by Ward,Matthew
Holman stiffened at the challenge. "No. We've got this." She filled her words with a confidence she didn't really feel.
Dragaud shrugged. "As you wish. Lead on, intello."
Holman bit down her irritation, and did as she was bidden.
*******
The tunnel was a mess, full of pipes, rubble and discarded construction materials. It never ran straight for more than a few yards at a time, making it impossible to see – or even imagine – how far ahead Terrance's errant golem was.
What Holman found all too easy to imagine was the thin, self-satisfied smirk on Lucille Dragaud's face. Holman had never been so long in the other woman's company, and finally understood why Dragaud had spent most of her secondment running errands for Crowe: no one else wanted to work with her. Probably that was why she'd been seconded in the first place – no one in the French Embassy wanted her around either.
"I wish you wouldn't call me that," Holman said at last, her voice a hushed whisper.
"Call you what?" Dragaud's voice brimmed with knowing innocence.
"Intello. I speak seven languages. I know what it means."
"But it suits you so well, ma cherie. You're a… What's the phrase? Ah yes, a keyboard warrior. You're not made for field work. That you've some ridiculous idea of avenging your lover..."
Holman halted and drew up to her full height. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course I do. Everyone does. I feel for you, I truly do, but tragedy does not make a lion out of a mouse."
"I expect that from the guys," Holman bit out, "but I'd hoped for a bit of woman-to-woman solidarity, even from you."
Dragaud laughed softly and walked on ahead.
Holman jogged to catch up. "What's so funny?"
"I spent five years in the army, two of them in special operations, one of those in the Middle East. After that, I transferred to the DGSE – the equivalent of your MI6. I've killed men on three continents. I've taken bullets for government ministers. So how has Professor Blackwood put me to use these past four years? As a driver. A secretary. A maker of sandwiches." She sneered. "I was trained by the best, and I had to fight to get back out here. You? You bawled your grief at Crowe. He patted you on the head, gave you a gun, and sent you on your way. And you wonder why I'm laughing?"
It was her tone that did it, the disdain; every word as merciless as the rumble of the train passing somewhere beneath them. "You weren't at Aldwych. You didn't see…"
"Yes, it's always Aldwych, isn't it? Coldharbour's great and noble battle against the darkness? I'm sick of hearing about it. From you, from Crowe – even that new fellow, whatever his name is. You're right, I wasn't at Aldwych. I was trapped under the rubble at HQ. Four days I was there before they dug me out. Four days, with only corpses for company. Was Aldwych worse than that?"
"Now, you listen to me…"
Dragaud turned away. "Quiet."
"Hey! You're not getting off that easily..."
The noise of the train faded. Dragaud waved at her. "For the love of God, be silent."
This time, the Holman heard it: a muffled whimper, barely louder than the fading echo of the train, followed by a wet cracking sound.
They rounded the next bend, and there was the golem – a large, blocky shape, standing motionless next to a pile of rags. "Jesus. The thing's enormous."
The golem was indeed seven or eight feet tall, even slightly hunched over. Even at that distance, and with only the questionable torchlight to work with, Holman saw that its smooth grey clay had been shaped in imitation of a chainmail-clad warrior, complete with surcoat and conical Norman helm. The physique was all wrong. Its broad shoulders and long, muscled arms put her more in mind of a gorilla than a man. Part of her wanted to get closer, study its workmanship, learn its secrets. The rest wanted to run screaming in the other direction.
The golem stood motionless in the torchlight, facing away from Holman, seemingly unaware it was no longer alone. A train rumbled along in the distance, the breeze picking up as the pressure changed. At once, the golem stood upright. It uttered a single booming note – the dolorous offspring of a seagoing foghorn and a liturgical chant – and lumbered away, footfalls crunching on the concrete floor.
As it walked, its grey skin broke and shifted like sheets of ice upon the ocean. Red light shone out between the gaps – angry, vibrant, and oddly liquid in the torchlight.
Holman sucked down a deep breath to calm her nerves. "Terrance wants us to subdue that? It'll snap us in half."
