by Alma Boykin
“No, this isn’t all of it,” Rachel cautioned McKendrick. “There’s something more, something,” and she frowned at the map. “Here,” pointing to a little town, not far from Snowdonia National Park.
“Capel Curig?” the Scotsman read. “What’s there?”
“Not in the town, sir, but nearby,” Rachel corrected, staring off into the distance. “There’s a Roman ruin on a farm just outside the town, but around the ruin is something else older again . . .” Her voice faded.
Sergeant St. John groaned. “Not Romans again, ma’am?”
The xenologist’s nose wrinkled and her mouth twisted at the corner. “No, not revived Romans this time, Sergeant. Something alien and something old . . .” Once more she left the sentence unfinished. McKendrick looked over the top of his glasses, but the woman didn’t appear to notice, so lost in thought was she. A commotion in the hall brought her out of her reverie, and soon McKendrick had something new to sigh over.
“Hey! Get out! Shoo!” an angry voice called and McKendrick heard a horribly familiar “caw, caw!” followed by a swish like a broom. The door stood partly open and a raven arrowed in, followed by a determined army corporal wielding a mop. The bird circled to land in front of the redhead and the corporal froze.
“I’ll deal with this, Corporal,” McKendrick said and the man backed out of the room.
The raven cawed again, walked over the map and tapped where Rachel had pointed. St. John muttered something and Rachel extended a hand towards the corbie. It gave a little bow before stepping onto her hand, letting her pick it up. “So, bird of the Morrigan, you agree with me, do you?”
“Caw!” She set it down again. The bird hopped back over to the general’s seat.
McKendrick glared at the raven, who stared right back. “I suppose introductions are in order. This is Knox. Knox, these are,” and he pointed and named off the people sitting and standing around the room. Tadeus Przilas looked very confused, but held his tongue. “Przilas, get a scout party assembled to go to Capel Curig in two hours.”
“Yes, sir.”
O’Neil’s laptop chimed and he glanced down at the incoming message. “Ah, I think this is what you were wondering about sir.” He held the computer so the others could see the image on the screen. It was more cell-phone video, judging by the poor quality and bouncing, and it showed trees absolutely covered with black birds.
Someone was narrating in a language most people in the room didn’t know, but Sergeant St. John interpreted. “The birds appeared last night and have been quiet, but the speaker is nervous. She says it reminds her of a movie and she’s called the wildlife people to come and see what’s going on.” The sergeant pointed to the place on the map that Rachel and Knox had highlighted. “It’s two kilometers south of Capel Curig.”
After the others had left, Colonel Przilas caught McKendrick’s eye. “Sir, I’ve served with the GDF for about eight years now and I’ve never seen anything as weird as this. With all due respect,” and he gestured towards Knox, who was busily poking around for interesting bits of whatever.
“I’m regular Army, Przilas. All this is unbelievable, except that it’s happening. But I agree, weird is definitely the correct word. I trust you’ve read Shakespeare?” the Scotsman inquired, rescuing a pen from Knox’s beak.
Completely perplexed, the American finished collecting his materials. “A few of the major plays and some of the sonnets, sir. Why?”
“You might read the first act of ‘the Scottish play.’” He quoted, “When shall we three meet again / In thunder, lightning, or in rain?” The general officer swept out of the room followed by the raven, leaving his befuddled executive officer staring.
“These people have been cooped up on a small island for far too long,” he muttered. Come to think about it, the Japanese he’d worked with in the GDF also seemed a bit strange. Who was that major who had sworn that there was a dragon working for her branch? Przilas shrugged and went off to collect people for the requested scout.
Capel Curig straddled old Roman and post roads. If the weather had been clear, McKendrick and his people could have seen the peak of Snowdon, or as the locals called it, Yr Wyddfa, and the adjacent highlands. Instead, the earlier sun had faded behind more high clouds as the second part of the storm system approached, while a haze cut visibility. He decided to go along with the scout group, and the general shook his head at the mass of black birds swirling up from the trees beside the road. The two vehicles proceeded as close to the old Roman site as they could get before stopping, and Sergeant Lee helped Commander Na Gael out of the troop transport. She limped heavily until she’d walked a few paces, apparently stiff even from the short ride. McKendrick caught up with her and St. John easily.
