Age of Legends

by James Lovegrove

  The injured man opened his eyes, reached out. He tried to speak.

  Wynne knelt, watching the man’s flickering eyes, his feebly moving lips.

  His words were very faint.

  “They… They––”

  “Yes?”

  “They… got… away…”

  Wynne gripped the man’s hand. “You saw them?”

  “Saw them,” the Paladin responded. “Drove off… Van… White van, painted with… with flowers.”

  Wynne looked up, triumphant. “Did you get that, Noble? A white van, decorated with flowers. Put out an alert.”

  He squeezed the man’s hand again. “Good work, Captain.”

  He climbed to his feet, feeling a smidgen of hope for the first time that day.

  Now to get through to Drake and put a positive spin on the events of the night.

  HARRIET STOOD BEFORE the bedroom window and stared down the drive as her husband was chauffeured away in his armoured limousine, en route to an emergency cabinet meeting.

  For the second time in as many days, their post-breakfast lovemaking had been interrupted by a telephone call.

  Drake had taken the call in the bathroom, and had emerged minutes later crimson with rage.

  “Derek… Why, what is it––?”

  “Fucking Wynne!”

  “Wynne?” Her heart leapt. Had the major let the cat out of the bag? “What about him?”

  To her relief, Drake reprised the balls-up Wynne and his men had made of what should have been a relatively simple operation.

  “So why wasn’t it?” she asked.

  Her husband had sat on the edge of the bed and told her all about the eidolons and the folkloric hordes unleashed by the power of the Holy Grail. It would seem that, along with all the good the Grail had brought about––and Harriet recalled her husband saying that it had helped him throughout his political career––the Grail had also manifested monsters best left where they had lain, in the deep recesses of ancient history.

  Monsters like Ajia Snell, Reed Fletcher and others, who had massacred her husband’s precious Paladins without mercy.

  Harriet was thoughtful in the aftermath of Drake’s hurried departure. She showered and dressed, still mulling over what he had told her about the eidolons and the figures from folk lore.

  She recalled her husband’s precise words when he had introduced her to the grail. “It’s helped me though my political career. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say it’s got me where I am today.”

  And that was interesting. Very interesting.

  After the helicopter crash, all those years ago, Harriet had noticed a subtle but definable change in her husband. Always thrusting and ambitious, he had become even more so, especially focused when he announced that he was entering politics for the good of the country. “What Britain needs,” she recalled him saying, “is a leader who will lead, who will take the country forward with policies based on strong, righteous, Christian principles. There is no one in current politics prepared to do that… But I am!”

  And that change had come after the crash, when figures of myth had risen to the fore and taken over unwitting individuals for who knew what motives?

  Harriet hurried from the grange and crossed to the stable block.

  She had memorised the codes the other day when her husband had ushered her into his sanctum sanctorum. She used them now to enter his relic museum and then, treading lightly but with a rapidly beating heart, to the cylindrical vault where Drake kept his precious Holy Grail.

  The door swung slowly open and she entered the steel-ribbed chamber, approaching the onyx, jewel-encrusted cup on its stand with the hushed reverence of a supplicant.

  It was as if she were thirteen again, and offering herself for her first communion.

  She stared at the Grail and, feeling more than a little dubious, said, “Emrys?”

  A silence. For a heartbeat, it occurred to her that everything her husband had told her was a lie––that the voice she had heard the other day was indeed no more than a gimmick of computer-generated wizardry.

  Then she heard Emrys Rhys’s mellow, Welsh cadences. She jumped.

  “Harriet, how nice to see you again.”

  She stepped froward and murmured, “Emrys?”

  “You appear… concerned.”

  She gestured. “Is it any wonder? Just the other day Derek drops all this on me. The Grail. You. The crash. Then today he told me about the eidolons and everything else.”

  “Ah yes, that would come as something of a shock, I fear.”

  “You can say that again. But…”

  “Go on.”

  She hesitated. “Why?” she asked. “I mean, what’s happening, Emrys? Why you? Why were you chosen?”