"Terrance can go to hell." Dragaud picked up her pace, and shone her torch down at the bundle of rags. Except it wasn't a bundle of rags, but a huddled body in filthy blue overalls. "Poor devil. We need to shut that bête down before it reaches a populated area."
Holman stooped next to the man's body. His chest was a mess of mangled flesh and protruding bone. She'd seen worse, but seldom this fresh. "Nothing we can do for him. Why can't Terrance ever wake anything friendly?"
Dragaud shook her head, one eye on where she'd last seen the golem. "Mad professeurs. Every museum should have one. You'd think the trustees would remove him."
"They can't. For all his failures, he's the closest anyone has to an expert. I don't know how it is at Caen, but we didn't have Medieval enchantment on the Oxford syllabus. I don't fancy putting my trust in Coldharbour's in-house advisor."
Holman suppressed a shudder. Just the thought of working with Mr Black made her skin crawl. Too much history there, and none of it good.
"For once, we agree on something." The golem's booming cry echoed along the tunnel. Dragaud jerked her head. "Come on."
The creature hadn't gone far. It stood maybe twelve yards past the next bend, as motionless as before. Had it heard them? Holman couldn't tell. Its poise gave the impression that it had simply… stopped. Waiting for something, perhaps.
Dragaud raised her pistol. "You! Creature! By the Charter of Coldharbour, and under the authority of the crowns of Great Britain and Eventide, I charge you to yield!"
Holman trained her own automatic on the creature. Despite herself, she was impressed. The ritual challenge looked ridiculous on the page, but hearing Lucille proclaim it sent shivers down her spine. According to Mr Black, the form of words granted power over intruders of certain sorts. There was no guarantee that the golem was one of them.
The golem stood a little straighter.
"Did you not hear me, creature? I will count to three. One… Two…"
At last, the golem lurched around. There was no face beneath its helm, just a swirling mass of red light, seething and crashing like waves in a storm. Holman felt a chill as its empty gaze fell upon her. She heard the hiss as Dragaud's words dissolved into a sharp intake of breath. The golem bellowed once more, the baleful notes rattling Holman's teeth.
It charged.
Dragaud opened fire. The sharp, flat crack of the automatic cut cleanly through the golem's war cry. Holman felt the tunnel tremble in time to the lumbering footfalls, saw red sparks glinting where the bullets struck, but distantly, as if the whole thing was happening to someone else.
She wanted to pull the trigger, but her fingers wouldn't respond. She saw Dragaud shouting. The words were muffled, lost beneath her thudding heartbeat.
The red glow of the golem's face drew closer, and Holman's need to shoot was replaced by a desperate desire to flee. It went just as unheeded – her legs were no more willing to obey than her fingers had been. One thought went round and round in her head, pounding like a drum. I'm going to die. Just like Alex. I'm going to die. The golem lurched to a halt in front of her, and raised a misshapen hand high above its head. Holman felt her arms fall limply to her side, the pistol slipping from numb fingers. The golem's face pulsed angrily, and its hand swept down.
Holman's world lurched sideways. Something hard struck the back of her head. Bright stars of pain burst across her vision. An inrush of sights and sounds swept them away. The feel of ridged metal digging into her spine. The golem's ominous for
m three paces away. Dragaud's hands on her shoulders, the Frenchwoman's eyes staring intently into hers.
Holman's jumbled memories realigned themselves. She was lying against the tunnel wall. Dragaud had shoved her clear.
"You've no place here. What was Crowe thinking?"
Dragaud rose, positioning herself between Holman and the oncoming golem. The pistol barked again; once, twice, three times. It fell silent. Dragaud cursed in sibilant, vicious French, and stooped, fingers straining for an abandoned length of piping. As the golem reached for her, she clutched the steel like a batter hoping for a home run, and swung.
She struck the golem just above the level of its sculpted belt. Three grey platelets shattered into dust. Red light spilled out from the wound, dripping across the pipe, the floor, and Dragaud's sleeve. The golem shuddered, and froze.
"Don't like that, do you?" Dragaud taunted. "Come, have another!"
