The Undying Legion

by Clay Griffith

  Malcolm’s exasperation with the child was fast coming to a head. He threw on his heavy greatcoat, patting his pockets to ensure Eleanor’s poetry book was there. He grabbed the box of ammunition and his satchel of supplies before he strode from the library. Charlotte remained on his heels as he made his way down the corridor and into the kitchen. When he passed through the door outside, she stopped at the threshold.

  “What happens if you need me?” she called out after him into the growing twilight.

  “I won’t.” Malcolm didn’t turn around so he wouldn’t see her pout. He continued to the stables. She was Hogarth’s problem now. He had more pressing concerns to deal with. Finally, there was a monster he was allowed to kill.

  Chapter Twenty

  White slivers of clouds passed across the stars. Kate followed the yellow glow of Simon’s lantern through the towering ribs of the skeleton church. Simon stepped around blocks of heavy stone long fallen in the collapse of the old chapel. Swathed in his long frock coat, he seemed no more than a grim shade in the night. Winston walked behind them, followed by another servant carrying shovels and picks. Ahead, a high, wrought-iron gate was hanging from a single hinge, tall spikes askew. Inside the fence were gravestones, some tilted and broken and colored black with age. Simon tugged the gate back with a horrid screech of old iron and strode into the field of tombs.

  He stopped before a sizeable cenotaph. It consisted of a broad granite base about four feet high, topped by a beseeching angelic figure. The base proclaimed Elizabeth Archer 1781–1822. Simon laid a hand on the monument and stared down at the sunken mound of dirt. There was clearly space for a plot next to her.

  Kate whispered, “Is your father here?”

  “No, but she wanted a place for him.” Simon knelt next to the grave and set the lantern on the ground. The wind tossed his hair and shadows increased the intensity of his face.

  “Must you exhume her?” Kate asked.

  “Yes.”

  “If Barnes took her, there’s nothing to be done. We’re going after him in any case. Why put yourself through this?”

  “I must know.” He stood and reached out toward Winston.

  “No sir.” The butler flinched, pulling the pick he carried tight against his chest. “That isn’t a fit job for you.”

  “It’s my honor, Winston.” Simon’s voice was firm but pained. When the servant begrudgingly handed him the pick, he slid out of his heavy coat and motioned everyone back. Then Simon hefted the tool high over his shoulder and drove the iron point into his mother’s grave. Loose chunks of cold earth rolled back. He slammed the pick down over and over, grunting in pain from the curse, but pausing only to kick dirt clods aside. He was silent but for sharp exhalations with each swing. Sweat began to drip off his face and coils of steam rose from his head into the freezing air.

  “What the hell are you doing?” came a shout from behind.

  Simon had hoisted the pick up and was nearly toppled by the momentum as he spun around. Winston turned and exclaimed in shock as a figure ran toward them from the abbey.

  “It’s Greene, sir. The man who discovered the trouble.”

  “What is he about?” Simon growled.

  The new groundskeeper, Greene, was young, perhaps twenty years old, and thin. He was wearing old tweed and had a scarf looped around his neck and partially around his face. He pushed past Winston and actually pulled the pick out of Simon’s hands. The servants were shocked by the lad’s inexplicable temerity. Even Simon just watched the young man with surprise. Winston stepped forward quickly and grabbed the groundskeeper by his collar, pulling him away.

  Kate exclaimed, “I’ll be God damned.”

  Her voice was so incredulous that Simon looked at her. She was staring at Greene, but her expression was not shock at his odd behavior; it was complete disbelief.

  Greene snapped at Simon, “I didn’t send for you so you could dig up your mother, you idiot.”

  “Quiet!” Winston shook the man. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll have this wretch dealt with immediately. I—” Now he looked down at the figure in his grip who was no longer the young groundskeeper, but was rather an older man, broad-faced and worn with years, eyes that were dark and bottomless. The butler released the man and stepped back. He looked from the stranger to Simon, with alarm. “I’m sorry, sir. I thought it was Greene. I could have sworn.” He looked at the other manservant for support, but that chap was nonplussed and clutching shovels in defense.

