By distracting Reinhardt, Gretel had inadvertently saved Marsh's life.
He took the opportunity to catch his breath and reload. He gulped cold winter air that chilled his throat. Rivulets of sweat stung his eyes with salt. He leaned against the wall, listening to shouts, dwindling gunfire, and the whoosh sound of disintegrating forest. The earth shook again. The remnants of his squad had engaged Kammler again.
He found himself staring up at the three-story farmhouse as he placed a new cylinder in his revolver. Von Westarp's farmhouse. A silhouette still paced in front of the windows on the top floor. Marsh couldn't see any details, but he had a hunch as to who owned that shadow.
More noise echoed across the grounds from the battle with Kammler. It gave Marsh an idea.
Klaus stumbled through a darkened laboratory, coughing convulsively. He fell to all fours. A tray of medical implements crashed to the floor when he banged against a surgical table.
The coughs came out so violently that they irritated the back of his throat and caused him to gag. He vomited rabbit stew on the tile floor of an operating room.
His eyes and sinuses burned. His throat burned, too, from the surge of stomach acids. But his skin wasn't blistering, and he couldn't smell garlic or fresh hay. So he hadn't inhaled mustard gas or phosgene. And the cloud had been white, not yellowish like chlorine.
The coughing fit receded. His eyes still burned, but he could open them now. It seemed he'd emerged in the middle of a smoke screen, but not into a poison gas cloud.
Sweat ran down Klaus's face, mingling with the tears from his watering eyes. Profuse sweating was a natural result of intense exertion while insubstantial; his body built up heat in that state and couldn't convect it away until he rematerialized.
But it was a cold sweat, too, because he knew he'd nearly killed himself. One little misstep, but he could have died. A terrifying reminder of his mortality.
Then again, Gretel would have warned him had he been in true jeopardy. Wouldn't she?
He had to pinch the tears from watery eyes several times before he could read the gauge on his remaining battery. Less than a quarter of the charge left; the needle rested just above the red. It was enough, if he was careful. It would have to be. There wasn't time to go to the stores.
Klaus wiped his mouth on his sleeve, trailing spit and vomit, as he headed for the conventional exit. He had to conserve his battery as much as possible. He stepped carefully; he didn't know the laboratory well enough to navigate it in the dark.
It was lighter outside than in the laboratory, owing to moonlight and the glow from the farmhouse windows. But Klaus's eyesight was blurry still. Cold air scraped at his raw sinuses, threatening to make him cough again. He doubled over, fighting another episode.
The night was alive with the noise of combat. Gunfire. Explosions. The ground rumbled. Kammler howled.
From somewhere off to Klaus's right came two reports like gunshots from a sidearm. Much like the revolver of the man Klaus had chased. Klaus headed in that direction.
“Reinhardt! Reinhardt, come quickly!”
Klaus skidded to a halt. His sister called for help from somewhere behind him.
She called again, more frantic this time. “Reinhardt, please, this instant!”
Klaus hurried toward the sound of her voice.
Will watched all hell break loose after Marsh ran off.
First, another squad member came crashing through the woods from the west. He appeared to be the only survivor of that team.
Then the earth rippled. Furrows appeared in the field, racing across the ground at random. Snow, topsoil, and oak trees fountained into the air. Windows shattered. Will watched the tall metal masts of the dead spotlights coil up like so much ribbon on a spool. The screech of tortured metal was deafening.
Kammler howled. A cry of inchoate despair.
The new arrival fired wildly at Kammler. It achieved nothing.
Kammler jumped to his feet. Trees exploded into sawdust and splinters.
The rest of the men fired. Some lobbed their Mills bombs. All with no effect.
Before, there had been an orderliness to the destruction. It had been controlled. Logical. Methodical. But now, with nobody to control Kammler, it was chaotic.
Will retreated. So did the others. Random parcels of forest kept disintegrating around them. This was hopeless. They had to leave.
He had the stone. But what he needed was a quiet place to concentrate. How in the hell was he supposed to do that in the middle of a war zone? Another thing they hadn't thought through very carefully.
