by Weston Ochse
She turned and found the other.
This one didn’t run.
It turned to face her.
It wanted to fight.
She smiled grimly, knowing that her entire existence was meant for this very moment. Her, Sassy Moore, once a child afraid of her own shadow, now a Thirty-First-Degree Magister Templarus witch of the Fraterni Saturni against the greatest magician of the Western canon–Merlyn.
She began to battle.
CHAPTER 57
SANDRINGHAM ESTATE, NORFOLK, ENGLAND. NOW.
Walker climbed to his feet, the vile taste of possession still in his mouth. He wanted to lash out, to hit, to beat something until its insides splattered all over his uniform. In fact, he’d been searching for the location of the Tuatha when he’d been struck by such a wave of pain, he couldn’t remember when last he’d felt so awful. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew it had originated with the witch. Perhaps it was the sheer outrage he felt in the force of her power or maybe it was the residual image of a little girl hiding in a bomb shelter, but she’d somehow saved herself and them all by sharing her pain.
He saw her now, squaring off against a Royal Marine. Although the young man had a knife at his belt, he made no move to use it; instead his hands were moving in a complex series of manipulations. Walker had no doubt who it was. Walker made to move toward him, when Holmes grabbed his arm. The commander was on his knees and trying to stand. Walker helped him to his feet, then looked around to see if he could help the rest of the SEALs, but they were all standing, if not a little unsteadily.
The sound of a hunting horn made him turn.
Through a bank of fog appeared King Arthur riding an imperial white stag with a menacing rack of horns. Beside and behind him were men dressed in all manner of clothes. Some carried swords and knives. Some carried spears. Still others carried longbows. Intermingled with these were hounds, each one slightly different, their eyes the link to who they’d been before their souls were stolen and reforged into these unholy beasts.
Ian began screaming for the Marines to form a defense. With Magerts on one end and MacMasters on the other, a ragged line began to take shape as the confused Marines picked themselves off the deck and formed to confront the enemy.
Holmes called the SEALs to him as he ran back toward the helicopters. Walker glanced back to see if Hoover was coming, then, once assured, hurried after his team. Patrick was spooling up the rotors as they arrived. Walker was the last on the helicopter. Hoover had leaped in before him.
“What’s the plan?” Laws asked.
Holmes pointed out the front window as he spoke to the pilot. “Can you take us up and behind that bank of fog?”
“Yes, but that’s not your only problem. We just got word that a battalion is coming up the road from RAF Markam.”
“Whose side are they on?”
“Can’t be sure.”
“How long until they get here?”
“Ten minutes. Maybe sooner.”
“Then we need to hurry.”
“Hold on!” The helicopter jumped off the landing pad and over the copse of trees. Beneath them they could see the approaching Hunt a mere fifty meters in front of the line of Marines. Even as Walker watched, the Marines opened fire. Their combined fire should have knocked down the first rank of hounds and hunters, but they had no effect. Magerts’s men and Ian had swords. They drew the swords now, explaining to the other Marines what had to be done. With only their combat knives, they had a lot of close combat to look forward to.
King Arthur leaned back in his saddle, staring up at them as they flew over. Fire glowed in his eyes.
The fog wrapped the helicopter in a claustrophobic embrace. Gone was the world of man. Gone was everything they knew. For a moment, there was nothing except the feeling of displacement. Then they were on the other side and the crisp, clean wintery light embraced them. Patrick lowered the helicopter, keeping the wheels six inches from the manicured lawn.
“I knew it.” Holmes pointed opposite the fog to where a line of seven red-robed figures stood. “Take us there.”
Walker remembered the last time he’d encountered one of the robed figures. “Don’t let them touch you.”
“They’re never going to get near us.” He clapped the pilot on the back. “Mow them down.”
The helicopter gathered speed as it roared across the lawn.
The figures not only wore red robes, but their heads were covered by conical red hats also, with holes cut out for their eyes.
Walker felt so much magic coming out of them he felt nauseous. His head rang with pain. His skin began to vibrate.
The pilot lowered the nose until the blades were almost clipping the ground. “Hang on.” He slowed almost to a stop, then surged forward, the propellers eating through the line of druids, transforming them into red mist. The druids had probably counted on the Wild Hunt being the target rather than themselves. Holmes had demonstrated his tactical genius by realizing that the Hunt had to have been manipulated from elsewhere and had guessed the location correctly.
Walker turned back toward the fog and noticed that it was quickly burning off, revealing Marines and the Hunt fully engaged in battle.
Holmes didn’t have to say anything. The pilot was already turning the helicopter toward the action. The windscreen was covered with blood and gore. An ear slid free of the glass. The SEALs dropped their rifles in the cabin and drew swords and knives. Ten seconds later as the helicopter lowered to the ground they leaped out the open door, each of them finding targets.
Walker hit a huntsman, knocking him to the ground. His bow, which had been pulled back, flew from his hands, the arrow breaking as it struck the earth at an awkward angle. Walker picked himself up and swung his gladius, catching the huntsman down the length of his back. Then Walker stepped to the side and swung, severing the huntsman’s head. Instead of disappearing like the hounds had, he remained in place. He’d probably been human once.