  Simon felt his own shock of disbelief. Before him stood his old friend, Nick Barker.

  Nick straightened his jacket and smiled snidely at Winston. “I’m surprised you don’t remember me, Winston. I was up here a few years ago. I’m Mr. Archer’s particular friend.”

  “Mr. Barker, sir? I’m terribly sorry. I could have sworn it was … I could have sworn.”

  Simon went to his butler, without taking his surprised gaze off Nick. “It’s all right, Winston. Both of you go back to the house. Don’t worry.”

  Winston turned without speaking and started off into the dark, stooped. He was followed quickly by the other servant.

  “Leave the tools,” Simon called. The servant dropped the shovels and practically ran away.

  Nick started laughing and threw his arm over Simon’s shoulder like two pals out for a night on the town, as the two servants trudged away. Simon tossed the arm aside roughly and rounded on his old friend.

  “What is wrong with you?” Simon shouted. “Why are you here? You said you were leaving England months ago.”

  “Easy, old boy.” Nick held up his hands in defense. “I’ll explain everything. But you have to admit, that was funny.”

  Simon couldn’t speak. He shook his head with angry sputtering and went back to Kate, who was staring at Nick as if he had just flown in on a winged horse.

  “Miss Anstruther.” Nick nodded to her. “You saw through me. How did you do that?”

  Kate breathed out cynically. “Mr. Barker. You’re not all that hard to see through.”

  He grinned, a bit harshly. “You think so, do you?”

  “Nick!” Simon roared. “Shut up and tell me why you’re here!”

  Nick grew serious and stiff. “Easy, Simon. You’re overwrought. I don’t blame you, mind.” He used the toe of his shoe to kick up the shaft of the pick and lift the tool. “But you’ve no call to shout at me. Look at yourself. Look at what you were about to do. What could have driven you to that? I’ve only been away from you for a few months. You best take stock of your path if this is where you are.”

  “You don’t know,” Simon ground out.

  “I do know. I’m the only one who does. I’m the one who found out what happened to your poor mother and had Winston contact you. There are things you don’t know, but you need to.”

  “Why are you here?” Simon repeated.

  “I’ve been here for months. Almost since I left you sitting in the Devil’s Loom.” Nick tossed the pick into the pile with the shovels. He blew on his hands. “I warned you then. I warned you that if you made too much noise, you’d attract attention from people you don’t want noticing you. And you have. And now so has your poor mother.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Simon, a terrible thing is coming. Gaios and Ash are coming to blows. When these two fight, anyone standing nearby is going to get hurt. And you had to pick now to make a big splash, didn’t you? I begged you to keep your bloody head down, but you just couldn’t because you’re a show-off at heart. Look at me, I’m Simon Archer, the last of the scribes. The new Pendragon.” Nick spat on the ground. “Well, now very bad people know your name.”

  “I heard rumors that Gaios is planning something monstrous, but I haven’t heard anything about Ash.”

  “You haven’t kept your ears open then. What have you been doing these last few months?” He jerked his thumb at Kate. “Sitting with her and trying to make your magic key work? Have you even left Hartley Hall?” Nick shook his head in disgust, and eye
d Kate with bitterness. “Ash has been managing what’s left of the Order of the Oak. Not doing a good job of it, mind, but trying. Gaios hates her from way back. And he’s coming to kill her.”

  Kate’s eyes blazed back at Nick. “If there’s such a storm on the horizon, why are you up here at Warden Abbey? Why aren’t you hiding in Mandalay as you said? Did you make up the story about Simon’s mother’s grave to bring him home?”

  Nick gave her a cold glare, then turned to Simon with an admirable shift to regret. “No, sorry. The bit about someone disturbing your mother’s grave is true. That’s the whole reason I came here—to protect you. Your mother is the only possible source of information about you and your father, Edward Cavendish, and his connection to Pendragon. There’s a good reason you kept the secret of your father for so long, even from me. Pendragon and your father had a lot of enemies, and they could be your enemies too. I was afraid a necromancer might try to rip information out of her, information about you.” He crooked a finger at Simon and directed him to the back of Elizabeth Archer’s monument. He clawed away some dirt at the base to reveal a symbol etched into the marble.