She swung the pipe again. The toe of the golem's left foot caught her beneath the ribs before the blow landed. Dragaud flew backwards through the air, the pipe clanging from her hand, and landed with a sickening crunch. Before she could rise, the golem was on her, one massive clay foot pressing down on her chest. She cried out in pain.
The scream drove away the last of Holman's paralysis. Pushing off the tunnel wall, she dived to where she'd last seen her pistol. She scooped it up with shaking hands. Still lying sideways, she aimed at the centre of the golem's back. The sights twitched back and forth like a kite in the wind, but it didn't matter – not at that range. Gunshot after gunshot rolled into the next until the hammer clicked down on an empty chamber.
The golem didn't flinch. It leaned forward. Dragaud cried out again as its weight shifted.
A train rumbled past somewhere below, the breeze thickening with the pressure change. Holman hit the release on her automatic, and reached for another magazine. In her haste, she fumbled the motion. The magazine fell to the floor. Her desperate grab only made matters worse, and sent it skittering off along the concrete. As she grabbed for it a second time, the golem bellowed again. Abruptly, it removed its foot from the spluttering Dragaud, and lumbered away past Holman without. Soon, it was lost to sight around the next bend.
Still shaking, Holman rolled to her feet and hurried to Dragaud's side. "Lucille?"
"Ugh." Dragaud's voice was faint. Holman reached down to help her up, but was waved off. "I'm fine. Give me a minute."
Holman nodded. Stepping back to give Dragaud a little room, she pulled out her radio and thumbed it on. "Professor Terrance? You there? It's Holman."
After a brief pause, Terrance's voice crackled back. "Terrance here. It's not too damaged, I hope?"
Dragaud offered a disbelieving snort from somewhere level with Holman's knees.
"Not damaged at all," Holman replied, trying to keep a steady voice. The adrenaline rush from the encounter was fading, leaving a pressing need to hit something, or shout at someone – if only to drown out the accusing voice at the back of her head. "We emptied two clips into it, then it booted Lucille halfway back to the museum."
"Oh dear. Where is it now?"
"Never mind where it is now," Holman snapped. "What is it? How do we stop the bloody thing?"
There was a long moment of offended silence before Terrance spoke again. "Well, I have been doing a little digging around since you left, and I think I've found a reference to it in Fulwicke's Arcanum Britannica. It's a beorgan."
"A what?"
"A beorgan. Sorcerers created them as bodyguards, though there's a record in the Tancarta of one acting as jailor to Richard the Lionheart during his days at Durstëin. In fact…"
Dragaud sat upright and hissed in pain. "I don't care about its lineage. How do I stop it?"
The radio crackled indignantly. "I really must protest. It's a very valuable specimen…"
Holman cut him short. "Your very valuable specimen already killed a maintenance worker, and damn near killed both of us too. Bullets bounce off it."
"Oh. I see. Well they would, I suppose. According to Fulwicke, a beorgan's enchantment is a very particular thing, making it proof against arrows or against swords, but not both."
Dragaud climbed to her feet, and propped a hand against the wall. "We were shooting silver-tipped bullets at it, not arrows."
Terrance's sniff was audible even over the radio. "I was speaking in general terms. The enchantment originates from the time of the Iceni. It was probably more concerned with Roman pilums than literal arrows. This kind of magic's more about broad intent than specifics."
"I guess that'd explain why the pipe hurt it, and the bullets didn't," mused Holman. "Thanks professor. We'll be in touch."
"Now wait a minute…"
Holman thumbed the radio off and stared meaningfully at Dragaud. "I'll call for backup."
"No." Dragaud's voice was as cold and flat as her expression.
"What do you mean, no? We can't take that thing by ourselves."
"I can."
"How?"
Dragaud reached down, and retrieved the length of pipe. "Through application of the ancient French art of pipe-fu. I'm going to hit it again and again until it breaks." She started forward. Stopping abruptly, she pressed a hand to her side.
"You're in no condition to hit anything."
Dragaud snatched her hand away. "It's only a rib. I'll manage."
"I'm calling Crowe."
"No!" Dragaud snatched the radio from Holman's hand. "I need to do this. I can do this. But not if I'm babysitting you."
"That's not fair!"