  “Propinquity, I rather think. I did die within feet of the holiest of holy relics, after all. The power which resided in it––and as Derek mentioned the other day, the Grail once upon a time contained the life blood of our exalted Saviour––needed a channel through which to work.”

  Harriet stared at the cup. “A channel? To work?” She licked her lips. “But… what work?”

  “Ah… That? As I told you the other day, Harriet, our Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  “But the eidolons,” she persisted. “The creatures of myth that have been unleashed––”

  Emrys interrupted, “Not myth, Harriet. Certainly not myth. You are very much mistaken if you think that the eidolons represent figures from mere legend. They might be the icons of folklore, Harriet, but the fact is that they existed. In their own time they were very, very real—just as real as they are again today, thanks to the Higher Power.”

  “Eidolons… Derek told me about them. Robin Hood, Wayland the Smith, Oberon and others. But…”

  “Go on.”

  He heart pounded. “After the crash. Derek… changed. Became even more driven, focused. He told me he wanted to work for the good of the country.”

  “That is so, yes.”

  “But…” She leaned forward, staring at the glittering encrustations on the flank of the Holy Grail. “But did my husband, did Derek, become an eidolon? And if so, of whom?”

  A silence greeted her words. She could almost see the Emrys of old, smiling tolerantly at her.

  At last the warm, lilting voice replied, “Now whose spirit do you possibly think imbued itself in Derek, my dear?”

  She gasped, almost fainted. She had been right! She had hardly dare credit her supposition, back in the bedroom, but Emrys––no lesser authority than the Holy Grail itself––had proved her notion correct.

  She backed away from the Grail, almost genuflecting in her ecstasy. As she was about to turn and leave the chamber, Emrys said, “There is one more thing, Harriet.”

  She paused at the door, heart pounding. “Yes?”

  “We live in interesting times, my dear. The country teeters on the cusp of hostilities. Hawkish voices whisper in the ears of those in power, and I would hate to think that Derek might be swayed, however much I might counsel him. But he listens to you, my dear, and I beg you to guide him in this time of strife, and steer him away from conflict.”

  The Grail fell silent.

  When Harriet was sure that it would say no more, she stepped from the chamber, closed the door behind her, and hurried from the stable block.

  So Emrys thought that he was losing control of her husband, did he? He wanted her to counsel him to caution?

  She stifled a laugh.

  Perhaps Derek had listened to Emrys a little too much in the past. Perhaps, now, it was time for Derek Drake to listen to his wife.

  Derek Drake. Or what he had become.

  Because, as Harriet entered the house and fixed herself a stiff gin and tonic, she was in no doubt as to the identity of the eidolon which had invested her husband with such power.

  There was only one person Derek Drake could possibly be: Jesus Christ.

  EIGHTY MILES AWAY at Number 10 Downing Street, Drake was chairing an
emergency cabinet meeting.

  “The three Russian battleships which entered our territorial waters yesterday show no indication of retreating,” said the Minister of Defence, “despite the close attention of HMSEdinburgh.”

  “I had a call from our man in Tallinn this morning,” the Home Secretary said. “Reports from the border indicate a build-up of Russian forces.”

  “The ambassador of Lithuania was on the line,” said Laxton, the Foreign Minister, “reporting a similar Russian military build-up on their border…”

  And so it went, his ministers chipping in with a list of Russian misdemeanours to which Drake listened with an outward air of equanimity. He leaned back in his chair, steepled his hands beneath his chin as if in prayer, and stared up at the ceiling.

  The Defence Secretary finished, “All things considered, Derek, I urge caution.”

  “Caution?” Drake repeated. “Isn’t our policy of caution the very reason slimy Vasilyev has been able to get where he is today, rattling his sabres as if his impoverished nation is still a super-power?”

