Stranger

by Zoë Archer

  Catullus’s gaze met hers. Despite the fact that a gigantic, angry mythical kind was about to slice them both into fillets, she was steady and resolute.

  “Someone needs a good talking to,” she said, glancing at Arthur.

  Catullus wasted no time. He held the silver wheel high in the air, ensuring the king could see it. “Hold, Your Highness,” he said again.

  The raised sword froze. Arthur looked down at Catullus with a puzzled frown, as if hearing something a great way off.

  “You are being misled,” Catullus continued rapidly. “The men who have been urging you on, calling you, they are not your friends. They are not the friends of England.”

  “Are you?” demanded Arthur.

  Good Lord, he was talking with King Arthur. “My associates and I seek peace and the betterment of everyone, not merely England.” He glanced toward the Heirs’ headquarters. As he did so, he caught sight of all the Blades looking at him, hope and fear commingled in their expressions. Catullus was literally their only chance of survival. Gemma stood at his side, barely breathing.

  Farther back, Catullus saw several Heirs gathered in the windows and on the parapets of their headquarters as they, too, waited to see what King Arthur would do.

  Turning back to Arthur, Catullus continued, “If you do as those men say, follow their will, you shall enslave the world to the greedy demands of a select few. Surely that is not what the Round Table stood for.”

  Arthur frowned, his massive brow creasing like furrows in a field. “Your words could be idle or false. A wicked enchantment crafted to deceive.”

  “Merlin, your oldest and most trusted counselor, gave this to me.” Catullus held out the silver wheel. “With his remarkable gift of prophecy, he foretold the disaster that would come to pass if you do not break free of these men, the destruction that shall be wrought. You cannot continue on this path, Your Highness.”

  Arthur appeared still undecided. An improvement, though small, from his goal of chopping the Blades into mince. Yet he did not appear convinced that the Blades were his allies, and the Heirs’ plans for England meant a global catastrophe.

  The king wavered, hearing Catullus’s words, but not truly listening. How to break through?

  “Give him the wheel,” said Gemma.

  Catullus stared at her.

  “He needs some kind of proof,” she went on, low and quick. “We know that if he touches the Primal Source, everything’s going to hell. But if he touches the silver wheel, he might be able to break away from the Heirs. Two magics physically connecting with each other.”

  Looking back and forth between the silver wheel in his hand and the giant king looming over him, Catullus saw the reason in her suggestion. He drew a breath and, holding the wheel up between his fingers, offered it to Arthur.

  “What is this?” the king challenged. “More trickery?”

  “Merlin made the wheel so you would learn the truth. Take it, and see,” urged Catullus.

  Though Arthur scowled, he did reach for the wheel. The king plucked it from Catullus’s grasp, the silver object a minuscule sequin in his enormous hand. Catullus forced himself to stand utterly still even though he knew Arthur could simply crush him, and Gemma, effortlessly.

  Arthur’s massive body stiffened as if absorbing a blow. He continued to stare at the wheel, horror playing across his face. Beneath his bearded, ruddy cheeks, he paled.

  “By the rood,” he rasped, his gaze distant, “you speak truly. I see a dark force holding the nation by its throat. I see magic fair and sinister brought beneath the yoke of servitude, and millions of mortal lives snuffed out like sighs. The fate and fortunes of all, controlled by a handful of men, who are themselves enslaved to their own avarice.” He raised his eyes to Catullus and Gemma, haunted. “I am nothing but a puppet. My dream is broken.”

  Brief triumph surged between Catullus and Gemma as they blindly reached for, and gripped, one another’s hands. They had done it! Arthur was now free of the Heirs’ will. The cost, however, was high. The king turned suddenly lost, gazing around with a mystified, bereft expression. He looked out of place, out of time, an anomaly in a modern world that had marched on without him.

  Of all the emotions Catullus expected to feel when standing in the presence of a mythical king, pity had not been one of them. Yet he felt it now, staring up at this creation of legend and dream, who lived in a scale much more grand than anything steam engines, gas lighting, or telegraphs could ever provide. A manifestation of chivalry and magic amidst the coal smoke. In the land that had created him, he was a stranger. And worse.