"Isn't it? You froze, intello. You're a heartbroken child playing at soldier. You're going to get yourself killed. Get out of here."
She made to walk past, but Holman blocked her path.
"And you're not? I was brought up not to place stock in stereotypes, but I've never known anyone who better embodies the image of a stuck-up, stiff-necked, I-know-better-than-you, let-them-eat-cake, froggie bitch." Holman jabbed a finger at Dragaud's chest. "I bet if I cut you open all I'd find is ice. What is it with you? Well? I'm listening!"
Dragaud's eyes blazed. "He walked past me."
Holman frowned, taken aback by the non sequitur. "Wait. What?"
"The prisoner. Just after he brought HQ down. He killed everyone else. I thought he'd kill me too. Instead, he patted me on the head, told me I wasn't worth the effort, and left me pinned beneath the rubble. Part of me's still there. And this?" Dragaud patted the length of pipe. "This is the only way I know how to get that part back."
Suddenly, Holman understood. "You need to prove yourself."
"It was better before. I was forced on Coldharbour. You all knew I was a spy, so you hated me. That's fine. I understood that. But I won't live as an object of pity."
"You know that's probably why he spared you? He knew this'd hurt you more."
A little of the fire retreated from Dragaud's eyes. "I actually hadn't considered that. But it's not about him any longer. This won't work if Crowe or another of your precious Aldwych heroes comes riding to the rescue."
"That's why you don't want me along? Because I was at Aldwych?"
"I don't want you along, intello, because you don't belong here."
For a moment, Dragaud looked like she was about to say something else. Then she turned on her heel, rested the pipe against her shoulder like a rifle, and stalked unevenly away down the tunnel.
Holman went for her radio, but stopped. The smart thing to do was to call in for help, the hell with Dragaud's pride, but somehow... "I'm sorry about the froggie thing, but you're wrong about me."
Dragaud gave no sign of hearing, and kept walking.
"Well, you're a little bit right," Holman allowed. "I wanted to be out in the field because of Alex, but not to avenge him."
Dragaud halted.
"When I learned that he'd died…" Even those few words brought the sense of loss flooding back; the memory of the pine coffin slipping behind the curtains of the remembrance chapel. Holma
n felt something catch in her throat, but she pressed on, refusing to give in. "…I felt helpless. Like something terrible had swept out of the darkness and carried my life away along with him. I wished more than anything that I'd been at his side. I told myself I'd have kept him safe. But it was a lie."
Dragaud turned around. Holman stared down at her own feet, knowing she'd never get the story out with the other woman's eyes on her.
Her shoe brushed against something – the magazine she'd dropped earlier. She picked it up and reloaded her pistol, glad to have something else to focus on.
"I didn't do much at Aldwych. I cowered behind a locked door and threw some switches. And as I sat there, with my hands clamped over my ears, I realised that if I'd been with Alex when those… things… attacked, I'd have died too. That's why I asked Crowe to train me. I swore the next time someone needed me, I'd make a difference." Bitter laughter forced its way up through her lips, and she threw up her hands. "Didn't work, did it? First shout, and I froze."
Holman looked up, expecting to see the familiar condescending scowl. For once, it was nowhere to be seen. In its place was something Holman had never thought to see on Dragaud's face: a look of quiet understanding.
"You froze when the golem came for you. You recovered when it went for me." She shrugged. "It's always easier to fight for others than for yourself – especially when you're not convinced you deserve to survive."
Holman wasn't sure which of them Dragaud was talking about. Perhaps she meant them both. "Maybe that's why I'm not going to let you fight that thing alone."
Dragaud's lips twitched into a half smile. "Maybe that's why I've decided not to stop you."
Holman exhaled a relief she hadn't expected to feel. A long overdue truth, of sorts. "What's the plan?"
"Plan, intello? I already told you my plan. If you want to help, distract it long enough for me to land a few good hits."
"I wish I knew why it let us live, but killed that poor sod back there."
Another train rumbled past beneath. Before it had faded, a booming roar swept along the tunnel.
"It's the trains," murmured Dragaud. "It's drawn to the noise."
"Why?"
