The Celtic Mirror

by Louis Phillippi

  “When my father complained that he was going to take the matter to the Occupation Tribunal, he was seized and hacked to death in the yard.” A flow of very real tears ran down his cheeks and splashed on his chest. . . one of his proudest accomplishments. “My mother and I were forced to watch.” His voice was heavy with ersatz emotion as he continued to force tears.

  The eye answered with an unblinking silence.

  “You must help me,” the bogus peasant cried with a catch in his voice. “I hate those Mercian bastards. I want to do something. . . anything, if only I can help to drive them from our lands. Please, sir,” he was becoming increasingly nervous at the lack of response to his perfect performance,” let me speak to the lord Cunneda. I know he can help me. There are men who are whispering that Dumnonia’s lord has no love for the Viks.” He slipped to his knees in a supplicating position.

  “Help me,” he cried, breaking into an artistic sob.

  The eye remained unresponsive.

  “Who is it, Lucien?” Called a voice from behind the staring orb, melodious, smooth, cultivated. Cunneda!

  “It is a young man who wishes your help, my Lord,” answered a voice from beneath the eye.

  “Then show him in, Lucien,” replied the first voice in a tone that reminded Schlaager uncomfortably of the Governor-General. The door opened in obedience to the imperious command and Schlaager was lifted to his feet and ushered into a dim foyer by an unsmiling servant whose eyes, both of them, bored deeply into him, making him cold despite the day’s heat. An icy blade of panic inserted itself in Schlaager’s neck. He had heard stories about strange powers possessed by certain of the Keltaner.

  Such stories had been easy to dismiss in the light of day. The dim foyer, however, was a breeding place for shadows, moving shadows that clutched at him. His heart tripped wildly in his chest and he fought with the impulse to break away to the door, to the light. He knew, however, that he had gotten too close to the truth to abandon the hunt.

  Swallowing dryly, he followed the disapproving back of the servant into a small anteroom. There, a smooth-faced aristocrat was reclining easily on a comfortable couch. Without a word spoken, Schlaager was motioned to a seat opposite. Lucien closed the doors. The latch clicked like the catch on an animal snare.

  “Young man. You look hot and tired.” Cunneda gestured to his manservant. “Get our guest some iced wine, Lucien.” The nobleman settled back, a politely interested expression on his handsome face. “Tell me why you have sought me out?”

  Heartened, Schlaager repeated the story he had given the servant, embellishing it somewhat with the second telling. As he spoke, the nobleman nodded sympathetically, interrupting Schlaager only to ask for amplification and more detail. Schlaager was pleased that he had done his homework beforehand. The questions were far too pointed to be as casual as they appeared on the surface. Flushed with triumph, Schlaager finished his tale with a plea for revenge.

  The nobleman said nothing for a long moment but watched Schlaager in a measuring way. His gaze was broken only by the arrival of the manservant with a tray of cold-beaded goblets and a pitcher of the honey-smooth Dumnonian wine that even Schlaager appreciated.

  He started. A stocky, dour man had followed the servant and stood, examining him with folded arms. This is it! he congratulated himself. The short one is connected with the Keltik underground resistance!

  He recognized the look of the fighter about the man. He had made it!

  “Glivas?”

  “Yes, my chief,” answered the stocky man.

  “Is this the man you warned me about last week?”

  The blood drained from Schlaager’s face.

  “Assuredly, my lord.”

  “Let us see, shall we?” Martin Cunneda leaned across the space that separated them, reached for the top of Schlaager’s head.

  The Mercian shrank away from that touch. This is not the way it is supposed to happen! Keltanern are stupid. They. . . . He felt Cunneda’s hand grasp the hairpiece and pull it free.

  “There is something you should know about wigs, my benighted, young friend.” The Dumnonian High Chief smiled apologetically at him. “They always look like wigs, no matter how well made they might be.”

  Schlaager felt Lucien and Glivas move to take positions behind him. He wished he had notified Wulfe. He wished to live.

  “Well now,” Cunneda said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Well, now,” the hollow voice said. “My adjutant tells me that you speak our language somewhat.”