  “Nevertheless, sir––”

  Drake cut across him and said to his minister for digital security, “Russia will stop at nothing now to undermine the sovereignty of our nation. High on their agenda will be cyberattacks. Vasilyev will increase his efforts to spread misinformation and disinformation. They will no doubt attempt to discredit member of this very cabinet, and even myself. We must be vigilant.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “But about these dashed Russkie battleships, sir…” said the Minister for Defence.

  Fifteen minutes later the meeting broke up, and Drake lost no time in contacting his secretary. “I want you to issue, with immediate effect, a report stating that Russia is planning to release so called ‘compromising footage’ to discredit government ministers and Resurrection Party politicians. Play it as yet another perfidious assault on the bastions of our cherished democracy, et cetera.”

  Next, this time on a secure line, he reached Rear Admiral Dorsey for a progress report.

  “Everything running to plan, sir,” Dorsey said. “The HMS Nautilus entered the Baltic at oh-three-hundred hours today.”

  “And…?”

  “And it will be in range of Moscow before midnight.”

  Drake thanked him and cut the connection.

  All in all, events were progressing smoothly. Even Major Wynne had sugared the pill of yet another Paladin humbling with news that the vehicle carrying Ajia Snell and her terrorist cell had been spotted heading north from Derbyshire that morning.

  And now, home. Drake had some unfinished business with Harriet to attend to.

  Chapter 26

  “WHAT HAPPENED?” AJIA groaned.

  She stared up at Mr LeRoy and Daisy Hawthorn. They smiled reassuringly down at her. Daisy was holding her hand, her touch filling Ajia with warmth.

  “Where am I?”

  She was flat on her back, jouncing up and down. She struggled into a sitting position and tried to make sense of her new surroundings, her head throbbing. A dozen semi-familiar faces regarded her. Some faces were small and beautiful, others big and ugly. Brownies and boggarts, she reminded herself. The nursery. The attack of the Paladins. The helicopter!

  “You’re a hero,” Daisy Hawthorn said. “You accounted for most of the Paladins singlehandedly, and then brought the helicopter crashing down.”

  “Almost killing yourself in the process, I might add,” Mr LeRoy said. “You landed on your head on the cobbles, and luckily the helicopter careered through the air before crashing.”

  “And you, my girl,” the Green Woman went on, squeezing her hand, “had a nasty case of concussion. It’s a good job we kept a first-aid kit aboard the bus. Smith could have healed you, but your injuries weren’t life-threatening, and… Well, anyway, we’ve done the best job we can.”

  Ajia reached up and fingered the bandage on her head. She was lying on a makeshift bed in the back of the minibus, which had been cleared of seats to make room for crates of flowers.

  Daisy saw her looking and explained. “I used this, when I had the nursery, to make deliveries. And I couldn’t leave the place without bringing along a few plants, could I?”

  Ajia smiled. Everyone else, the brownies and boggarts, elves and goblins, Reed Fletcher and Wayland Smith, sat around on sacks of compost and soil-improver, bouncing around with the motion of the minibus.

  She recalled Smith, staring down at the bloody hammer, his expression an odd mixture of bewilderment and revulsion.

  She had him to thank for saving her life.

  Smith was slumped on a sack, staring morosely through the window.

  “I need to talk to…” she whispered to Mr LeRoy.

  He pressed her back down with a plump but firm hand, murmuring, “I’d leave him be for the time being, Ajia. Smith has much to think about. Maybe later, okay?”

  She nodded, taking in the gallery of faces staring at her as the minibus jolted along. “I wonder, could you tell them to stop staring at me, please?”

  Daisy laughed. “But they’re in awe of you,” she said, “Bogdan and Gregor and the other boggarts, especially. They’re odd creatures. They think the normal run of humans puny when it comes to physical combat. But you taught them something last night.”

  “But I’m not normal, am I?”

  The Green Woman whispered, “But the boggarts don’t know that, love. Between you and me, they’re none too bright upstairs.”

  Ajia smiled and peered through the window. “Where are we?”