Marsh came around the side of the farmhouse, waving his arms. “Hey! Over here!” The collared man turned. Marsh tossed something at the body of the man he'd shot.
Will jumped into a shallow streambed. He pulled his knife, sliced his hand, and concentrated.
The man called Kammler stood inside a maelstrom of devastation. Marsh understood why they kept him on a leash. Without someone to guide him, Kammler was capable only of unfocused destruction. There was no intelligence, no plan, no meaning behind it.
God almighty. How did they learn to control something like that?
“Hey!” Marsh waved his arms, trying to get Kammler's attention. “Over here!” Kammler turned, the look on his face pathetic and puzzled. Soil, glass, steel, and wood swirled around him. The creature was too confused to understand that Marsh was a threat. All he knew was rage at the loss of his companion.
Marsh tried a different tactic. Instead of attacking Kammler, he attacked the dead man. He lobbed a Mills at the body and then ran like hell. Kammler automatically protected his dead companion, as Marsh suspected he would. The grenade imploded in midair, pulverized into dust with a little pop.
That got Kammler's attention. He followed Marsh, still wrapped in his furious cyclone. It tore a swath of damage through the grounds.
Marsh ran, turned, taunted Kammler, then ran farther.
That's it. Follow me.
Klaus followed Gretel's pleas for help around to the north side of the farmhouse. She was far from the action. Far enough that they could speak without straining to be heard over the combat noises.
Running in the cold had created a wheeze in his chest by the time he found her. He leaned over with hands on his knees to clear his throat and spit out the blood before he tried to speak. “Gretel?” he panted, “I thought you were hurt.” He caught his breath, then asked, “Why are you out here? I told you to go inside, where it's safe.”
“I'm waiting.”
Reinhardt ran from another direction before Klaus could ask the obvious question. He stopped short when he saw the two of them.
“What the hell is this?” Reinhardt pointed at Gretel. “I thought you needed help.”
“I'm waiting,” said Gretel.
“You crazy bitch. I thought this was an emergency. I had him, too—”
She put a finger to her lips. “Shhh.” When she had his attention, she said, “Reinhardt. I've given you the one thing you wanted more than anything in the world. Isn't that enough to make you trust me?”
She looked to Klaus, repeating, “Trust me.”
“What are you waiting for, Gretel?” he rasped.
“That,” she said, pointing at the farmhouse.
The roof flew off. Bricks and timbers disintegrated along one side of the building, and then the rest collapsed like a gingerbread house beneath a hammer.
Will fought a rising tide of panic. He hadn't packed a lexicon, in order to prevent it falling into German hands. But he wasn't supposed to need one. Going home was supposed to be easy. It wasn't.
The return journey had been included in the original negotiation. It was a round-trip ticket purchased up front with a pair of derailed trains.
But now the Eidolons were changing the deal.
They spoke through the stone, the earth, the bare trees and the ice in the streambed. And Will couldn't follow what they were saying. Frazzled, terrified, shivering in the cold and half
-deaf from the noise of the battle, he could pick out only bits and pieces from the stream of animus.
... DISPLACEMENT-REDRESS-SOUL-VOLITION-FUTURE ...
It made no sense. Soul? This was an impossible price. He couldn't hand over a soul, even if he wanted to. Future? Worse yet, they wanted to take their pound of flesh after all was said and done. They wanted free rein to extract their own price.
Will stammered. In Enochian, that felt like swallowing a shattered wineglass.
Negation-redress-satisfied-volition-displacement.
The Eidolons repeated their incoherent demand. Their intent included something else, too, but it was washed out by a tremendous crash. Will chanced a peek at the battleground.
Something had extinguished the glow from the farmhouse windows, so Will had only starlight and a sliver of moon to see by. A cloud of dust and smoke billowed from the far end of the field, near the farmhouse, where Marsh had been.
Pip? He squinted, straining to make out details. Darkness and distance confounded him.
