on still. It returned again and again during the years that followed, defending Lundenwic against persistent attempts by the Danes to breach its walls. Indeed, throughout all of London’s history there are stories of its return; glimpses of the ‘Albion’ entity, which rises whenever it is needed to defend the people of Lundenwic, given form by the land itself, wild and elemental.”

  “And you believe this legend to be
true?” asked the American. Surprisingly, there was not a hint of scorn in his tone.

  “I…” Horwood paused, unsure how far to go. He didn’t know these people, after all, despite Newbury’s apparent assurances. “It’s hard to say. I don’t completely discount the notion, as others might. But if this entity, this ‘Albion’, were to rise, surely it would be at a time like this, when the nation is threatened by enemies from afar?”

  “I’d give my eye teeth for it to be true,” said Rutherford. “We could use all the help we can get.” He sighed. “Now, about those ‘wards’ you mentioned?”

  Horwood got to his feet, feeling awkward and gangly. At least his headache had abated somewhat—although another glass of wine would probably help. He crossed to the writing bureau. “You’ll have to give me a few minutes to copy them down,” he said, taking out a sheaf of paper. “Any small error, and they lose their potency. As I explained, it’s all about accuracy. Remember that when you make your own facsimiles later.”

  “Of course,” said Ginny. “Take your time. We appreciate all of your help.”

  Horwood walked over to the bookcase, and began searching the cracked spines adorning the third shelf. He knew it was there somewhere…

  After a moment he put a hand on the correct tome—the one he’d long ago annotated with drawings of counter runes and protections, filling the margins with scratchy illustrations gleaned from other precious manuscripts he’d been fortunate enough to examine. These books represented his life’s work—the sum of his research into the esoteric—but now, he couldn’t help but wonder if his greatest triumph was still to come. The avatar of Albion, the bestial thing growing in his garden—now he understood why it was here, why it had come to him. And soon he would set it free.

  Horwood carried the book over to the coffee table, swiping away a pile of old, well-thumbed story papers with his forearm. They crumpled in a heap to the floor, and when Ginny started forward to assist him, he raised a hand to protest. He’d deal with them later. They weren’t important now.

  He propped the book open on the table and spread the notepaper out before him, and then, having selected the correct symbols, began copying them down with a pencil. The others watched in silence as he carefully drew a triad of strange markings, before sitting back, holding the paper up to the light, and then finally nodding in satisfaction.

  “There,” he said. “Three protective wards. Copy them onto your chests and backs. These should help if you run into any more Koscheis. They won’t save your life, but they will lessen the potency of the Koscheis’ attacks. Just be careful they don’t rub off.” He handed the paper to Ginny, who folded it carefully away inside her jacket.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have rather a lot to attend to,” said Horwood, getting to his feet. In truth, he was anxious for them to leave, now that he’d heard everything of use.

  “If you think of anything else that might be of use to us,” said Rutherford, “ask for Gabriel Cross at the Clarington Hotel. Tell them the ‘Ghost’ sent you.” He handed Horwood a small white card, with a Central London address printed on it.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, shaking Rutherford by the hand. “Anything at all, and I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you for your help,” said Ginny. She, too, took his hand for a brisk shake, before turning to leave.

  “Until next time,” said the American, with a desultory wave of his hand as he strolled out of the door. Horwood grimaced, but didn’t reply.

  He watched through the open door as they trudged down the gravel path toward the road, from where they’d most likely catch a cab back to the city. He hoped he’d done enough to at least keep them alive while they waited for Albion to rise.

  He shut the door, turned back to the living room, and reached for the rest of the wine in the near-empty bottle.

  * * *

  After they’d gone, he sat for a while on the sofa, wondering if he’d done the right thing. How did he know he could trust these people? They’d come with Newbury’s recommendation, of course, but even that wasn’t really worth what it used to be. Newbury was old, now, and while he still kept his wits about him, he was no longer active in the field—at least not if it could be avoided. Could he really know enough about these Americans to be certain of their allegiance?

  Then there was the matter of Albion, and the avatar growing in his garden. He’d reserved that information for himself, at least for now. Not even Newbury was aware of that. And Horwood wished to keep it that way. This way, he could control it; keep it safe. This way, no one would interfere.

  He swilled the last of the wine around his mouth, and then prised himself up off the sofa with a groan. His limbs were aching, and he was dog-tired. The sudden vibrancy he’d felt earlier, while they’d been reciting their tale, had now diminished, and now he was overcome with lethargy once again, as if it were a kind of malady from which he had not been able to fully recover.

