The Celtic Mirror

by Louis Phillippi

  “I won’t let you because we need him.” He took the lethal model from Morgan’s unresisting grasp. “Sorry.”

  “What are we going to do with this stuff? Play terrorist?”

  “We can’t afford to do that either. There would be reprisals for one thing. Secondly, it would put Thorkell on alert.” He sank to his haunches and extracted a metal cylinder the size of a pencil eraser from a pocket and inserted it into Morgan’s radiator knob. He then reshaped the plastique into a crude snake-like shape.

  “We’re going to distribute these little darlings to members of the resistance who have access to Vik installations. No artistic talent required.” He pushed the soft explosive into a juncture of floor and wall, smoothed it out, and sprinkled grit over it. It was invisible.

  Morgan peeled it from its tunnel-killing location and extracted the detonator. “Since you’re using an electronic detonator instead of flash cord, I suppose these will be set off by radio.”

  “If our electronic devices continue to function on this balled-up planet, that’s the plan.”

  Morgan rolled the tiny cylinder in his palm. “Since I don’t see any outside antenna on this thing, I’d expect its receiving range must be pretty limited.” When Castillo nodded, he asked, “How far?”

  Castillo expelled his breath in a long sigh. “Not far. Two “klicks” under optimum conditions. Less if we encounter any supern...unusual, interference.”

  “That’s another got damned if, Castillo!” Morgan exploded. “Caerwent is a big city.”

  “I’m ahead of you.” Castillo pulled a second crate close and lifted the lid. Ten compact black boxes rested in wood shaving packing material.

  “May I?” Morgan asked. His appreciation of Castillo’s thoroughness was growing stronger. He lifted one of the small cubes from the box and extended the telescoping antenna to its full length. “The signal amplifier, right?”

  “Not too bad for an army type,” Castillo answered in a perfectly serious voice. “More accurately, you’d have to call it an automatic repeater. As soon as it hears a transmission, no matter how weak, on 157 MHz, channel 20 on the ship to shore VHF, it retransmits.” His look swept to the box of C-4. “Then....” He clapped his hands. “Boom!”

  Morgan’s snort, his ill humor seeping back, darkly. “That’s all well and good. I don’t suppose you included a VHF transmitter as well, did you?”

  “I didn’t have too,” he replied evenly. “The boats have them. When Connach signals through the Mirror for the additional troops, the boats will sail to their offshore positions. The refitted Le Fay will detonate the plastique at the moment of sunrise off Caerwent’s coast. Satisfied?”

  Morgan was still not satisfied. “Fiberglass boats, slow ones at that, won’t stand up too well against the Vik orca patrols or roving P-boats.”

  “No they won’t. Unarmed they’d be sitting ducks. But each boat will carry a crew of three...heavily armed. Machinegun fire and rocket launchers should discourage orcas and P-boats. Hell, Kerry, it’s war. We...you and I...know the enemy isn’t going to roll over and play dead just because we’d like them to. We’re going to have to force them to their knees. In the process, things might go wrong. Our people are going to get hurt, too. The boats might be sunk before they can set off the explosions.” He rose to his feet.

  “There are a lot of alligators in this particular swamp. Just because you’ve had your ass bitten by the Cunneda variety doesn’t mean that you’ve got a reason to flake out. But if you’re going to, do it now, Morgan, get your sweet ass safely through the Mirror and let us do our jobs over here.”

  Morgan rose slowly, angry with Castillo, angry with himself. His hands shook again, and he squeezed the explosive as if strangling a deadly serpent.

  “Yes, I’ve been bitten by a few alligators around here. But it isn’t the first time, and I don’t guess it will be the last. I’m in this too far to back out now. The only way I’m going to go back to Verulamium again will be in a body bag or marching in a victory parade.” He transferred the soft grenade to his left hand and extended his right out to Castillo. He had not known that he was going to pull a deception on Connach’s executive officer until the moment that Castillo gripped his hand. The C-4 and its detonator slid neatly into a thigh pocket as he and Castillo shook.

  “Here’s to the alligator hunting.”

