by D R Sanford
“You look like you could use a rest,” Lugh said.
“No time to rest. Ferdiad told us the ceremony would take place at the full moon. I have to find a way out of here so I can stop Maeve.”
“The full moon is hours from now. You have time to recover.”
“Not down here. I’ll wake up on a spit, turning over a fire, if I close my eyes.”
Lugh sat beside Cullen, shoulder to shoulder. Cullen knew he should resent the familiarity behind the closeness, but didn’t have the energy to shift away. Besides, the warmth pulsing from Lugh eased the aches and pains he felt, soothed his thirst, and held a ravenous hunger at bay.
“Don’t worry about the lurkers in the dark. I won’t leave your side, and nothing of this earth will touch a hair on your head.”
Cullen swallowed his disdain for the father he never knew and drifted off to dream of a future yet to come. A dream filled with light, laughter, and love.
—Chapter 27—
RISE
Hands and ankles tightly bound with zip-ties, Ferdiad had a difficult time staying upright as the Jeep bumped along a wooded trail. With every hole or rut that Joseph bounced over, he shifted awkwardly and crashed into the vehicle’s roll bar half the time.
Ferdiad knew these trails like the back of his hand, having traveled them innumerable times in the past. Whether by foot, horse, or truck, he could navigate them without the aid of lights.
Especially with the benefit of a full moon. It shone above in a clear sky, neighbored by millions of stars. He’d always enjoyed the view out here in the rarefied mountain air, where the stars appeared close enough to touch. Tonight, however, would be a night he’d rather forget.
Nothing good could come from betraying the cause he’d sworn to lead. Maeve’s threats were all too real, though. Should he choose to defy her, both he and Jenny could look forward to lifetimes of agony. And, until Lugh could figure out how to make Maeve’s death permanent, Ferdiad wasn’t taking any chances with Jenny’s future.
Another bump and Ferdiad’s knees rammed into the backs of the front seats. Now he had no doubt that Joseph was intentionally hitting all the rough spots. He’d have to teach the punk some manners if Ferdiad lived through the night.
They drove along the outer edge of the oak grove, the place of Maeve’s bastardized reincarnation ceremony. He could feel its pull in his bones. Newer than any of the groves from the Old World, this one located in Cruacha’s fertile mountain valley had been in use for hundreds of years. His queen had made world exploration a priority long before Europe’s famed rulers sent wayward peacocks who couldn’t sail from one end of a washtub to the other without getting lost or shipwrecked.
Together they set out to map the unknown world, crossing plains and scaling mountains in one of the most grueling lives he’d ever known. Natural resources abounded in the West, and Ferdiad related well to the tribes they discovered. Of course, it didn’t hurt that everywhere they went, Maeve ensured his safe passage by possessing a local tribal elder.
Eventually, the Shoshone led them here and she’d been satisfied with the valley’s connection to the universe. They planted the first oaks with their own hands and ventured thousands of miles in order to return to Maeve’s empire. Her patience was incredible, her foresight aided by centuries of contemplation. Only in the last one hundred years or so had Ferdiad noticed her decline into madness.
Driven by her urge to conquer, the Megalith families spanned the globe, consolidating power in secret or by force. With a clear image of the world’s geography in place, Maeve demanded more of them all. Advances in science and industry leapfrogged each other until she’d bled every ounce of mystery from modern life.
Ferdiad mourned the loss of days gone by, of subjugated tribes and nations once proud of their history and fiercely protective of their lands.
He feared Maeve’s next step in Man’s evolution and what she meant to put in motion here, but someone else would have to take on the fight.
They came to a stop at the cave’s mouth, the northernmost entrance to the catacombs beneath Cruacha. Gary turned in the passenger seat, a pistol aimed at Ferdiad’s brow. Joseph angled in, producing a folding knife, its blackened steel almost invisible in the night.