The rest of the scout had stopped back at a now-disused slate quarry, one of thousands in the slate belt of Wales and Cornwall. Someone had reported “strange lights,” and swore that it was not alcohol or local jokers at work. It would be a logical place to find cover, since the Roman site—at least on the map—was far too exposed to observers. McKendrick had also noted a Bronze Age chamber or barrow tomb in the small nature park near town. Well, McKendrick mused, you could hardly turn around without tripping over an archaeological something-or-other in this area—people tended to reuse the same terrain features over time, so it probably meant nothing.
Back at headquarters, Captain Maria de Alba was going through the records of odd happenings to see if there were any old reports of meteors or other extraterrestrial arrivals from Egypt, the Arabian Peninsula, or the rest of Southwest Asia. “Of course, the lost kingdom of Atlantis could surface in the Empty Quarter and no one would notice or report it,” Lieutenant Eastman had sighed. Two years before, the Saudi government had firmly rejected the GDF’s assistance with ejecting sentient plants, and it had cost them dearly. Not that they seemed to have learned much, since according to quiet rumor the religious authorities were still trying to sort out how alien invaders fit into Sharia law and whether they had to be given a chance to convert before being eliminated.
McKendrick wrenched his thoughts back to where they belonged, which was in northern Wales, sorting out alien birds and whoever controlled them. “Manx One,” someone inquired from behind him, “why haven’t they attacked us yet?”
“Because we’re being led or herded somewhere,” she answered, drawing unhappy murmurs.
“At least ‘is time we know it’s a trap,” the first voice informed someone else, and McKendrick glanced back to see Sergeant Lee, Boer One, shooing along one of the corporals. The words didn’t reassure his commanding officer one whit. Then McKendrick frowned, looking off to the side.
He caught Lieutenant Eastman’s eye and signed for “pivot and watch.” The junior officer and his men swung to the side, and Eastman’s eyes flashed open wide as he signaled for his people to take cover. The trunks of the bare trees on a slope just north of where they walked had an odd look to them, as if they were rippling slightly, and McKendrick remembered the moonlit shadows the night before. He picked up his pace, joining Manx One on the edge of an open field.
It looked like a typical pasture, the dips and rises of the uneven surface covered by the recent snow. But there was a pattern, or rather there were two: the rectangular Roman area and a larger ring surrounding the partly-excavated settlement. St. John—acting as Manx Two—and Manx One, stood on the raised edge of the circle, staring at a shimmer that resembled hot air rising off pavement. “I think they are expecting us, ma’am,” the Welshwoman observed, reaching a hand into her pocket.
“Concur.” Na Gael had unbuttoned her coat and now leaned on her stick, watching. She turned as McKendrick came up on her blind side, and he noticed that she’d left off her usual contact lens. “Shall we go find out who’s been sticking their fingers into your business, Command One?” Her faint accent was gone, replaced by a lilt not unlike that of a native Gaelic speaker. What in the blazes is going on with her?
The stocky officer took a deep
breath. “Yes.” Behind them, the other members of the party spread out, weapons ready, alert for an attack from any direction. McKendrick started walking forward, hopping over the shallow trench inside the ring. As he did, his skin tingled. Manx One swore from behind him.
“Damnit, I hate static-based shields. Frizzes my fur—and it itches,” the woman complained, sounding like her usual self. But her eye remained locked on the figures approaching them from the other side of the excavation. “Feel free to drop your holoprojection,” she invited loudly.
The shimmer stopped in place and did as she suggested. The five bipedal individuals stared at the humans and vice versa. The creatures’ covering—skin, or whatever served the same purpose—seemed to flow and shimmer like faintly rainbow-tinted mercury. Their heads were smooth, with three openings that McKendrick took to be eyes, plus a vertical slit below them. He couldn’t see any obvious joints on the visitors’ legs and three arms, and he wondered how they moved. The creature on the end closest to him stepped forward, and McKendrick watched fascinated as the entire leg bowed forward, rather than bending at a set joint.