  “To the hunt,” Castillo answered, smiling.

  Morgan’s next moves were as precise as a dancer’s. He swung his left arm up as if to seal the handshake with his hand and sharply jarred the naval officer’s grip on the miniature repeater.

  The box fell to the tiles.

  “Christ!” Castillo exclaimed, stooping quickly.

  Morgan held onto Castillo’s hand, preventing him from reaching the device.

  “I’ll get it,” he said innocently and stepped quite deliberately on the case. It cracked open under Morgan’s carefully applied pressure.

  He scooped up the repeater before Castillo could touch it and held it to his face as if inspecting it. He pried an exposed wire through a gap in the case and broke it free of its solder connection.

  “Damn it! Looks like it’s broken all to hell,” he lied. Then he waited patiently while Castillo vented his considerable frustration.

  When Castillo finally sputtered to a stop, Morgan manufactured an ingratiating smile.

  “I understand radio equipment,” he said, humbly. “I can fix it.”

  “I hope to Christ you can do something right today, Morgan!” He spun around, his face angry, hands clenched, and left Morgan with his prize.

  Kerry Morgan smiled again. It was neither ingratiating nor humble. It was a look of triumph that matched the one Martin Cunneda had worn earlier. The repeater, properly modified and tuned, made a fine primary transmitter. He smiled again and slipped the practically undamaged box into his thigh pocket with the rest of the surprise package he intended for Martin Cunneda, and walked away, whistling through his teeth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The door exploded open and Morgan’s hands slipped.

  “Kerry!” It was Greenfeld.

  “Damn it,” Morgan swore quietly then sucked his index finger where he had cut it. He sheathed his dagger without looking up and tested the brass rivet that fastened the side cover of the pirated “black box.” The contact points seemed positive enough, but without the use of a real spring and a solder joint, he could not be certain. He did not dare to experiment with the modified device without risking an explosion that would violently and permanently end Caerwent’s bid for freedom before it had a chance to begin.

  He untwisted the wires that led to the detonator stud and slid the untried device into his thigh pocket.

  “Kerry!” Greenfeld’s tone was urgent.

  Morgan’s sighed and looked up at last. Greenfeld stood silhouetted in the doorway. His breathing was irregular and he was holding his injured arm at the elbow. It was evident that he had pushed himself beyond his limit during the unloading of equipment.

  “Have the priest see to that arm, David.”

  “When there’s time.”.

  Morgan could not tell whether Greenfeld was curious about the secretive business he had interrupted. Greenfeld did not betray his feelings, but Morgan was confident that he would never say anything about it unless Morgan himself initiated the matter.

  “Council of war,” Greenfeld said, finally. “Some things came up, and your illustrious presence is required...Sir.” He threw Morgan a mock salute and left.

  Greenfeld’s open friendliness heartened Morgan and raised him a fraction out of his depressed state. The hope that the “something” that had “come up” might bring action and a cessation to his morbid introspections quickened both his pulse and his steps as he headed for Martin Cunneda’s private study.

  Cunneda’s sanctum was not crowded; only Connach, Cunneda himself, two or three clan chiefs, and Brigid were present. Of the top decision-makers, only Cunneda’s second in command was
absent.

  Where’s the ape man?” Morgan asked Connach in English

  “I haven’t seen him for over an hour,” Connach responded in the same language. “Somehow that bothers me.”

  I think it bothers me more,” Morgan said, truthfully. “I’d rather know that he was standing somewhere where I could see him, after this morning.”

  Connach grunted agreement. “For your sake, I hope you will always be able to spot him first. I’ve heard an interesting bit of rumor from one of Cunneda’s less-favored sub chiefs.”

  What now? Morgan raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “My ill-treated informant let slip—deliberately, no doubt—that Martin’s closest companion was once a devoted novice of the Scatha assassins.”

  Morgan felt a surge of fear so strong that his scalp prickled. “Oh shit!” He could easily imagine a poisoned blade reaching for him in the waiting darkness. A slight scratch was all it would take then the agonizing convulsions would begin. Death, inevitable as it would be after Scatha’s kiss, would not come soon enough. His temple began to twinge and he started to sweat despite the coolness of the underground chamber, his imagination all too active.