  “South Yorkshire, heading north,” Mr LeRoy said. “We’re about to find a suitable place to stop and hide up for the day.” He saw her frowning, and forestalled her question: “It’s almost dawn, Ajia, and you’ve been unconscious for almost twenty-four hours.”

  “Now settle back, my girl,” Daisy said, “and rest.”

  AJIA WAS ALONE in the minibus when she came to her senses. The vehicle had stopped, and so had the throbbing in her head. Sunlight slanted in through the windows. She smelled cooking food and realised how hungry she was.

  She sat up, kicked off the cocooning sleeping bag. Her old blood-soaked clothes were gone. Someone––Daisy?––had dressed her in leggings and a brown tunic that had obviously belonged to one of the bigger elves.

  As she stood unsteadily, a boggart jumped up from where he had been sitting on the steps of the bus and came forward hesitantly, offering a big gnarled hand to assist her. Smiling, she took it, and stepped from the minibus. He watched her in silence, an expression like awe on his huge, ugly face with its Neanderthal brow and oversized, dumpling nose.

  She thanked him and looked around.

  What she saw resembled some woodland scene out of a storybook. Dying sunlight slanted in low from the west. In the centre of the clearing was a campfire, with a big pan bubbling over a licking flames. A brownie stood in attendance, stirring the pan. Elves and boggarts sat around chatting. Daisy Hawthorn and Reed Fletcher sat cross-legged, face to face. It was obvious by the intensity of their conversation that they were discussing old times.

  Off to one side sat Mr LeRoy. He’d piled up three or four sacks of compost––or a boggart had done it for him––to arrange a seat that looked more like a throne. He was bent over his map book, his palms flat on the page and his eyes closed.

  The boggart at her side seemed reluctant to release his grip on her hand. She smiled at him and murmured, “I’m fine, now, thank you. I’d like to speak with Mr LeRoy, in private.”

  She set off towards him, but the boggart followed. “In private,” she said. “Alone.”

  The little man frowned at her.

  “Perhaps you could get me a bowl of food, hmm? I’m very hungry.”

  “Food? You want food?”

  “I do.”

  He grinned, showing her a set of spectacularly awry teeth, and scurried off.

  She crossed to Mr LeRoy.

  He sensed her arrival and opened his eyes.
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  “Ajia, my child. Awake at last. And how are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine. Hungry. Where are we?” She nodded to the map book.

  Mr LeRoy indicated a sack of compost. She sat down.

  “We are currently situated on the outskirts of Bradford,” he said. “Caution is still the watchword. We travel by night, and rest up by day. After how we handled the Paladins back there, Mr Drake and his cohorts will be on the proverbial warpath.”

  She looked at him. “Why Bradford?”

  “I am recruiting,” he explained. “I hope to add another soul to our mismatched band, a character whose talents can only assist us on our venture. But…” He frowned. “I am being pulled by contradictory forces.” He lay his flattened palms on the spread pages of the map book. His hands were covering a map of the entire country, not specifically this region.

  “I am, on one hand, drawn to continue my own quest, north and then west, to pick up eidolons, but at the same time I feel a compelling force drawing me south.”

  The boggart arrived bearing her bowl of stew, and she took it with a smile.

  The creature backed off, but paused a couple of yards away, watching her as she spooned hungrily. The thick vegetable broth was the first thing she’d eaten since the meal at the nursery, almost two days ago, and it tasted wonderful.

  Mr LeRoy spoke gently to the boggart, and he moved away reluctantly.

  “A compelling force?” she said. “From where? And why south?”

  “From where? That, my child, is a mystery as vast as what is happening to us all. As to why south? That, I think, is not so great a mystery. Now, what is this quest all about, Ajia?”

  “The overthrowing of Drake,” she answered promptly.

  “Precisely, but with whose assistance?”

  “Arthur,” she said, finding that she uttered the word with reverence. “King Arthur.”

  “And I am being drawn south by a force that tells me, with irrefutable logic, that we shall find the man we seek in his legendary––or not so legendary––stamping ground.”

  “Avalon.”

  “Or its modern equivalent.”