  The words, spoken clearly and distinctly but in a strange dialect, came to Jay Kettelmann from the mouth of a well that held his brain at a safe distance from full consciousness. Total awareness was a thing to be avoided. Total awareness brought only bewilderment and more gratuitous pain inflicted by the oddly uniformed soldiers who maintained his imprisonment. He neither cared to respond to the voice nor to look directly at the speaker. Awareness brought only pain, and the absence of pain had become, for him, almost pleasure.

  “Seeman...beantwoorten Die mier!” the speaker insisted in a manner that awoke old responses in the quagmire that his thoughts slogged through. The language and the tone commands your attention, Hansl. Pass auf, Junge!

  He obediently swung his face toward the voice, still keeping his eyes closed. Then, reacting to an obedience demanded by the intonation, he answered in a rusty whisper.

  “Immer sprechen wir Deutsch zu Hause...meine Eltern un’ ich. Wir waren...in Deutschland geboren.” After confessing his German birthright, Kettelmann swayed unsteadily on his stool. He knew if he opened his eyes, he would find himself in the light. He felt a hand touch his arm to steady him and he chanced a look, and then flinched when he saw that it was a soldier dressed in red who had come to his assistance. The red-coated ones had offered him many things since his capture; help was not one of them.

  “Leave him, Siegler.”

  The unwanted hand was immediately removed, making Kettelmann risk a fresh bout of vertigo as he turned to face the man who could command his tormentors to leave him alone.

  He controlled his second flinch with an effort that threatened to unman him once again. The tall blond man who presided over the room was dressed like his guards! A second, bolder look told Kettelmann that the soldier on the dais was an officer and a man of importance. Kettelmann understood power and straightened his back so that the officer could see that he, too, was an aristocrat and not an ignorant peasant like his keepers.

  Then the guard’s commander smiled. “I do not know this Deutschland where you were born, but at least your speech is somewhat understandable. That is all that matters at the moment.” He leaned forward. “There are many things I must know, my enigmatic young castaway,” the officer began, rising from his throne-like chair. He descended three steps to the main floor level and sat down upon them so that his eyes were even with Kettelmann’s, a gesture that did not escape the prisoner’s notice.

  “First we will begin with your name.” His smile was dazzling, but his eyes were like two chips of ice.

  “I was born Johannes Kettelmann, but I am called ‘Jay’ in America,” he explained obediently, watching for a thawing of the chilling eyes.

  There was no thawing, and Kettelmann knew at that moment that there would never be a warming of that piercing stare. A leader never lets down his guard, he told himself in consolation. This one is a real leader, perhaps even a maker of history. Those thoughts comforted Kettelmann; the next words took it away once again.

  “I also do not know of this place, Amerika, where you allow yourself to be called ‘Chay’.”

  Kettelmann reached for the seat of his stool to keep his balance. Nowhere on Earth could a man, an educated and powerful man such as this, know nothing of America. Where in hell did Connach’s fucking Mirror bring him? He made himself smile back at the officer, but he did not trust his voice.

  “That is a matter we can settle later, Johann,” the soldier told him, touching his arm a
lmost tenderly. “I can tell that there is nothing of the Kelt in you, language or name. That makes you an ally. It could also make you a valuable friend.” He lingered over the last word.

  Kettelmann studied the handsome face...no, the almost beautiful face and digested the word, friend, in the context of that observation. The signs of decadence were apparent in the petulant set of the man’s mouth, in the lines that brushed at the corners of those frigid eyes. He understood what that decadence, coupled with the word, friend, signified...what kind of friend he would have to be to that man of power in order to raise his own importance...and to wreak his vengeance on the guards who had tormented him for innumerable days. He smiled back at his potential benefactor.

  “I would like to be your friend,” he said without hesitation.

  A satisfied smile that spread over the degenerate officer’s face, and it almost frightened Kettelmann enough to back out of the easy deal he had made for his soul. What manner of man is this one? He asked himself. If I have made a mistake...if I have made a mistake.