“Alright, old man,” Joseph said. “Fergus gave us instructions to ferry you here. He’s already down in the crypts, making sure no one has breached the gate holding back Lugaid’s mongrels. The closed circuit cameras showed it was all clear, but he wanted to check it out anyway. He’ll pass you through so you can hunt down whatever remains of your crew. Remember, bring back Houltersund. Maeve wants proof that he’s been taken care of, so either give him a solid beat-down and walk him out or drag his carcass back up here.”
He gestured to Ferdiad’s legs, saying “Prop your boots up on the console now, so I can cut your legs loose.”
Ferdiad complied, wondering why they judged the removal of his restraints to be a good plan in such an enclosed space.
“And don’t try anything fu—”
A heartbeat after Joseph sliced through the zip-tie, Ferdiad kicked out with his freed legs. The soles of his feet struck Joseph’s knife hand, forcing it backward and narrowly missing Gary’s face. The latter reflexively pulled away and tugged the pistol with him.
In the split second the two were caught off guard, Ferdiad planted his feet on the Jeep’s floorboards and jolted forward, looping his enclosed wrists over Gary’s head and wrenching the man out of his seat.
Gary tumbled into Joseph, a mass of limbs and bitter curses. Ferdiad stood in the topless vehicle and heaved his bulk into the front seat, sandwiching his two guards beneath his knees. While they struggled to get out of each other’s way, he fumbled with Gary’s belt until he found a folding knife similar to Joseph’s.
In seconds, Ferdiad had full use of his hands and feet, just in time to fall out the driver’s door as Gary so smartly reached for the door handle and caused a human avalanche.
The three sprawled across the dewy grass, temporarily disoriented from the abrupt fall. Gary reached his feet first, and Ferdiad lunged at his mid-section, crushing the man against the Jeep’s front fender. Grabbing a handful of hair, he drove Gary’s face into his rising knee.
With a few seconds purchased, Ferdiad spun on Joseph and loosed his sledgehammer fists on the smartass’s upturned head. After the sixth blow, and his opponent’s apparent unconsciousness, he felt confident that Joseph didn’t pose any further threat.
He turned his attention back to Gary, the silent member of his escort. The bodyguard sat against the front wheel, nursing a broken nose and hurt pride. Lucky for him Ferdiad held the Maine family in such high regard. Otherwise both of them would be in the same condition he’d left the other four from the lobby scuffle.
“You weren’t planning on sending me in there with any weapons, were you? I suspect Maeve, or perhaps Lugaid, gave you orders to keep me unarmed? Just in case I’d turn them on you first. Am I right?”
Gary scowled over the ruins of his face, everything below the bridge of his nose covered in blood. Ferdiad spotted a few missing teeth in the front also. That would explain the sharp pain in his knee.
“Personally, I don’t like the idea of confronting the reincarnation of Cúchulainn with my bare hands and sharp wit. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll just relieve you of some gear and find my own way downstairs. Any objections?”
Gary replied with a one finger salute that Ferdiad took to be agreement. Leaning over, he struck out with a jab and cross combination that left Gary senseless and set about collecting anything he could to gain an advantage over Cullen.
After he finished his task and delivered Cullen to Maeve’s doubtful mercy, he’d have to speak with her about improving the troops’ respect for their elders.
***
A soft glow pulsed within the lichen that clung to the tunnel walls and ceiling. Cullen woke feeling as though he’d been cocooned inside the mountain. Lugh was nowhere to be seen.
Not that
he was hoping to run into his father on a mission to recover his stolen wife, but Cullen figured the man could have stuck around for a few words.
How long had he been asleep anyhow? Cullen checked the watch at his wrist, 2:14 am. Less than an hour until Maeve stripped his unborn child from Nora’s womb. He hastily popped a flashlight between his teeth and gathered everything he could.
By the last count, there were well over one hundred troops left at Maeve’s command, and he’d require some serious firepower to clear his way to Nora. The notion of him fighting his way through a wall of gunfire made Cullen’s sphincter clench and his heart rattle in his chest. Live or die, he sought only to hold Nora in his arms once again so she would know he’d never given up on her.