For the second time that night, his eyes flared in pain as the darkness gave way to brilliance. Will squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. Purple spots danced in his field of view. He looked back at the scene slowly, in stages, to let his eyes adjust.
He thought it was another string of spotlights until he saw the source: a human figure, wreathed in fire, blazing like the midday sun. His nimbus illuminated the scene with sharp edges and deep shadows, like an endless camera flash.
The farmhouse had been reduced to a pile of rubble. Marsh stood a few yards off to one side. He raised his revolver, then Kammler sprawled backwards. Will heard the gunshot a second later.
The burning man and the insubstantial man advanced on Marsh from behind the ruins of the farmhouse. Their rage was evident, even at this distance.
“God in heaven.”
The Eidolons repeated themselves. SOUL-VOLITION-FUTURE ...
Yes, yes, yes, fine, what ever you want, just get us the hell out of here.
Agreement-volition-congruent.
In the instant before the world fell away, Will finally heard the entirety of the Eidolons' demand. He heard soul, he heard future, and he heard child.
The soul of an unborn child.
“Wait!” He screamed, trying to refute this atrocity, but he was—
The air around Marsh shimmered with heat, growing warmer by the second. Reinhardt charged at him over the rubble pile of the demolished farmhouse. The air grew hotter still, like a blast furnace. It burned his sinuses. He couldn't breathe.
But then space peeled apart, and breathing didn't matter, because he had no body. He was an abstract concept sliding through the cracks in the universe.
Eidolons infused him; twined themselves through him. They sifted through his essence: past, present, and future.
—too late.
The cleft stone yanked Will back to its twin like a rubber band snapping back together. He was solid again. Substantial. The Eidolons had squeezed him back into what human beings called reality.
Where generations of children yet unborn would live and die. Except the one he'd given to the Eidolons.
“Beauclerk? What happened?” asked a voice he hadn't heard in eons.
Will studied his surroundings. The Nissen hut had blinked into existence around him. Stephenson, Webber, and Hargreaves stared at him.
Will dropped the stone. It sounded strangely insubstantial when it banged against the wooden floor of the hut. He walked to the door on unsteady legs.
“Where are they? Where's the rest?”
Somewhere, in the distance, a car horn blared.
Will paused at the door. He glanced over his shoulder. “I brought them home,” he said. “I brought them all home.”
Somewhere nearby, within the park, a sentry shouted.
Will wandered without purpose between the tents and huts. The first body he found had been charred beyond recognition. He kept walking. The second body he found had been crushed into a pulp. More shouts of alarm went up throughout the staging area as more bodies were discovered.
Down by the lake, Will found a body mostly intact. He flipped the dead man over and rummaged through his pack, searching for a medkit.
Will stuffed a morphine syrette in his pocket before heading off into the darkness.
interlude
Frozen earth meant shallow graves. Shallow graves meant easy picking. r And so the ravens of Albion gathered along parapets and treetops while the men from the island quietly buried their dead.
Twenty-six holes, dug in neat little rows for bodies that weren't so tidy.
Some were sooty black things, curled tightly upon themselves; preternatural fire had charred these men to the core. This flesh, the ravens knew, wasn't worth the effort. Heat had seared away its nutrients; it was little better than eating charcoal.
Others had been crushed, their every bone pulped. These retained their man-shapes solely by virtue of their skin. Better than the scorched dead, but still too much effort. Meat mixed with bone dust and bile. Bitter, and difficult to digest.
A number of dead had succumbed to more familiar injuries, ones the ravens had seen time and again. Their bodies were perforated with holes both large and small, some that still contained metal. Bodies like these were strewn across the continent: the detritus of war.
But the best meat came from that handful of men who had died without apparent injury. These were the men who had traveled through places the ravens could never visit, whose souls and sanity had been lost in transit. Perfect, unblemished, lifeless bodies.
The ravens waited until the holes had been filled, until the men with shovels and spades left the valiant dead to their peace. Then, as one, they descended.