Walker moved to his next target, another huntsman who’d just shoved a spear through a Marine’s stomach. Walker brought his gladius around again and hacked it halfway through his target’s neck. Blood spurted into the air, drenching the Marine, whom the huntsman fell against.
Laws, Holmes, and YaYa were similarly engaged, using the advantage of coming from behind to their benefit.
Beyond them Yank stood toe-to-toe with King Arthur. While the King swung a great two-handed blade, Yank swung his two blades in a dizzying Filipino weave, catching the other’s blade, deflecting it, then slicing the Tuatha with his blade.
A hound leaped at Walker and he shoved the gladius in its chest. He tried to pull it free, but the hound pulled back, jerking the weapon from his grip.
Walker had no choice but to dive to the ground and pick up a spear that had fallen. He had no idea how to use it other than to hold it out in front of him, so he did.
The hound leaped again, spearing itself just below where his gladius was stuck. Walker pushed hard against the spear, shoving the length through the beast until he could grip the end of his gladius once more. Then he jerked it free and hacked at the creature’s neck until it was no more.
Walker sought out Yank again and saw that the tables had turned. Instead of fighting King Arthur, he was now trying to defend himself from three hounds. Walker began to run to his aid, but Hoover bounded past him, as did YaYa. Walker slowed. He found himself in the middle of a quiet space as everyone fought around him.
“Walker, look out.”
He was shoved to the ground by Laws, who took the blow meant for his head. But Laws was taller, so the great sword sunk deep into his shoulder. His face immediately paled as he fell to the ground.
The stocky king pulled the sword free and swung at Walker. But he rolled to his right, managing to come up in a standing position. Somehow he still had his gladius.
“Fucking hell.” He leaped backwards, barely able to keep from getting skewered. He studied his opponent. Arthur’s crown was made of old bea
ten metal. His beard was cut rather than ragged. His gaze was fixed and steady. He looked just like what King Arthur should have looked like, just as if he’d walked right out of Central Casting. His armor was made from beaten plates attached to a leather background. He wore a ring on one hand and a watch on the other wrist … a watch?
Then Walker understood.
Of course. It might be the Tuathan spirit of King Arthur, but they needed a body to use in order to make him the King. This was never really about the need to have King Arthur from the days of old return. That was just the vehicle the Red Grove was going to use. Arthur was to be their tool so that they could prosecute their program of national segregation. With him would come magic and a promise of a return to proud times and in turn they’d remove all non-Britons from the country and have a beautiful white oasis of peace and prosperity.
So they had to have a human who looked like the popular ideal of Arthur.
Which meant that Walker finally had a target for his rage.
He waited until King Arthur swung, sidestepped the sweeping blade, and hacked at the right arm holding it. His blade missed taking off the arm, but it tore the skin open from wrist to elbow.
The man howled, but even as he did, the Tuatha inside of him worked its magic and the wound began to heal.
“Oh no you fucking don’t.”
Walker feinted in, then ducked back.
King Arthur switched his grip and shoved the blade at Walker. It hit his chest plate and slid to the left.
Walker trapped it with his left arm and shoved the gladius toward the King’s chest.
Instead of taking the blow, King Arthur released his grip on his sword and backed away, searching the ground for a weapon.
Walker took two steps and hacked at his opponent, missing with the first swing but catching the King on the upswing. Then he swung again and again and again, his rage and pain fueling his increasingly expert slashes.
King Arthur staggered backwards.
Walker caught his target on the shoulder.
The man who would be King Arthur reached out.
Walker sidestepped. “I don’t think so.” He knew what it was trying to do. If he let it touch him, the Tuatha could transfer, then it would probably make him kill himself.
King Arthur turned and ran.
Walker spied a spear on the ground. He snatched it up, brought it back behind his head, ran forward a few steps, and threw it. The spear went true, piercing the back of the man, sending him careening to the ground. His crown fell free and rolled several feet before it came to rest at a pair of high-heeled feet.
Sassy Moore reached down and picked it up. She looked at it, wrinkled her nose, and tossed it over her shoulder.
“Don’t touch him,” Walker warned.
She pulled a bag from her cargo pocket, opened it, and dribbled it along the ground until King Arthur was surrounded with a circle of what appeared to be white dust. “The other Tuatha ran. I’ll not let this one get away. This is bone dust from the Giant of Castlenau and it has trapped you in this place.” Her voice was ragged from use but contained a power that compelled. “Hold my hand, Walker. I need your anger.”
He gave her his right hand and she took it with her left. Her right hand began to manipulate the air. She began to speak in guttural German.
He stood watching, noticing when the figure on the ground began to writhe, legs and arms beating against the ground. Walker focused his entire being on his anger for the murders of Jen and Trevor and everyone else who’d lost their lives in this attempt at a white hegemony. He focused on Preeti and knew how terrible she’d felt at Trevor’s death, knowing it because he’d owned the very same feeling. He thought of Jen and their last night together, how he’d swept a stray hair from her forehead right before he kissed her. He focused on it all, letting memory after memory after memory shoot through him and into Sassy Moore to fuel her spell, until he was once again face-to-face with Jen’s soul-forged hound of the Wild Hunt. His hand now felt like it was holding on to an electrical current. He couldn’t let go of the witch even if he wanted to. Sobs ripped from him as he screamed at the creature in the circle. Soon he couldn’t hear anything except for his own shouts of outrage.