  “You have made no mistake in seeking my friendship and protection in these troubled times, Johannes,” the officer said in the manner of an uncle... or of a lover. “I will instruct my adjutant to move you to quarters more suitable for an officer of the Vulkannetruppen, Kriegenfahrer Kettelmann.

  “I am called Thorkell, Governor-General of all the occupied Keltik territories, commander of the Vulkannetruppen.” The Governor-General of all occupied Keltik territories said and placed his hand gently upon Kettelmann’s cheek. “Tell me how you came to be among us.”

  “Sorry if I held things up,” Cunneda announced as he entered the passageway where Morgan waited with Connach. Glivas followed him, a squat, glum shadow. “We had a visitor who asked to join with us. I had Glivas give him the opportunity to meet with his ancestors, instead.

  Morgan could not keep his eyes from the sub-chief’s relaxed hands. It was not difficult to imagine those hands tightening around a blond Mercian’s neck, crushing the larynx, separating vertebrae. It was not difficult for Morgan at all. He had seen those hands straightened a bent sword. He had seen, most importantly, the cruelty in Glivas’s cold eyes. Glivas listened only to Cunneda and did only his bidding. Morgan looked up to find Cunneda’s cousin watching him with his snake’s stare.

  Morgan met his gaze and held it as he had once done with Maelgwynn. It was not to be the same, however. Glivas did not rise to the challenge or did not understand the rules of the juvenile contest. He nodded curtly and broke contact, whispering something to Cunneda.

  The nobleman looked in Morgan’s direction and nodded his own head.

  Morgan watched the exchange knowingly. He would remember to double his efforts to guard his backsides. Since joining Connach’s little war party, he had been in more danger from Celtic blades than from Vik hostility. Connach saved him from further unsettling speculations.

  “You recognized him as a Vik spy then?” Connach asked.

  “Aye, my friend,” Cunneda answered unctuously. “I saw him myself upon several occasions as you preached revolt in the marketplace. He was betrayed then and today by his wig.”

  “Yes,” Glivas added. “He was just another Mercian fool.”

  “Who was the fool?” Morgan blurted, unable to contain his feelings any longer. “You’ve had your people assassinate all known Mercian collaborators and spies. We were forced to kill that Mercian officer at the tunnel mouth, and now you’ve ‘eliminated’ a plant, no doubt sent to spy on you by your damned Governor-General himself!” He stabbed a finger at Cunneda; aware that he could not easily close the grievous breach he was about to open.

  “You and your trained ape may be the real fools! Why didn’t you just make an appointment to see that Thorkell and announce your little insurrection directly?” He moved to stand face-to-face with the Dumnonian High Chief.

  Cunneda’s eyes flickered almost imperceptibly, and Morgan caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision.

  “Stop!” Cunneda’s voice rang out. “All of you!”

  Morgan then saw that the movement had been from the sinister sub-chief. Glivas’s hand, clenched around a dagger haft, was arrested in mid-swing toward Morgan’s unprotected neck.

  “Thanks,” Morgan told Connach.

  “Don’t thank me. After this is over, you two can settle your differences in our customary way. You, Morgan, stop your mouth! You, Martin, stop your little killing machine!”

  Morgan and Cunneda both growled an insincere agreement at the same time.

  “If you want to know the truth, Martin, I agree that you acted the fool this time. There have already been too many unexplained deaths and disappearances from the enemy camp for Thorkell to ignore.” He stepped between Morgan and Glivas and took Morgan by the arm.

  “You seem determined to place yourself in danger,” Connach told Morgan as he eased him away from immediate peril. “If you keep irritating the wrong people, Kerry, you might miss the real action because you’ll be too dead to fight.”

  “Ian, I was only trying to explain....” Morgan got no further.

  “You can explain nothing to a High Chief unless an explanation is requested. It was not requested. Understand?”

  “You don’t need to lecture me, Ian.” Morgan said, looking back toward Cunneda. Glivas was looking at him, flexing his powerful hands. His lips formed one word, “Soon,” and Morgan knew that it had become too late for Ian’s lectures to positively affect his position in Cunneda’s clan territory.