  Arthur was not the King of England, its embodiment of national identity and pride, but a dupe. He knew this now. The glimmering radiance around him dimmed.

  “Oh, hell,” Gemma murmured softly.

  Catullus took a step forward. “England still has need of you.”

  “Not just England,” Gemma added, coming to stand next to Catullus. “But the world, too, needs you.”

  A bitter smile barely shaped Arthur’s mouth. “As a fool, perhaps.”

  “As a leader,” Catullus said, level. “As the people’s champion.”

  Arthur gazed around him, his eyes lingering on chimneys thrust like dark bones into the sky. Somewhere, distantly, came the sound of a train whistle.

  “Fight with us,” said Astrid as she and Lesperance came forward.

  Thalia and Huntley also strode up. “Help us take back what’s been stolen,” Thalia said.

  “And make those bastards sorry for crossing the wrong king,” added Bennett, moving close with London beside him.

  Arthur’s smile slowly, slowly transformed, shifting from embittered to genuine. He drew his regal bearing about him like a mantle. The air around him gleamed once more.

  “’Tis a quest, is it not?” he said.

  “A quest of the utmost importance,” Catullus answered, his own spirits rising. “In the building behind you, the greatest power known in all of human imagination is kept prisoner. The magic is held by the same men who sought to manipulate you. And it must be freed.”

  Renewed, purposeful, Arthur nodded. “It will be my greatest pleasure to storm their fortress and reclaim that magic, as well as my own honor.” He surveyed the Blades of the Rose arrayed before him. “You are fine warriors and knights, and I shall be privileged to lead you into battle.”

  Arthur raised Excalibur, and Catullus felt within himself a visceral jolt, a surge of strength to witness King Arthur ready to lead a charge. What army or nation could resist his allure? If any heart lacked resolve, seeing the warrior king prepare for battle banished doubt and bolstered courage.

  Even Gemma—democratic, egalitarian Gemma—beamed to see King Arthur rallying the Blades. It had been her idea to give Arthur the silver wheel, and that had turned the tide in their favor. With King Arthur leading the attack on the Heirs’ stronghold, surely the Blades must succeed.

  “Onward, warriors,” Arthur boomed.

  A loud cheer rose up from the Blades, Catullus and Gemma’s voices amongst them.

  As one, they rushed across the square, toward the Heirs. Arthur took the lead, his long strides taking him to the Heirs’ very door. Shots rang out from the building as the Heirs defended themselves. Blades returned fire, never breaking their advance. Catullus fired his shotgun, Gemma her rifle, neither caring that their modern firearms paired incongruously with their clothing. The battle was on.

  The square filled with shouts, the sounds of glass breaking and men’s cries as some of the sentries on the roof were hit and fell the four stories down. Arthur kicked down the stout fence surrounding the building as if it were made of straw. Heirs rushed to meet him, but he felled them with a strike. With the Blades at his back, Arthur reached the heavy front door. Swirling clouds of magic churned around the door. A handful of Blades stumbled back, blinded, pulling at their sparking clothes, but the rest pressed on. Heirs tried to flank the advancing Blades, coming around the sides of the building. Catullus
and Gemma concentrated on keeping them back with a barrage of shots.

  Bellowing, Arthur slammed his shoulder into the door. The massive building shook beneath his weight. Yet the door itself did not move. Once more, Arthur threw his shoulder against it, and again. Cracks spread across the solid stone façade. An almighty groan sounded as the door shuddered before toppling backward, into the building.

  Where the door once stood, a gaping hole revealed the inside of the Heirs’ headquarters. Dust billowed up, combining with black smoke from the gathered Heirs’ gunfire. Most kept the line. Some fled. They braced themselves as Blades prepared to attack. Though the Heirs tried to appear stoic or fierce, seeing Arthur in the full of his fury plainly terrified them. Catullus and Gemma shared a grin. It felt good to be on the other end of the intimidation, for a change.

  Giving his own savage grin, Arthur hefted Excalibur. “Now to take back what has been stolen! Come, we—”

  A deafening roar severed the last of Arthur’s words. The king looked up, toward the source of the sound. His face registered patent amazement as a shadow darkened him.