A pack at his left hip and an HK carbine held firmly in his right hand, Cullen took a deep breath and headed back to the main shaft. The body of the soldier he stumbled on was gone. A few feet above the shaft floor, peering around the corner, were two luminous eyes. Cullen thumbed the carbine’s flashlight and pierced the darkness ahead, but the eyes had disappeared.
Cautiously, he rounded the corner, aiming down the corridor. The eyes appeared again, just outside the range of his light. Apparently alone, the creature blinked in the darkness, keeping track of his whereabouts. It didn’t count for much, he thought, but if they wanted to make a meal of him they could have done it while he slept. Hopefully Larkin was fairing as well without aid.
Cullen backed up a few steps, then turned and loped down the shaft toward Nora and the small army of men between them.
***
Larkin’s sense of direction had been totally compromised with all the frantic turns his quarry had taken while hunting him down. Soon after garroting the first unlucky soul, they’d become uneasy, thinking one of their number was lost. Once they lost another two, however, they came to the realization that they were the hunted.
Of the original six, only one remained. The unit had been easier to keep track of when hobbled by their own panic and foolish decision to stay together. All he had to do was key in on flashlights sweeping back and forth, stay out of range until one let his guard down, and strike. Now, Larkin found himself straining his senses for any hint of the final soldier’s location.
Other than a few winding passageways, the subterranean tunnels connected at right angles. More than once, Larkin crossed the main shaft during his hunt. Heel to toe, he stalked the pitch black maze, eager to check the final soldier off his to-do list.
The bullet struck Larkin before the suppressed report reached him. Tumbling to his right with a hole through his left shoulder, Larkin scrambled along the wall until his groping hand discovered an opening. He rushed into the shelter and continued until he found another intersection.
Turned to the left. Crouched against the wall, pressing his thumb into the wound to determine its severity. A probing finger on the backside confirmed that the bullet had passed straight through. He shut himself off from the pain. The damage to his muscles would limit movement, but didn’t hamper him too much.
Larkin gathered himself and took off in a sprint, bared knife in his right hand and the occasional flicker of a flashlight in the other. The soldier would undoubtedly expect him to put distance between them rather than circle around. He’d be damned if anyone ever sent him running.
A brief flash of his light showed Larkin a branch to the left. He took it and charged directly into his prey, sending them both to the ground.
Larkin lashed out with the knife but found empty air. In such close proximity he could see and feel the man beside him but just couldn’t find a hole through his defense. Clenched hands and feet struck out from both sides, inflicting little more than bruises, until Larkin felt the sharp sting of a knife’s edge along the tricep of his wounded arm.
So, he’d run into someone experienced in close combat.
Considering his current list of injuries, Larkin danced backward to get out of range. His panting breaths mixed with his assailant’s. For a passing instant, Larkin thought about the pistol on his hip, a simple solution to their game of cat-and-mouse. The unseen soldier had resorted to the same when firing on him in the shaft. Perhaps he could let his high standards slide for once and duck out the easy way.
No, that wouldn’t be any fun.
“Where’s your weapon?” Larkin asked.
“In my hand, same as you,” came the reply.
Larkin’s hand shot out, hard and fast from his hip. Judging by the location and distance of the voice, he only needed three full turns. The satisfying sound of the knife’s point lodging in flesh, accompanied by a descending gurgle, confirmed solid contact.
After drawing the sidearm he detested, Larkin flicked on the flashlight in his left hand and leveled the beam on the hunter-turned-hunted.
“Stick right there,” he said, plucking an identical tanto knife from the soldier’s loosening grip and setting off in the direction of the main shaft.
***
The string of lights terminated at a heavy iron door. Cullen tested the latch, but it wouldn’t budge.
Thinking about the swarm of cannibals at his back, he butted his head against the barrier in frustration.