  Then his thoughts slowed and reason reestablished its control. “The son-of-a-bitch doesn’t have tattoo one. He doesn’t have teeth like a crosscut saw, and his tongue was in one piece the last time I saw it.” Glivas was a bastard — a dangerous one — but he was not a Druid zombie.

  “All you say is true, Kerry, at least to all outward appearances. But haven’t you learned yet not to take things here on appearance alone?”

  Morgan shrugged as nonchalantly as possible with cold chills sliding around his body. “I keep forgetting that you invited me on this trip to Druidland Amusement Park.”

  Connach laughed but without much humor touching his face. “Just remember what I told you.” He looked meaningful at Morgan’s ring finger. “Just to be on the safe side, I’d ask the Lady of that ring to watch your back, if I were you.”

  Morgan clenched his hand into a fist. “Yes, I’ll do that, Ian.” Aiofe, he called silently, are you taking any long distance calls?

  He jerked when the ring thrilled on his finger. Aiofe was answering her phone! There was no comforting voice in his head, no manifestation other then the vibration in the stone, yet Morgan felt a relief that was physical. He was not alone. The spirit of the White Wings had not forsaken him even though her handmaiden had rejected him. Thinking about her, Morgan turned toward Brigid.

  He found that she had been looking at him although she dropped her gaze as soon as their eyes met. Hope joined relief, and he tried to will her eyes to meet his again. She would not look up. Morgan shifted his gaze to the left. Cunneda was watching him with a decidedly unfriendly expression that did not sit well on his politically affable face, a strained expression of good humor clamped firmly over an angry substratum.

  It was a triumph of decorum.

  “Chieftains,” The Dumnonian Lord began in a strangled voice that only slowly adjusted to its usual oily resonance. “One of our most loyal clansman has brought us news of great import regarding the Shadow World boat you have been seeking.” He waived an imperious hand, definitely limp at the wrist in Morgan’s opinion, then watched impassively as one of his lackeys pushed a grizzled old man into the center of the gathering.

  The man was obviously a worker, hardened and wrinkled like a piece of dried fruit from a lifetime of back-breaking labor under the murderous sun. The “most loyal clansman” was a poor man who Cunneda would have favored only with a look of disdain in the not so distant past. That realization alone commanded Morgan’s attention. The news must be important for Cunneda to have summoned one of the unwashed to his Council.

  More frightened than honored, the rough-edged worker was uncomfortable in the presence of his lords and leaders. He fidgeted, tugging nervously at the faded ties of his faded tunic.

  “My...My lords,” he began, falteringly. He looked about him like a trapped animal.

  “Brian,” Cunneda said, placing an arm about the man’s shoulders...a gesture that was supposed to be comforting, Morgan guessed. If anything, the common man looked more caged than before. Cunneda seemed not to notice. “You and I are clansman and warriors on the same side. I am no Vik overlord nor are these nobles here with us. Tell again which you have already told me.”

  Brian’s eyes met Morgan’s and remained there, avoiding the eyes of his known superiors, finding perhaps in Morgan’s face something with which he could relate. Morgan smiled. Grunt to grunt, Brian, old man. That’s us. Just a pair of common types, outsiders. That’s what you see in my face. He smiled again and turned his own work-callused hands palm outward so that the man could know that not all leaders were soft-handed aristocrats, though to give Connach credit, his hands were as roughened. But, an aristocrat is an aristocrat nonetheless, and with the Ax-wielder and his wild mob off to the Lothian Highlands, Morgan was the only plebeian among this gaggle of Celtic torc-knockers.

  Brian’s face relaxed and he gave Morgan a look of thanks.

  “My lords. I am a dock laborer by trade. Since I was a lad I have worked on the ships and boats that have put in at Caerwent Harbor. It is my hands that have repaired the Dumnonian fishing fleet and outfitted our damaged naval vessels...while we still possessed ‘em. Today our new Vik masters have forced me to work on their damned boats in order to feed my family.”