  Simon knelt and ran his finger over the rune. “Someone has inscribed her tombstone.”

  Nick nodded. “I did it. I know a bit of scribing. I thought it might protect her, protect you. But I was wrong. I wasn’t near strong enough to stop whoever came for her.”

  Simon looked up at his old friend, and the shocked anger had faded. He saw the friendly face of the man who had taught him so much about magic over the last few years, the man with whom he had shared so many long evenings of laughter. He took a remorseful breath.

  “I’m sorry, Nick. Thank you for trying.” Simon stood and extended his hand. Nick hesitated, then shook. “We are, in fact, facing a very powerful necromancer named Rowan Barnes.”

  Nick shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

  “Nor had I until recently, at least not as a necromancer. I thought he was an artist.”

  “An artist?” Nick smirked. “Like a painter, you mean?”

  “It isn’t a joke,” Kate said testily. “Barnes is dangerous, and he’s mastered blood magic to unravel one of Pendragon’s containment spells.”

  “You’re daft,” Nick cried. “That’s impossible.”

  Simon shook his head. “Barnes is undertaking a blood ritual in London to break the bonds of one of Pendragon’s wards. We don’t yet know what will emerge from the broken bonds, but the magical power involved is extraordinary. Pendragon’s inscription was pure Heliopolitan.”

  Nick whistled. “Yeah, I heard he went in for that old Egyptian stuff. Never thought much of it myself. Too complicated. There’s always an easier way to get a job done.”

  Simon leaned down and lifted a shovel. “Will you help me? I must determine whether my mother’s body is still present. If Barnes took it for some ritual reason, it will alter my approach to him.”

  Nick continued to stare at Simon’s hard countenance. “Put that shovel down and stop acting like a bleeding laborer. I can commune with her.”

  “No, Nick. I don’t want that. It’s necromancy.”

  “I don’t care what you want. I won’t stand here while you dig up your own mother’s body when I can do my bit and touch her essence.” He started toward her grave.

  “Nick, no.”

  “Why not, Simon?” Kate asked. “If he can do it, let him.” Nick pointed to the tip of his nose and then at her as if telling Simon to listen to her. “And perhaps he can determine what information was given up, if any.”

  Nick stood at the turned earth of the grave. “I can already tell you that she’s been deeply injured. She can’t move away.” He glanced over his shoulder and tapped the dirt with his foot. “I can help her.”

  “But,” Simon argued, “communing with the dead is dark magic. I don’t want you to endure it. You said that saving me after the fight with Gretta made you mortal. Necromancy drains life, and if you have no way to restore it … I won’t be the cause of your moving closer to death.”

  “Come off it. I’ve seen about all I care to see of this world anyhow.” Nick gave a crooked grin. “Look, she’s your mother. I won’t do it if you forbid it. But she’s down there alone and scared.”

  Simon’s expression suddenly broke and his voice was a hard whisper of agony. “Do it.”

  Nick took several deep breaths, staring down at the plot. He slowly dropped to his knees on the cold earth. He pressed the palms of his hands on top of the grave and closed his eyes. The dirt strangely gave way and Nick pushed until his forearms were buried.

  Silent minutes passed. Simon waited on one knee, dark eyes locked on Nick. Kate stood near with a hand cupping the back of Simon’s head. The icy wind continued to howl, rippling his shirt. Kate draped his coat over his shoulder, but he didn’t respond. He stared at Nick.

  The older magician blinked his eyes rapidly and moved his mouth as if his teeth were chattering from the cold, but that wasn’t the reason. His breathing altered from slow and steady to harsh. Nick grunted, causing Simon to tense, ready to come to his aid. Then Nick whimpered.

  Simon started to rise, but froze in place, watching his friend drop forward until his forehead touched the dirt. Tortured groans escaped the man. Nick’s back stiffened, muscles rigid. Simon straddled the grave and seized Nick’s arms.