  He allowed Connach to lead him into the portion of the tunnel where the young priest had assembled a large Mirror. Nero Germanicus had doubled the width of the frame with pieces of oak collected by Dumnonian Druid Brothers. The frame was just that...a frame. Stripped of dummy lenses and fraudulent power lines, the Mirror stood revealed as nothing more than an open rectangle with Keening Stones inset at each of the four corners.

  “There it is,” he said dryly, “stripped of all of its former glory.”

  Connach smiled. “No, Kerry. Both you and the Mercians stand blindly together in the face of the Mirror. The Vik mentality demanded machinery and power sources, so we gave them those things. You needed technology and power sources, so I gave them to you. Now you stand here and think that any carpenter could build a Mirror.”

  Morgan nodded. He was thinking along those lines and could not deny it.

  “Thanks to the gods that you are wrong.” Connach touched one of the stones. “There does exist a certain amount of ‘technology’ in its construction. The stones are subtly interconnected by the life forces preserved in the wood by the artificers and their Druid colleagues. They do serve as lenses to focus energy as you suspected the phony microlenses were doing. But the energy they focus has been rejected by your culture as ‘hocus-pocus’ and by the Mercians as uncontrollable. Again, you both erred.”

  He led Morgan to a position beside the expanded frame. “Since Martin has begun his war somewhat prematurely, we’d better send for the hardware we’ll need to even things up. I just hope that the priest wasn’t lying about his rapporting abilities and that Castillo is standing by.

  “Priest!” he snapped. “It is time.”

  Morgan watched fascinated as the boy-priest knelt on the stone floor and grasped a meter-long branch from an oak, which still bore its leaves. The boy’s eyes were closed in concentration, and his lips moved in a soundless litany. For a moment, nothing happened, and Morgan doubted that he would ever witness the spiritual powering that Connach had promised.

  Then, as he watched, the space enclosed by the frame shimmered like wind-touched water, and the familiar blue opacity formed—a depthless blue that stretched to the ends of eternity. Neither logic nor his eyes could find the other side of the tunnel which he knew had been there prior to the blue vortex’s appearance. Through that new blue tunnel lay Verulamium and Brigid. The enchanted ring he wore tingled in dizzying resonance with the stones in the oak frame, and the stone embraced by Aiofe’s w
ings pulsed with the concentration of forces brought to bear in the underground chamber.

  He felt no real discomfort though the thrumming made his hand tremble. He stared hopefully at the stone, squeezing his hand into a fist, concentrating on her. The stone glowed brightly but remained featureless and cold on his finger. He took his gaze from the ring and looked instead at the glimmering vortex. Beyond that mist-veiled door was Verulamium. He needed only to step through that portal to take her into his arms once again—if he survived the transfer.

  He stepped toward the dangerous frame and stared longingly at the blue magnet that pulled him closer. He took another step. He reached out his right hand to touch eternity.

  “Are you in that much of a hurry to leave?” Connach halted him with a touch. “If you wanted to, you could stick your arm through and wave to Castillo, but I wouldn’t guarantee that you’d recognize it when you pulled it back. I was going to use something a little less important to signal the other side.”

  He held his dagger by its blade and inserted it into the pool of blue light. “That ought to do it.” He pulled Morgan away from the face of the vortex. “You stand here and wait.”

  The wait was a short one. As soon as Connach had positioned himself opposite Morgan, the vortex was broken by the appearance of a wooden crate that stopped halfway through the frame.

  “Let’s get to work.”

  Morgan grunted assent and pulled on the crate’s rope handle. Connach had wrenched the lid from the box almost before Morgan had cleared the crate from the field. It contained 12 M-16’s, unwrapped and ready for instant use. Somebody on the other side must be thinking, Morgan thought with approval. He hefted two rifles and inspected them closely. One held the Springfield Armory mark. It could have been carried originally under Le Fay’s skin. The other, ironically, carried the Wheel of Life burned into its stock. The wooden stock of the Celtic copy added about a kilogram to its weight, he estimated, but should not affect its performance. What was extra weight to a man who favored the broadsword?