  A huge, scaly form dove down from the sky. It crashed into Arthur. Both the king and the shape rolled, crushing everything in their path. In the middle of the square, Arthur staggered to his feet.

  Only to be engulfed in a jet of fire.

  The Heirs had unleashed a dragon.

  “Dragon,” Gemma said aloud. She stared at the beast, her eyes wide. “That’s a real dragon.”

  Catullus could understand her shock. He’d seen scores of beasts and creatures, from the terrible to the exquisite, enormous to minuscule. Nothing quite compared to seeing a huge mythological creature in real life. The last dragon he had seen had been in a Buddhist monastery in the Gobi Desert. That beast had been made of steam, but deadly all the same. He’d witnessed it tearing men to pieces.

  God knew the dragon Arthur faced in the square could easily do the same.

  “The dragon must be the Heirs’ fail-safe,” Catullus said. “If they lost control of Arthur, they would need some way to combat him. Nothing better than the mythic nemesis of England’s heroes.”

  Of all the beasts Catullus had seen, this dragon was by far one of the biggest. Its massive, scaled body could crush a tall-masted ship of the line, and its claws could flatten a carriage. The dragon’s leathery wings beat at the air as it circled and then landed opposite Arthur. Spikes ran from its huge head, down the length of its back, and all the way to its whipping tail. When it opened its maw to roar, each tooth was a broadsword.

  The dragon roared, impossibly loud, and its eyes glittered with an ancient hate. It charged Arthur. The king struck out with Excalibur.

  Another roar as the blade cut across the dragon’s front shoulder. Yet the beast only grew more angry. It lunged for Arthur again, and again the king used his swordsmanship to deflect the attack.

  The two were perfectly matched—the height of English chivalry against a powerful, mythical beast.

  “This could go on forever,” Catullus murmured.

  “Should we help him?” asked Gemma.

  “No time. Our hosts are here.”

  Heirs poured from every doorway into the ruins of the marble-lined foyer. Catullus grabbed Gemma and shoved them both behind a toppled column, moments before the Heirs opened fire. Blades all took up positions as they fought to break through the first wave of defenders. The air filled with the cacophony of gunfire, shouts, and, from the square outside, the dragon’s roar.

  In the midst of this madness, Bennett appeared beside Catullus and Gemma, London at his side. “I’m taking a contingent to where the Primal Source is held,” he shouted above the noise. He tipped his head toward a group of Blades crouched nearby: Thalia and Huntley, Astrid and the wolf Lesperance, Henry Wilson, Victoria Dean, Luis Diaz, and a dozen more.

  Catullus glanced at Gemma. “Ready to push on and keep fighting?”

  “Half-Irish, half-Italian,” she answered with a grin. She brandished a fist. “Brawling is in my blood.”

  He returned her grin, then nodded to Bennett that they were primed to go.

  For a moment, Bennett simply watched the volley of gunfire. Catullus had no idea what Bennett looked for, but his friend’s gift for slipping into unseen spaces had gotten all the Blades out of more than a few tight corners. Bennett suddenly signaled. It was time to move out.

  The remaining Blades gave cover fire. With Bennett at the lead, the contingent of Blades sprinted through the wrecked foyer, past a battalion of Heirs, up a curving flight of stairs, and into a long hallway. They could hear the fight continuing below, and moved quickly into the hall. Away from the chaos of the entryway, an almost unnatural hush descended. The Blades cautiously traveled down the passage, alert to any and every sound and movement.

  “Just as understated as the outside,” murmured Catullus, glancing around.

  Crystal chandeliers glinted like icicles down the length of the hallway. Mahogany furniture of the finest quality stood sentry outside closed doors. Thick carpeting muted footsteps, as did the rich tapestries of fabled beasts hanging on the walls. Portraits of esteemed Heirs hung beside the tapestries, dating back centuries, all the way to pale men in Elizabethan ruffs.

  “Looked like smug bastards even then,” noted Huntley. “Nobody’s got a chin.”

  Gemma took in her surroundings with a keen and attentive eye. “Is this what the Blades’ headquarters looks like in Southampton?”

  “Ours is a fourth the size, at a tenth the budget,” Catullus answered.

  “A sixteenth the budget,” Astrid corrected. “Remember how we couldn’t fix the east wall for three months?”

