by D R Sanford
“Yep, I guess creepy is the word,” Cullen said, padding around the vast underground tomb, spying engraved names of the ancient warriors Maeve couldn’t bear to live without.
She must have loved them once, he thought. Either that or she trusted so few that it was simpler to bind their fates to her own.
Black smoke from the lamp oil burned Cullen's eyes. He rubbed at the irritation with his free hand, blinking tears to flush them out.
"So, you're not here to kill me, I gather?" Cullen asked.
"Not at all. Believe it or not, I've been helping all along. After a brief consult with Maeve, and the discovery of my dummy rounds, I returned to the operations center and began a campaign of misinformation."
Fergus took a seat on a stone bench, making room for Cullen to join him. "I deactivated the camera feeds on the second and third floors, blaming the interruption on your team. Also, it's amazing what a ten minute delay of calling up reinforcements can do. Where are the others, by the way?"
"I wish I knew. Everyone split up to carry out their own objectives. Either the original plan or improvised," he said, thinking about Alex.
"So, you have no one to back you up?"
Cullen grew uneasy again. Where was this leading, and how much information should he divulge? It didn't matter much anyhow. He'd been floating down the creek without a paddle for some time already.
"Not that I know of. Just you, I guess."
"Ah, about that," Fergus said, rubbing his brow. "I would stand with you if I didn't have my family to think of. For the same reasons you are here, I have to step back to let you play this out."
"Your family?"
"Yes, Cullen. I may not have a wife, or even children that I know of in this life, but there are thousands of Fergussons in the world. If Maeve decides I have become openly defiant, she will declare war on my family line. Duty bound to carry out her orders, families everywhere would dedicate resources to wiping Fergussons from the map.”
“What makes you so sure they won’t join your side?”
Fergus sighed deeply, his scrunched lips disappearing behind his beard.
“Fear. For centuries that woman has sown the seeds of fear, and its roots grow far into the soul. Even in the younger generations. Lugh chose you wisely, a man whose only fear is losing the wife and child that Maeve has taken away. Put yourself in my place, and you may be able to forgive me.”
“What’s to forgive, Fergus?”
“I know I’m of little use, that’s all.” Fergus stood, clapping dust from his hands and slapping more from the seat of his pants. “Warning you is the best I can do at this point. You see, our friend Ferdiad is on his way, not to aid you but to kill you.”
***
Alex returned to the suite, flustered after completing a reconnaissance circuit. Robbie sat on a couch, humming to Amelia. Laeg and Val looked ready to jump out of their skin, fairly trembling with the need to escape Cruacha.
“Twenty men just abandoned their guard of the elevators, all heading down,” he reported. “I slipped by and caught a view of the lobby below. Several teams gathered around two women I’m sure are Maeve and Nora, then exited the building toward the oak grove’s path.”
“Time for us to beat it out of here,” said Val, hoisting a pack and slinging that rapid-fire cannon over his shoulder.
The four of them exchanged glances, trying to weigh each other’s commitment. Val looked astounded, growing defensive against their collective scorn.
“What? You don’t actually think we have a snowball’s chance in hell of mounting an attack on nearly two hundred professionals, do you?”
“It’s not just Nora whose life is at stake, Val,” Alex noted, pointing to the floor beneath them. “She may be the main attraction, but the newborns will follow immediately afterward. We can’t stand by while Maeve casts their souls to oblivion and pulls a new one from the ether.”
“What about the mothers on this floor?” asked Robbie. “We can’t leave them behind.”
“Whoa, that was not part of the plan,” said Val, his face growing red.
“Tell us one moment since we’ve walked into Cruacha that has gone according to plan, Val,” said Laeg.
“That’s just it. Why compound the problem? Four of us are alive right now. If we get out now, we can keep it that way?”
Alex scratched his head, taking a moment to calm his passion before the conversation grew more heated.