Then there was silence.
He realized that his eyes had slammed shut.
He opened them and saw that only black ash remained in the circle of white.
Sassy pulled at her hand. “You can let go of me now.”
He opened his hand and stared at it.
She put her other hand on his shoulder. “You loved her terribly, didn’t you, son?”
He nodded dumbly.
“She’s in a good place now, thanks to you.”
He felt the truth of her words. He closed his eyes once more. An image of Jen flashed and held in his mind. She was smiling. He smiled back at her. She waved and turned and was enveloped by light.
Hands gripped him.
He turned to find YaYa and Yank.
“Come on, bro.” Yank pointed toward the helicopter. “We’ve got to get Laws to a hospital.”
Walker realized the battle was over.
He let himself be pulled until he was running with them.
“Anyone else get hurt?” he asked.
“Nah.” YaYa flashed a grin. “Just all of us.”
“You’ll be okay,” Walker said to Laws as he climbed into the Sikorsky and it took to the air.
Ever the goofball, Laws grinned. “I know. It’s merely a flesh wound.”
EPILOGUE
RAF CHICKSANDS. THREE DAYS LATER.
SEAL Team 666 sat in the main salon of the priory, sipping from mugs of dark local ale. They wore civilian clothes and could have been a group of footballers, if they all weren’t sporting bandages on their arms, faces, heads, and hands.
Sassy Moore had just left after paying her respects to Preeti. Ian and the team had held a private ceremony for Jerry and Trevor, one that had begun with solemn ritual, then ended up a circle of tearful laughter as each of them began to tell story after story of how the two men affected their lives. When Preeti had told her and Trevor’s origin story, Yank and Laws, who hadn’t heard it before, had both cried.
Preeti returned from the ladies’ room at the same time as Ian arrived with a platter of fresh pints.
“What’s the plan now that you’ve been given the building back?” Holmes asked.
“Magerts is coming on as my second. Of the fourteen Marines who survived the battle, eleven have agreed to join us.” Ian passed out the beers, then sat down, bringing his own two-cubed glass of scotch to his lips. He closed his eyes and made a relishing sound. Then he continued. “We still have a long way to go, but it’s a start. The thing about disaster is that it tends to remind people what’s important.”
“And the roundup?”
“Sir MacDonald’s chief of staff rolled and gave MI5 a list of everyone involved. It goes all the way up, including several high-ranking military officials.”
“Was it really that bad?” Walker asked. “Why go to all that effort?”
“There are some who look at America and places England once called their own and remember how great we were.” Ian took another sip. “They forget that America lives today because of our greatness. Had we not set the colonies in motion you might never have existed.”
“It’s hard not to look back,” YaYa said, “knowing the rich history you’ve had. My own culture has its own share of problems trying to merge past greatness with the realities of today.”
Preeti joined in. “Add to that the rising sentiment that immigration is destroying our great nation.” She shook her head. “They don’t realize that I don’t think of myself as Indian first. I think of myself as English first.”
“Whenever things start going bad fingers start pointing.” Laws adjusted his sling and rubbed his shoulder where he’d had surgery. An eye patch covered one eye. “We have the same issues at home. People forget that America was created through immigration. What
is it etched on the Statue of Liberty? Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door.” Laws grinned broadly. “And look at us. We are the sum, rather than the parts.”
Everyone drank at the same time, giving them a long quiet moment.
“Hey,” Yank asked. “Anyone hear from Genie?”
He’d been gone when they’d returned. Even Preeti didn’t know what had become of him. He hadn’t said good-bye.
Holmes set his glass down. “Get this. I got a report from NAVSPECWARCOM. He left his enlistment over a year ago.”
Everyone’s eyes shot wide.
Walker was the first to ask what everyone wanted to know. “What the hell was he doing, then?”
Holmes shrugged. “By all accounts, he helped us.”
Laws regarded his ale with narrow eyes. “But there had to be something in it for him?”
“If there was, I don’t know what it could be.” Holmes spread his hands. “I’ll see what I can find out when we get back.”
WEST OF SANTA ROSA, CALIFORNIA.
The rental car turned off Bohemian Highway before it crossed the Russian River into Monte Rio. The driver found himself on Bohemian Avenue. He drove past twenty people holding signs railing against the Cremation of Care and continued down the road until he reached a security shack beside a gate. The guard looked out and recognized the driver. He pressed a button and the gate rose. The car rolled forward, passing several groups of houses until the road ended at a large building. The driver got out and went to the front door of the building. He was met at the front door by an elderly Caucasian man who’d be recognized for his three terms in the U.S. Senate.
“Did you get it?”
“It took a while.”
“But you got it, right?”
“A witch almost destroyed it. It’s weak, but it’s here.” He unbuttoned his shirt and revealed a three-crescent tattoo etched into his black skin. It glowed faintly. “Just in time for the next ceremony.”