“What are they?” he asked Na Gael, who shrugged.
“We are called Quiforlo,” the apparent spokes-creature announced. “You are?”
McKendrick replied, “General James McKendrick. What are you here for?” Might as well find out before telling them to leave, he thought.
Behind him, a commotion arose as a cloud of ruchava moved over the soldiers, the birds crossing back and forth in the sky a few meters over the humans’ heads. A few people pumped shotguns, ready to fire if the birds attacked. “We were invited to assist in reclaiming this land from error,” the Quiforlo said.
“How thoughtful and generous of you to accept,” Na Gael said. “In exchange for whAGK!” Her voice choked off as something flashed from one of the aliens’ hands and she dropped onto one knee, bending forward. Before McKendrick could go to her aid, the woman planted her walking stick and got to her feet, eye blazing in fury.
“Manx One, are you alright?” McKendrick demanded.
“She is unharmed!” This was not supposed to be the case, judging by the Quiforlo’s upset tone.
The person in question bared her fangs. “The Azdhagi make truly superior body armor,” and she gestured to the charred front of her black turtleneck jumper and the faint sheen of very dark blue beneath it. “Now answer the question.”
“We want power. The life-energy from Quifor has faded, but that of this planet is strong and sweet. You humans make no use of it, but we can, and will,” the Quiforlan told the listeners.
McKendrick didn’t understand. “Manx One, what is he, er, it talking about?”
“He’s talking about the very energy of the land and living things of the Isle of the Mighty. That which gives the land its strength and keeps chaos at bay,” she replied, the lilt even stronger in her voice. “Humans do not use it directly but other creatures native to Britain do.”
“Which matters not to us. We will take what we need and leave.” McKendrick, and he suspected Rachel as well, had his doubts. Especially as the first ruchava attacked the soldiers protecting the trio’s backs.
“You will leave now or we will eject you,” McKendrick told the Quiforlo, although at that moment he wasn’t exactly certain how.
“How? You lack our technologies, our strength, and our allies,” the creature sneered, calling his bluff. The quintet advanced on the three soldiers. Na Gael pulled something off her belt, flipped a switch, and tossed it to McKendrick. As he caught it, he heard her voice inside his head saying, «Push the top button. It’s a small energy shield.» He did as suggested just as the quintet began firing something.
Na Gael and St. John had dropped to the ground and the xenologist began half-singing, half-chanting something. “Thou, who noble Cambria wrongest / Know that Freedom’s cause is strongest / Freedom’s courage lasts the longest / Ending but with death!” she sang out, and a shimmer formed in front of the two women, blocking the shots, much like the device the general now held. Behind him, the ruchava lifted off, and out of the corner of his eye McKendrick saw with relief that his people were scratched but unharmed, and a number of dead birds lay on the ground outside the circle. Na Gael got to her feet and pointed at the aliens as Knox called, punching his way through the swarm of ruchava to land on McKendrick’s outflung arm. The man stared at his advisor. Her expression and body language changed, as if another person inhabited her skin.
McKendrick couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing—or rather, his mind didn’t want to accept the sight of Commander Na Gael overshadowed by something. Knox spread his wings and called and the woman turned, looking straight at the bird. She seemed to have grown darker, with an inhumanly cold expression in her single eye. Knox dipped his head and she nodded in return, then turned back to their opponent.
“You will leave the Island of the Mighty,” she demanded of the alien, her voice sounding older and stranger than McKendrick had ever heard.
“We will not,” came the reply. “We have been invited across the threshold and will stay.” As the entity spoke, Knox fluttered up to perch McKendrick’s shoulder and Sergeant St. John stepped forward and to the side, seeming to brace herself for something.
“Your ‘invitation’ came not from the land or its people. Go,” Manx One repeated. Or rather, as McKendrick realized, the thing controlling her repeated.
“We refuse. Your time is gone, your vessel is crippled, and newer generations have come to take your place. Surrender,” the Quiforlo ordered in turn, as the wind swirled up some of the loose snow around the two groups.