“Val, even the original plan had an extremely narrow window for success,” he said. “The primary objectives included the safe removal of Nora and Amelia, but our secondary goals were to strike a blow against Maeve. To show her and those around her that she wasn’t safe anymore. If I recall, that was a significant factor in your involvement. Now, given the epic diversion you’ve already created, and the nearly complete shift of resources centered on Maeve, we may have a unique opportunity to slip away with Maeve’s treasure and do the right thing at the same time.”
“I’m in,” added Laeg. “Besides, I’m not ready to give up on Cullen.”
“Momma came here to get her baby and kick some ass, and I done got my baby,” said Robbie in a southern drawl, stepping forward, and wrapping Amelia into a bundle on her back.
“I’d expect that from Larkin, not you,” said Laeg.
“Well, he’s here in spirit I guess. Don’t count him out, either.”
“Fine, I’m in,” said Val. “How do we fit a passivist druid, baby-toting mother and the two of us into a new plan?”
—Chapter 28—
REDEEM
Cullen gazed up at Fergus in disbelief, unable to come to terms with the old man’s statement.
“Come again?” he asked.
“Maeve turned him. She applied her special brand of blackmail, promising lifetimes of hell for him and Jenny if he refused to hunt you down. I can hardly blame him, Cullen. That girl meant the world to him.”
“So, I’m supposed to kill a friend in order to pass? Couldn’t you have just led me out of here?”
Fergus shook his head, saying, “He’s already on his way. The two men ushering him into the catacombs broke radio contact just before I answered the door for you. Your best bet is to face him in these halls rather than in the darkness beyond that door.”
Crestfallen, Cullen slumped on the bench. He couldn’t imagine facing the man who prepared him. Not with the intent to kill.
“If you’re thinking he’ll come down here halfhearted and spar with you before patting you on the back with best wishes, you’ve got another think coming,” Fergus said, the baritone of his voice rumbling in the hall. “Failure is the same as refusal to Maeve. If you underestimate Ferdiad, you will die here.”
“It’s just—”
“What part of this conversation are you having trouble with, Cullen?” Fergus bellowed.
Rough hands gripped the slings on Cullen’s shoulder and hauled him to his feet.
“As they like to say in these parts, ‘cowboy up’. Training is over.”
His eyes glimmered with mixed emotions. Sadness, worry, and anger vied for control.
“Good luck,” Fergus said and turned away.
“What will you do if you pass him?” Cullen called after him.
“It’s not me Ferdiad’s looking to kill, boy.”
The tall, old man faded into the darkness at the hall’s end, turned a corner, and was gone.
Could he really kill his mentor? He’d have to. The only other option was to lie down and die. Perhaps he could rig a trap, and then slip by without harming either of them.
Looking around for inspiration, nothing came to mind.
He settled on a solution ideal for its simplicity but cowardly for its execution. Running along the chamber’s walls, Cullen pulled torches from their mounts and cast them to the ground near the entrance. They sputtered and died or spilled their contents along the granite floor, creating a wall of flame he hoped would confuse Ferdiad long enough to get a bead on him.
Cullen settled
into a niche at the far end, assuming a prone shooter’s position. Confident of his concealment, he waited anxiously for Ferdiad to appear. A quick glance at his watch ramped his anxiety to a new level. Only minutes remained before three o’clock came and went.
“Cullen!”
The shout startled him. Carrying from the other side of the waving flames and black smoke, its location escaped him. He squinted through the carbine’s optic sight. Looked for any sign of human movement.
“You’re in there aren’t you, Cullen?” Ferdiad’s voice returned. “I see Fergus let you in. Fair enough. Did he warn you that I’m coming for blood?”
Cullen answered with silence, loath to give away his position.
“Step out so we can make this quick,” he whispered to himself.
“Alright then. Have it your way.”
Seconds passed. Then, as though it burst from the smoke, a black cylinder sailed through the air and clanged on the rock floor.
Reflexively ducking away from the impending explosion, Cullen didn’t expect the ensuing flash of blinding light and the extremely loud bang that left his senses reeling. Unsure of his location, Cullen rolled onto his back and pushed with his feet into the recesses of the burial chamber he’d occupied.