  He arched his back, trying to stretch away the aches. It was time for a stroll in the garden. He walked around to the kitchen, and out through the back door into the side passage. The afternoon had grown cold, and pale sunlight slanted through the clouds in thin spears, like the fingers of gods bestowing gifts upon the faithful. Yet there was a sharp, biting wind coming in from the east, a reminder of ill omens, of the storm still to come. He knew, now, of the threat that awaited them. The Koscheis had inveigled their way into London, bringing with them a dark elemental magic from abroad. No wonder Albion had stirred, fresh shoots poking through the soil like questing fingers, searching for life.

  He rounded the corner and entered the garden proper. Here, the lawn was like a crisp, emerald blanket, and the surrounding vegetation flourished with a rare vitality, encouraged, no doubt, by the presence of the avatar. He breathed in the scent of the wild plants he’d allowed to take hold here, rich with heady pollen.

  He crossed the lawn, ducking beneath an overgrown stone archway and down the short flight of steps to the lower level at the rear of the garden. Here, an oval-shaped bed of wild flowers had taken root, blooming in starbursts of color—roses, violets, poppies and chrysanthemums—all irrespective of the season and the weather. These plants were imbued with something more than natural, something ancient and primal. It had long been said that the rise of Albion heralded a period of rebirth and renewal; for Horwood, it symbolized hope, too—survival against the odds. Whatever the Koscheis had brought to their shores, Albion would rise to the challenge to defend them.

  The avatar was resting in its hollow, having returned to its natural, vegetative state. Its arms had intertwined with the branches of the trees around it, and it had extruded roots, burrowing into the soft loam in search of vital nutrients. Its consciousness lay dormant, awaiting the call to wake. It had almost healed, now—its broken limbs reformed, the holes in its chest knitted shut. Its head lolled gently to one side, inanimate, at rest. It looked peaceful, like a child. Could he really wake it again so soon?

  He supposed he had little choice. The Koscheis were here, and there were none but Albion who could defeat them. It had to rise once more, to defend the people of London. Without Albion, the Koscheis would surely claim dominion over the city, and from there, the entirety of the United Kingdom.

  Horwood stepped into the hollow, standing in the shadow of the great avatar. It was seven feet tall—taller, if its thorny antlers were taken into consideration. Its face resembled an approximation of a human being, yet androgynous, with a soft, elfin-like quality. Thorns and thickets, fungus and shoots sprouted from the back of its head, tumbling down its back like a mane. Its limbs were like branches; bundles of sinewy willow shoots plated in ancient bark. Deep inside its chest, its heart, visible amongst the tangle of brambles that served as its ribcage, was a single red rose, its petals furled into a tight, inanimate bud. This was what Horwood had come for. It was time to kick-start the creature’s heart.

  He leaned closer, nostrils filled with the rich, heady scents of damp ea
rth and fresh leaves. He peered between the brambles. With any luck, he should be able to reach inside.

  He sought out an appropriate thorn—one that was jutting from the avatar’s elbow—and steeling himself, jabbed his right index finger against it, hissing at the sharp pain. He glanced at the tip of his finger, to see bright blood welling at the wound.

  He shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. He’d never done this before—the first and only time the avatar had awoken, it had been unexpected, spontaneous. This time, he was forcing it from its healing slumber.

  Carefully, he wormed his hand between the brambles, pushing his hand deeper into the avatar’s chest cavity, until his hand hovered above the rose. Then, wincing as more thorns bit into his wrist with every movement, he rotated his hand so that his pricked finger was poised above the bloom. He used his thumb and middle finger to squeeze the tip of his index finger, coaxing droplets of blood from the small wound. It beaded to the surface, glossy and bright. He watched the beads gather, form one larger droplet, that, carried by its own weight, rolled slowly down the side of his finger, before dripping onto the uppermost petals of the rose.

  Swiftly, Horwood withdrew his arm and stepped back, waiting to see what would happen. For a moment, it seemed as if nothing would occur—as if he’d done something wrong—but then the rosebud began to slowly unfurl, petals easing themselves apart as he watched. Like an opening fist, the rose expanded, and then, just before it reached its full extent, it went into reverse, folding back on itself, petals curling in until they had once again formed a tight bud.

  Horwood smiled. He’d done it right, after all. As he watched, the petals unfurled once more, before retracting again. It repeated this process a number of times, gathering speed as it went, until it was opening and closing at a steady, regular rhythm, just like a beating heart.

  Horwood backed away slowly until he was outside of the hollow, looking in. The avatar had begun to stir, turning its head, snapping the roots that bound it, untwining itself from the supporting branches. Its eyes had begun to glow with a deep red light, like embedded rubies, glinting in the gloaming.