McKendrick sensed something gathering its strength, and he reached up to steady Knox against a stronger gust of wind. As he did, a series of images poured into his mind from the raven’s—white lines of nearly immortal and absolutely amoral power flowing around all of Britain, connecting ancient sites, long-dead volcanoes, great cities, and roads as old as man. A being that watched, never quite as asleep as it seemed as it guarded its territory. And a name—not the true name, but one that served. “Logres,” the human whispered as the raven called and Rachel raised her hand.
“So mote it be,” the Power stated with her voice. The wind stiffened, changing directions to blow from the north, and a darkness like a shadow enveloped the small woman, gathering in folds before pouring from her toward the interlopers, filled with cold, death, the grim strength of Romano-Britons facing the Saxons, and the bitter heat of winter battles fought by humans and by the land itself, slamming into the aliens and their minions. A cold so bitter as to be hot—hot like the ancient volcanoes under McKendrick’s own home in Scotland—streamed into the enemy. McKendrick alternated between visceral fear, incomprehension, and awe as the aliens screamed, writhed, and collapsed, their “birds” dropping to the ground like a black feathered rain.
Morgan St. John had begun chanting in a strange language that resonated in McKendrick’s mind. He released his grip on Knox and ducked as the raven launched, cawing and screaming in triumph, while the wind died and the snow settled. A fierce exultation that his ancestors would have recognized as battle light settled around the officer and it took all his will not to call out, to match the raven’s fierce cries. St. John’s voice quieted and Manx One turned back to the watching humans. She raised her hand and Knox landed, allowing her to hold him as a falconer would.
Nothing remained of either the smart aleck eccentric or of the quietly depressed Wanderer in the person who regarded the two humans. An ancient presence stared out from behind the pale face, as uncaring as stone and just as hard. “Dispose of the foreigners,” it demanded. Then the presence vanished, Knox launched himself and Manx One collapsed. Sergeant St. John lunged forward, anticipating Logres’s departure and catching enough of Rachel’s weight to lower her into the snow in a controlled fall so she didn’t hit her head on something.
“Lord God Father Almighty, what was that?” McKendrick demanded as he knelt in the snow. He
didn’t really want to touch her, but forced himself to check his advisor’s pulse and breathing. She seemed to be fine, although her skin was very cold.
“Well sir, I’m not your god but I can answer your question,” St. John offered, shaking her head as she buttoned Na Gael’s coat collar and pulled up the hood to try and help keep the woman warm. At McKendrick’s nod the NCO took a deep breath. “That was Logres, the personified form of the energies that flow in and through Britain. My people call it the Winter Power, and the Crone, or Cailleach, is the face we give it.”
“But what was it doing to Manx One?” McKendrick thought aloud, “It was as if she was possessed.”
The mousy blond sergeant nodded soberly. “That’s exactly what it does, sir. Manx One is the Winter Guardian. Logres uses her as its eyes and voice when it wishes to defend Britain. I don’t know how it picked her or why she accepted the Guardianship.”
McKendrick stood as some more of the Regiment’s soldiers made their way to the earthen ring. “And the Summer Guardian is a person born of the Isles and who partakes fully of all of life,” he said meditatively, drawing on what Knox had given him. “Her opposite in many ways.” Then he shook off the mood. “None of which makes sense, but that seems to be part and parcel of the GDF.” The Scotsman sighed to himself, then began giving orders.
Rachel came around a quarter of an hour later, with very little memory of what had happened. “My mind shields itself and hides when Logres moves in,” she explained, after listening to everyone else’s version of what happened. McKendrick didn’t blame her for not wanting to be around whatever had taken her over, although the matter was something that opened a whole new box of worries. Ah well, he had more immediate concerns. The group sent to the slate quarry had indeed found traces of something, but at the same time that Logres literally overpowered the Quiforlo, whatever had been in the pit arced, smoked, and shattered. “It was the damndest thing,” Captain ben David reported later. “Corporal Henry was down next to the thing and she didn’t feel a buzz or shock, even as the structure cracked and glowed with St. Elmo’s Fire.”