He sensed the cold wall at his back. Focused on remaining silent while the light sensitive cells in his eyes resumed their normal function and the fluid in his ears settled.
Not a sound from the central chamber. Still, he had to assume Ferdiad was out there searching every nook and cranny. He blinked repeatedly. Tried to stop the dark niches across the way from dancing.
A crunch of rock from the near corner. Ferdiad was close, right on top of him. Cullen jumped to meet Ferdiad, his carbine rising to unload. As he swung around, Cullen heard a swish in the air and fell under the crushing blow that came out of nowhere.
“Time is all you needed, Cullen,” Ferdiad spoke in the dark overhead.
The HK was ripped from his hands. Cullen heard it rebound off the chamber’s iron door. Ferdiad’s voice circled him in the small deadly space.
“I should have put ‘ambush’ on the list of techniques for you to learn. Never hole up in the farthest corner. Any suspecting prey will know where you’re hidden once they’ve cleared the remaining hideouts.”
In a panic, Cullen drew the Kimber .45 and unloaded into the darkness of the crypt. His fingers failed him during the reload, costing him precious seconds. In the time it took to strip the empty mag and fumble for another, Ferdiad bore down on him, lifted him like a bale of straw, and sent him flailing into the central chamber.
His head rapped against the granite floor. The pistol flew from his grasp. All Cullen had to defend himself with was the sword he’d taken from Loch. The one that pressed painfully into his left hip. He rolled desperately and pounded his feet toward the fire. Reached the flames. Turned to face his friend while sliding Loch’s blade from the improvised sheath.
Ferdiad charged at him, all three-hundred fifty plus pounds of him. A raging bull on the loose.
A telescoping baton in his right hand, Ferdiad lowered his head and plowed through Cullen before he had a chance to bring the sword to bear. Burning oil licked at their clothing. Set patches on fire from head to toe. Cullen had more to worry about than flames, though. Besides, they were doing a pretty good job of dropping and rolling.
Cullen wound up several feet away from Ferdiad, cornered between the fire and a dead end. Gasping for breath, he made it to his knees in time to deflect a blow from the baton with his forearm. The snapping bone caused new flares of pain. Luckily, his breath returned. Driving upward, straining every fiber in his thighs, Cullen rammed the back of his head under Ferdiad’s chin.
It was nothing compared to the wounds Ferdiad already dealt out, but it bought Cullen a few seconds. Snatching his blade from the ground, Cullen bounded over the receding flames to gain more room.
Ferdiad trailed him, rubbing his jaw and tapping the baton in his direction.
“Not bad for the first round, boy,” he said. “I’ll say this now, Cullen. I regret having to meet you this way. Lugh built an entire vision of his Maeve free world in my head, and you were the catalyst. I’d still welcome that new age, but not at the cost of my Jenny’s peace. Lugh can raise a new dog to lead the way.”
Cullen tucked his broken arm behind his back, leveled the point of his sword at Ferdiad’s approaching chest. The man just never stopped. When he came within range, Ferdiad loosed a barrage of overhand blows against Cullen that he found difficult to defend. Held in one hand, he strained to move the heavy sword into place with barely enough time to counter the light baton in the big man’s hand.
“I can do this all night, you know,” said Ferdiad, not the least bit winded.
All night. The passing of time brought Cullen back to the goal at hand. Not surviving Ferdiad’s attack. Beyond all else, he must reach Nora before the ceremony’s completion, or he’d lose her forever.
He ducked a blow aimed at his head and dove under Ferdiad’s guard. Cullen plunged the extended blade all the way to the hilt below Ferdiad’s ribs, wrapped his aching left arm partway around the man’s waist, and ground the balls of his feet into the rough granite.
Ferdiad’s balled fists pounded down on his back, but Cullen held on tightly. Wrenched the sword right and left, opening the wound. Hot blood spilled over his hand. The beating on his shoulder blades lessened, but still he felt the blows tearing muscles and dislodging bones.
Numbness spider-webbed down his arms, past his elbows, and stung his fingers. Cullen lost his grip on the sword and Ferdiad’s waist. Changing tactics, Ferdiad broke Cullen’s hold and hooked him under the armpits. Cullen flew through the air like a rag doll, caroming off the arched entrance of the nearest crypt.