  Suddenly it was a spring afternoon and Simon was surrounded by warmth. He smelled the pear trees that were blooming in the west garden as well as the hint of wet soil from a gentle rain. A soft breeze ruffled his hair. He felt the stones of the back walk under his shoes and the hard pommel of a fencing foil in his right hand. His knees betrayed the telltale soreness that came from hours of drills. Alone, without an opponent. Simon always preferred to practice alone, to master himself rather than compete with others. He turned from the green expanse of the garden toward the terrace.

  There, his mother stood watching him. She was young and beautiful. She was slim, yet strong, with long dark hair that waved in the spring air. Her eyes shone with protective pride and a slight tinge of worry that was always present. She had never appeared carefree for a moment of her life, and Simon used to think she was waiting for him to trip, to fumble with each step. When he was young, he had found her expectations insulting, but only later did he realize she was merely worried that he had been born into a difficult situation that might come back to haunt them both. He came to feel sad for her and her inescapable pall. Simon lowered the foil. He desperately wanted to speak to her, but his throat locked with waves of emotion. He simply stared.

  She reached up to her neck and pulled on a gold chain. The key appeared from her bodice and she held it up.

  His mother said something that sounded like, “Morthul.”

  The sound of her voice struck him like an epiphany. It had been so long since he had heard it, and had thought never to hear it again. All the years of her washed over him.

  Then she smiled. It was a wide, exhausted smile of relief that showed in her eyes as well as her mouth. Simon had never seen her look so tranquil. She regarded him with a gratifying expression of hard-won confidence.

  She turned and went back inside the house.

  Simon wanted to stop her, to call out and run to her side. He craved to embrace her once more. But he couldn’t.

  He felt something rough under his hands and frigid air scraped over his face. He saw Nick’s back. His friend’s head was slumped in the dirt that covered the body of Simon’s mother who had just a moment ago been standing in the spring air smiling at him. He pulled Nick away from the grave and the other man’s arms slid from the dirt. Nick gasped in shock as if roused from a deep sleep. Simon dropped roughly to one knee and shook the disoriented man.

  “Nick!” he shouted. “Nick, can you hear me?”

  Nick’s eyes were wide for a second, then they focused on Simon. His facial muscles relaxed with the realization of the place. He exhaled with shock, and muttered, “Jesus. Jesus.”

&nb
sp; Simon took Nick by the jaw and turned his head from side to side, inspecting his eyes, looking for a normal reaction. When he saw enough to let him know that Nick had come back intact, he gave his friend a light slap and fell back into the ground beside the grave.

  Simon felt his own face being turned. Kate looked at him, her expression full of more shock than his own, he felt sure. Her lips pressed tightly together in dismay or confusion.

  “I’m fine, Kate,” Simon breathed out in relief. “I saw her.”

  “Are you sure you’re well?” Kate insisted.

  “Of course.” Simon laughed raggedly. “I feel quite fine, thank you. No pain at all at the moment. Why are you so worried?”

  She wiped her hand over his cheek and it came away wet. “You’re weeping.”

  Simon suddenly felt tears running down his face in a torrent and dripping from his chin. He was crying uncontrollably. He buried his face in Kate’s arms.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Nick took a whiskey from Simon and drained it without pause, gasping with wet desperation. He handed the glass up for another. Simon merely gave him the bottle, leaving his friend to guzzle.

  “Nick,” Simon said as he sat on the bench on the far side of the hearth and took Kate’s hand, “are you sure she was targeted by a necromancer? She seemed content.”

  Nick wiped his mouth. He stared at the half-empty bottle. “She loved your father.”

  “I know.” Simon stretched out his legs, feeling a sense of ease he hadn’t known in a long time.

  “Whatever bastard came after her,” Nick said, his face still pale, “did damage to her, all right. I could sense how they tried to wrench information out of her, but she fought back. I’ve never known a normal human being who could resist necromancy. She kept all your secrets. Damned incredible.” He drank deep gulps without pause.