They picked at mounds of freshly turned soil while their cousins to the east, upon the Continent, did much the same in the field behind a ruined farmhouse.
Many years had passed since new burials had drawn the ravens to this farm. There had been a time when it was littered with tiny graves, each no larger than a sack of grain. But new burials had come less and less frequently, until they ceased altogether.
Thus with great interest did the ravens watch as bodies were pulled from the wreckage. Several had died in the farmhouse, but only one evoked tears and anguish. The ravens recognized this bald little man; his experiments had fed them well in bygone years.
His body did not join the others in the cold, hard earth. The mourners cremated him upon a hellish pyre that crumbled his bones to ash. Winter wind sent his remains aloft, beyond where the ravens circled, and farther still.
To the east, to the far edge of the Continent, where his ashes mingled with snow and fell in large gray flakes upon the armies converging there. Erstwhile partners in invasion now assessed each other warily, like lonely revelers eyeing each other across an empty dance floor. They watched for feints and missteps, waiting for new music, for a new dance to begin.
The ravens of Eastern Europe had watched this impasse take shape. Now they waited hungrily for the spring thaw that would rouse these forces into motion.
But the farmhouse and the events there had become a pivot, the fulcrum upon which politics and aggression hinged: twin levers that could move whole armies in new directions. Winter hadn't yet diminished when the would-be aggressors lost their appetite for eastern conquests. Instead, they reevaluated. Consolidated.
The would-be defenders watched. And waited.
Spring came fitfully. The changing seasons were punctuated with savage, unnatural cold snaps.
Ravens everywhere huddled in their nests, to ride out the ice.
twelve
21 April 1941
15 kilometers east of Stuttgart, Germany
The supply truck toppled over, accompanied by the groan of creaking axles and the smashing of unsecured crates. Mud fountained up where the truck crashed in the ditch. The swath of cotton duck stretched over the cargo bed created a spray of slush when it hit the earth.
; “God damn you, idiot.” Hauptsturmfuhrer Spalcke, Buhler's replacement, yanked on Kammler's leash with both fists, hard enough to make the big man stumble. “You stupid, shit-eating retard! I despise you.”
“T-t-t-” Kammler looked back and forth between the truck, now sprawled alongside the winding road to Stuttgart, and Spalcke. He moved awkwardly. A round from a British sidearm had shattered his clavicle in December. Ostensibly it had healed—the doctors said he no longer needed to wear the sling—but Klaus suspected poor Kammler would suffer an aching collarbone for the rest of his life. Especially when the weather fluctuated so wildly; the stumps of Klaus's fingers ached.
“S-s-s-s ...” Kammler's face turned red.
“S-s-s-stupid,” said Spalcke. He savaged Kammler's leash again. “S-s-s-pathetic.”
Kammler's wide confused eyes flicked back and forth. His face was turning purple.
Klaus stepped in. “You're hurting him,” he said. “He doesn't understand.”
“Of course he doesn't understand! He's a worthless turd of a human being.”
“You're making it worse. Give me the leash,” Klaus said. His tone turned the suggestion into a de facto order, though the hauptsturmfuhrer technically outranked him.
Spalcke wheeled on Klaus, still enraged. “Have you forgotten your place?”
Klaus let his overcoat fall open, so that Spalcke could see clearly the wire plugged into his battery harness.
“No. You have.”
The two men faced each other for a long moment. Spalcke looked away. He dropped the leash and stomped back to the second supply truck.
He passed Reinhardt, who watched the proceedings from a stand of cherry trees a little farther up the road. The previous day's storm had glazed the white blossoms with ice, freezing trees in midbloom. The ice on the boughs above Reinhardt melted, dripping water that flashed into steam when it fell on him. Behind him sparkled the terraced vineyards of the Rems Valley.
Klaus loosened the choke collar squeezing Kammler's throat. Quietly, so that Spalcke and Reinhardt couldn't hear, he asked, “Are you hurt?”
Kammler rocked back and forth. He looked at Klaus. Normal coloration returned to his face. “B-buh-b-b—”
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