  “Quiet,” snapped Bennett. “Right around here should be a tr—”

  A creature leapt from a tapestry, shifting from a small, two-dimensional being into a full-sized monster blocking the hallway. The front half of its body resembled a large stag, complete with wickedly pronged antlers and exceptionally sharp hooves, while the lower half of its body bore the appearance of a bird of prey, including large wings and talons.

  “Holy God, what the hell is that?” Gemma demanded.

  “A peryton,” said Catullus. “Ancient beast from around Gibraltar. It hasn’t killed yet. Look at its shadow.”

  Gemma swore when she saw that the beast cast the shadow of a man against the expensively papered walls.

  “It’s part deer, right?” She backed closer to him when the peryton snorted and stalked closer. Its antlers dug deep gouges in the walls and the carpet tore beneath its hooves and talons. “That means it eats plants, not people.”

  “Actually,” Catullus noted, drawing his sword, “perytons are carnivorous. Have a taste for human flesh.”

  “Of course they do,” she muttered and drew her knife.

  The peryton crouched, then sprang toward the Blades. Huntley, Astrid, and Lesperance all leapt to intercept before it could reach the group. Lesperance, as a wolf, latched onto the beast’s throat, but it shook him free before he could fully sink his teeth into its neck. Huntley kicked a heavy table toward the peryton as Astrid opened fire.

  Neither the splintered wood nor the gunfire affected the creature. It kept moving forward, pushing the Blades back. Huntley planted himself in front of the peryton and used his rifle to shoot it right in the center of its forehead. Such a wound would have killed any mortal being. The peryton was neither. Enraged, it swung its head and caught Huntley across the chest with its antlers.

  Thalia ran forward to shield him from further hurt. Her husband tried to push her away to safety, but the beast moved too quickly, and she took a razor-sharp hoof down her back. The Huntleys’ blood spattered across the carpet in bright drops.

  Astrid and Bennett dragged the wounded couple out of the way. The other Blades, including Gemma and Catullus, unleashed a storm of bullets at the peryton, chopping up the fine wood and plasterwork of the passage. Yet the beast itself shed bullets like rain.

  “Can we find another route
?” Catullus yelled to Bennett.

  “This bloody place is a labyrinth,” came the shouted response. “We’ve got to get down this hall to reach the stairs that lead to the Primal Source. We go another route and we’ll wind up in a bloody dungeon.”

  Catullus’s mind spun. The damned creature seemed impervious to harm. There had to be some way to defeat it.

  A door behind the Blades slammed open. Several Heirs sprang out, guns aloft. Though Catullus recognized some of them, one in particular caught his notice. And Astrid’s, as well.

  She sucked in a breath, her body tensing. The Heir saw her at the same time. Fear tightened his mouth before he deliberately assumed an insolate, smirking manner.

  “How polite,” the Heir drawled. “You came all the way to my door, saving me the trouble. I’m looking forward to finishing what I started in Africa, Mrs. Bramfield.” He raised his pistol.

  “And I’ll finish what I started in Canada, Gibbs,” Astrid gritted. Fury turned her eyes to sharp diamonds. “Ran Staunton through with a sword. After I kill you, Michael’s death will be avenged.”

  Lesperance had recovered from being shaken off by the peryton and now crouched beside Astrid, growling. The Heirs with Gibbs edged back at the sight of the enraged woman and equally angry wolf.

  But Gibbs’s bravado held. “From men to animals,” he leered. “You are a twisted bitch.”

  Snarling, Astrid charged, with Lesperance fast behind. Gibbs fired, yet Astrid tackled him, throwing off his aim. She and the Heir rolled down the hall, trading blows, as Lesperance bit and lunged.

  Gemma moved to help, but Catullus held her back.

  “This is her fight,” he murmured. Before she could object, he added, “I need you with me.”

  She gave a quick nod.

  An abbreviated yell caught their attention. They spun around to see the peryton biting down on Henry Wilson’s shoulder. Blood streamed down Henry’s arm as he thrashed, trying to pull free. Other Blades, including Bennett and London, struggled to break the creature’s hold on their comrade. The peryton grew maddened by the taste of blood, eyes burning.