  “No one here condemns you for doing what you must do,” Morgan said quickly, earning a scornful look from Brian’s noble kinsman.

  “Thank you, Lord,” the worker said in relief. “I....”

  “Continue!” Cunneda snapped, clearly annoyed by the breach of protocol encouraged by Morgan.

  “Aye, Lord Cunneda. A...a little over two moonrises ago, a P-boat that usually operates between Waicuri Island and the Reged coast made Caerwent Harbor with a foreign sailing vessel under tow. The Dockmeister ordered me to secure the boat at a non-military dock, which I did.”

  The atmosphere in the room became electric, and Morgan became aware of his own harsh breathing. The mystery of hull number nine’s fate was about to be revealed.

  “Describe it,” he heard his own voice urging.

  “The boat had a single-mast and two triangular sails....”

  “The man? Did you see the man who sailed her?” Connach questioned in an impatient manner.

  “Aye, I saw the sailor, my lord,” the man answered with a deliberation that made Morgan want to scream. “Two Mercian butchers hurried a blood-covered seaman from the P-boat and dragged him to the Vik healers. I was later told that the Vik boarding party beat the sailboat captain quite badly before one of their officers decided to stop the fun.”

  Morgan listened with growing agitation. His thoughts boiled. “Tell me,” he said, not knowing why he actually asked, “was the sailor alone on the boat...was there a woman aboard?” He held his breath then expelled it with relief when he heard and comprehended the answer.

  “No, Lord. The man was alone.”

  At that moment, Morgan noticed that both Connach and Brigid were looking at him peculiarly, and he looked away to hide his confusion. He wanted to leave the chamber and sort out his thoughts alone. Looking at Cunneda, Morgan reached for this thigh pocket. If he still held any feelings for Kendra, did he have the right to even contemplate taking his revenge upon Martin Cunneda? He flushed with shame. Brigid deserved happiness, even if Kerry Morgan was not to be a part of her future. He glanced at her intended husband. Cunneda’s hands were braced girlishly on his hips. A mocking sneer curved his lips. Morgan felt for the pouch again. Perhaps he had reason enough.

  “That is not all that I have to tell, my lords.”

  Morgan looked at the man in surprise.

  “This very morning I was ordered to repair the harbor’s only remaining winch so that the foreign boat could be lifted ashore for a thorough examination...perhaps even a dismantling. They say the order came, not through the Governor-General..
. but through the captain of the boat itself.”

  “By the Horned God!” Connach exclaimed. “Have you seen the man recently, then?”

  “A bandaged officer went aboard the boat just before the order was given, Lord Connach. He looked very much like the wounded sailor I had seen before.”

  Morgan gave Cunneda another glance. For a moment, the nobleman’s face melted and became that of Jay Kettelmann. They were as alike as brothers. Two vermin. One to be protected in the name of the cause. One to be eliminated in the name of the cause. Which one? Which one? He wiped perspiration from his face and gripped the ring in his fist as if it could provide support and straighten his convoluted and dangerous thoughts

  Connach brought him back to relative sanity, posing the question Morgan would have liked to ask next. “You say the boat is to be examined? Do you specifically know what part is to be examined?” Connach’s voice was controlled, but Morgan watched him pace the confines of the study in his characteristically nervous fashion.

  The dockworker followed Connach’s movements like a spectator at some arcane game.

  “Not specifically, Lord,” The man’s said, his eyes still tracking Connach’s sweeping progress. “The officer was paying special attention to the companionway...running his hands along the trim like he was lookin’ for a secret opening.”

  “The goddamned Mirror, all right!” Morgan yelled. He was aware of an acrid odor. Tensions in the closed room were so high that it was taking on a locker room smell.

  “Quiet, Kerry! Let me handled this,” Connach snapped impatiently.

  “Did the officer seem to find anything?”

  “No, Lord. He seemed angry that he did not. As he left, one of the Bogentragers told the Dockmeister to prepare a mooring cable for an airship near the boat. He said that the Governor-General had sent to Londstaadt for a team of Mercian artificers to conduct a further inspection. They are to arrive by airship on the day after the morrow.”