A pent up scream escaped his lips. Retreating through a mile of bloodthirsty darkness, only to climb an elevator shaft, battle through and unknown number of Cruacha’s defenders, and double back toward the oak grove made his stomach burn. He’d never be able to do it in time.
Just as he was about to turn and run in the direction he’d come, Cullen heard a bolt slide within the door’s frame.
He stepped back to the dimmer light between ceiling bulbs, smashing a couple along the way to spread the blanket of shadows around him.
Much to his surprise, a lone figure swung the creaking iron door on its poorly maintained hinges. Cullen recognized the bald head and silver beard of Fergus ducking under the header.
“Was that you, Cullen?” Fergus called out, scanning the tunnel. “I’m alone, just so you know.”
A glance over the tall man’s shoulder confirmed it. An empty, well lit chamber expanded behind Fergus.
“Over here,” replied Cullen, stepping forth with his weapon trained on Fergus’ unarmored chest.
“There you are. The boys in the security office reported your approach on the door there, but if I’m telling the truth, I hardly believed them. Just how did you get past the Subs?”
“Subs?” Cullen asked.
“That’s what I call them. The subterranean guards. They don’t really guard anything, of course. We do more to ensure they won’t get out than they do to keep us secure. I have no idea how Maeve can sleep upstairs with those creatures roaming around down here. Why don’t you step over on the other side here and leave that experience behind you?”
Fergus waved him in, yet Cullen found it hard to trust the man. He didn’t feel the warning tingle at the nape of his neck with Fergus, but he wasn’t about to take any chances.
“Put your weapon down first,” he commanded, pointing the muzzle of his carbine at Fergus’ holstered sidearm.
The big man chuckled, a deep rumble echoing from his chest.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing really. Here, take it. It will show you something about Maeve’s trust in me.”
Fergus released the strap on his holster, pinched the Colt with his thumb and forefinger, and stretched out to place it in Cullen’s open hand. Cullen let the HK hang at his side and covered Fergus with the Colt.
“So what’s your point with the pistol and Maeve’s trust?” Cullen asked hastily.
“Uh, let’s see,” Fergus said, side-stepping away from the heavy door’s hinged side. “Do me a favor and fire a round in the space between the open door and the tunnel wall behind it. That will minimize any chance of a ricochet. Not that we need to worry about that.”
“Why?”
“Just do it, and you’ll see what Maeve had planned for me.”
Keeping an eye on Fergus, Cullen
took aim at the gap and fired. He practically watched the bullet drive into the corner. The recoil and report that followed it was no more violent than a hand clap.
“Go ahead, empty the magazine if you don’t mind.”
Cullen did as he was asked, firing seven more rounds into the gap and across the side of the door facing them. Bullets bounced off the iron panels, doing no more damage than rocks thrown by a strong arm.
“I don’t get it,” Cullen said.
“Nothing to get, really. Maeve’s security demanded I turn in my weapon before speaking with her in person earlier. They swapped my magazine with custom rounds. All primer and no charge. Not a chance in hell I would live through a confrontation against either side.”
“She betrayed you.”
“Winner, winner, chicken dinner,” he sang. “Now will you step inside so I can lock up?”
“I suppose so,” said Cullen, lowering his carbine and crossing the threshold behind Fergus.
They were alone in the chambers beyond. Torches fed by lamp oil burned on the walls. Wide, arched openings led into antechambers on either side. From his view of the side chambers closest to them, Cullen identified large sarcophagi in the center of each room, encircled by niches carved out of the walls.
“Where are we?” Cullen asked.
“These are the crypts of the patriarchs, established long ago as the western hemisphere’s official resting place. Every shell I’ve been born into on this side of the world has been interred here, below the oak grove.”
“That’s kinda creepy, don’t you think?”
Fergus laughed again, the kind of chortle you’d expect to hear from Santa Claus.
“Most definitely, young man. This is not a place that I frequently visit. In fact, I’ve come here many more times as a dead man than I have when alive.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make light of your tradition. It’s just sort of…”
“Creepy.”