Ferdiad shuffled in his direction. He looked down at the sword hilt protruding from his abdomen. Pulled it out with a squelching sound.
Cullen wriggled in the dust. Shook his limbs, praying for his strength to return. Unyielding stone cut him off, and Cullen glanced up at the sarcophagus occupying the center of the chamber.
Stopped in his tracks, pools of blood forming at his feet, Ferdiad dangled the sword’s pommel in his fingers. He stared at the chamber’s outside arch with rapt attention. Ferdiad released his hold on the sword, letting it drop to the floor with a clanging echo.
“You sure can take a beating,” Ferdiad said. “I like your conviction.”
“It didn’t have to end this way, Ferdiad.” Even speaking made him wince in pain.
Ferdiad’s laugh rattled in his throat.
“Funny thing, boy. I think this is exactly how it was supposed to end. You have to pick your battles, you know.”
His legs collapsed suddenly, and the big man fell to his knees, sending up a cloud of dust.
“I don’t think I ever fought for anything worthwhile until tonight.” He spit a gob of bloody mucous from his lips. “Losing isn’t all that bad now.”
Cullen inched forward. Ferdiad whispered something that evaporated between them, and Cullen drew closer. Face to face so Cullen could see the fading light in his friend’s eyes, Ferdiad spoke again.
“Maeve fights dirty, that ruthless bitch.”
“I’m sorry, Ferd. She forced you to do it, I know.”
The big man shook his head, saying “Get her quick, and run like hell. She’ll find you, so be… ready,” he wheezed. “Decide now. Are you Cúchulainn, the Hound of Ulster and son of Lugh, or are you a man…”
“And if I’m just a man?”
“The man… doesn’t stand… a chance,” he trailed off.
Ferdiad’s eyes fixed on Cullen’s, flashed intensely with the final beat of his heart, and the soul behind them winked out. Ferdiad toppled forward. Rather than dodging to the side, Cullen embraced his friend, easing the descent.
Sadness competed with rage inside him. Cullen surrendered to the rage and felt a rising tide of energy wash over him. Ferdiad was right. Maeve and her arm
y would crush a simple man.
He searched for whatever had caught Ferdiad’s attention earlier and saw the man’s name precisely chiseled in a stone plaque above the crypt’s arch.
Walking around to Ferdiad’s head, Cullen bent low and grasped his collar. Straining against the dead weight, he dragged Ferdiad to the foot of his sarcophagus and the final resting place of his previous incarnations.
The press of time weighed more heavily on him. Cullen looked about the chamber, trying to find his firearms, but couldn’t spot anything in the failing light of spilled lamp oil. Instead of wasting more precious seconds, he retrieved the discarded sword and rushed to the iron door.
He withdrew the bolt and pushed the massive portal open a few inches. If Larkin still lived, Cullen wanted him to have a way out. Inadvertently freeing the horde of Subs never came to mind.
***
Ancient catacombs and hand quarried tunnels fell behind as Cullen passed into what looked like a long storage facility. Crates of all sizes were piled as high as the ceiling on both sides.
He rushed along their edges, keeping to the shadows, running on the tips of his toes in a whisper of movement.
Never had he experienced the force rising within him. So engulfed by the urge to confront his enemies was Cullen that he didn’t slow upon spying three soldiers guarding the foot of a stairwell leading to the outside world. A multi-paned window above the first flight cast shafts of moonlight on their figures, outlining them against their surroundings.
They spun on him too late. Charged with uncanny speed and agility, Cullen entered their triangle at one point, slicing through an unprotected neck. His momentum carried Cullen on to the next, and he reversed the sword’s edge to sweep the second man’s legs from under him.
Releasing the blade and twisting the forearm of the falling soldier until it cracked, Cullen took hold of the man's carbine and fired point-blank on the third before stray rounds caught him in the upper shoulder. He emptied the mag at the man, grimacing on the floor, clutching his arm.