The Celtic Mirror

by Louis Phillippi

  What was Brigid becoming? He gently pulled her hand away, feeling as he did so, a brief transfer of energy to his own body. It was a promise, a promise of immortality of a kind.

  Confused, Morgan stammered an answer to her public question. “My armor has indeed been pierced as you say, my Lady. But I am still what I am. I will remove my tunic in honor of Taranis and the Winged One, but I’ll leave my pants on to honor any other Methodists who might be watching.”

  The dual persona laughed at Morgan’s transparent hedging, but stood back while he removed the tunic. As he stripped to the waist, he was painfully aware of the ribald jests made at his expense by the butcher. He had some creative explanations for Morgan’s modesty that made the Californian’s face flame. That invoked an even greater effort on MacCumail’s part. Discipline quickly dissolved into laughter.

  David Greenfeld saved him from further embarrassment.

  “With your permission, Lord Connach,” the Jew called, “I would like to join MacCumail’s guerrillas if you can spare me.”

  Morgan mentally thanked him for diverting attention away from himself, for immediately, the noisy mirth subsided. He looked at Greenfeld. The man was nearly as agitated, as Morgan had been a moment earlier. He moved his weight from foot to foot and unconsciously rubbed his right hand along the length of his rifle strap.

  Connach nodded his permission for Greenfeld to continue.

  “If the boat is liberated today...that is, if any of us survive, you plan to sail her back to Verulamium. Is that right, Lord?”

  Connach nodded and can. “Yes, if any of us survives.”

  “I...I would like to remain here in Caerwent, Lord Connach,” Greenfeld said, perspiring heavily. “I will offer my services to General Cadoc tomorrow.” His face turned as red as Morgan’s had been. “I’ve met a local woman who wouldn’t mind becoming Caerwent’s first Jewish mother.”

  “Permission granted,” Connach blurted, following that permission with a sharp laugh. “I never thought you left the Great House alone, but I see you managed just fine without chaperones.” He reached out and wrung Greenfeld’s hand in a very unCeltic fashion. “Good luck, David. Invite all of us to the wedding.”

  Greenfeld saluted Connach. “I’ll do that.” Then he stepped into the file of guerrilla fighters, the only one among them, Morgan noted, wearing more than boots. Of course, Morgan understood that principal motivated the Jew; he, himself, was simply inhibited.

  After MacCumail led his band into the cover of forest that edged against the inland side of the Mercian base, Morgan set out to find the butcher’s lone stay-behind. He found the youthful archer sunk in meditation beside his camouflaged onager.

  Morgan then proceeded to give the youth a practical lesson in the fine art of catapulting. He never hinted to the boy that everything he said was entirely theoretical to him. He hoped to save himself with his last piece of advice. “Straight-out guess the first toss,” he admitted truthfully. “Fire for effect. After that, compensate for wind and range the way you would for your bow.” He took the boy’s chin in his hand and made certain that Arthur looked directly into his eyes. He did not want to have his most important point ignored.

  “Do not. I repeat, do not blow us up while you’re getting the feel of this thing.” He spoke very slowly. “Use the buildings to the left of the gate for practice, then you can get picky about your targets. Understand?”

  The boy nodded then squatted on his heels, studying the structures Morgan had referred to.

  Morgan placed a hand upon Arthur’s shoulder. He knew that of all the guerrilla fighters, young Arthur stood the best chance of living through the day.

  “Farewell, lad.”

  “You can rely upon me, Lord Morgan.” The young artilleryman rose and stuck out a scrawny arm in a proper salute.

  Morgan solemnly returned it and walked down the knoll to where Connach, the others and his fate awaited him.

  He did not get far before Brigid/Aiofe intercepted him. Her unearthly beauty made his steps falter, and her cool fingers on his arm made him stop completely. As before, a strong current, redolent of the power of life passed from her body and into his. Again, he felt a renewed vitality as if a biological purification was taking place in his veins and arteries.

  He glanced down the hill and saw the ovals of Connach’s and Cunneda’s faces turned in their direction.

  “There is no need for us to cause any further dissension before we go into battle, Goddess,” he said huskily. He gently disengaged her fingers though he found he both wanted and needed the contact to last much longer.

  “We know, Kerry,” she told him in Aiofe’s voice, “but we wanted a moment alone with you before it was time to join the rest. It is important to us that you know how we feel and what we have decided.”

  “We?” He looked into her eyes as if seeking the truth there. “Or is it you alone who speaks for Brigid now?”

  A flush suffused her face and colored her breasts like the glow of a setting sun. “It is true that I speak for the both of us now, but that is because my daughter, my sister, cannot yet bear to touch a man nor to have a man to touch her without my presence.”

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know that you have not simply decided to hijack Brigid’s body, never intending to give it back.” As he watched, the dark eyes flicker like shaded lanterns.

  “She does speak for me, Kerry.” It was Brigid’s tongue that formed the words. Her speech was hesitant; a tremor that he had never before heard hid imperfectly behind her words, but he had no doubts. It was Brigid who spoke to him this time. “What Aiofe says is true. I even find it difficult to remain to this close to you without her standing between us. But I do love you. I would be your wife when all this is over. It is only that....”

  “If we ever make love again, some goddamned voyeur will be looking at me through your eyes, is that it?” He was shaken by the discovery that things would not be the same between Brigid and himself as long as Aiofe was a part of some bizarre ménage a trois.

  “Kerry!” She reached for him with trembling fingers.

  “Never!” He said, not certain that he really meant it, and shook her tentative touch away.

  “Morgan!” A faint shout reached him from below. He could see Connach gesturing that they should join him.

  “Duty calls, Sisters.”

  “Kerry! Listen to us!”

  He strode down the hill toward Connach without looking back or even knowing if they followed him. His mind seethed with contradictory thoughts which refused to be stilled, thoughts that he needed to quiet before he went into action or they might impair his life and the lives of others.

  When he reached the bottom, he found Connach studying him intently, looking as if he wanted to question him, but the prince said nothing about Brigid. He was now dressed in one of the dead Mercian’s uniforms and was holding an M-60 light machinegun he had appropriated from MacCumail.

  “This is yours,” he said, handing the deadly lightweight over. “What was happening on the hill, Kerry?”

  Morgan shrugged as he fed a belt into the weapon. “Nothing much,” he told Connach. “I had just checked MacCumail’s man out on the onager when Brigid met me. That’s all,” he added, knowing that his friend knew he was lying.

  “That’s all, eh?” Connach pointed toward Cunneda and Patrick, both of whom lounged in Mercian uniforms fifty meters away, against the side of the clumsy vehicle.

  “I’ve got enough trouble keeping Martin restrained. So far, I figure that I’ve done a pretty decent job. But I’ll tell you, ever since you rescued Brigid from the Vik dungeon, I’ve felt very uncomfortable whenever you and Brigid are within touching distance of one another.”

  “Ian....” A cold chill gripped Morgan.

  “Don’t interrupt. Just listen. There is something not quite right going on between the two of you.”

  Morgan raised a hand to Connach in an effort to detour the monologue’s direction, but the prince silenced him
with an angry gesture.

  “I’m not talking about sexual innuendoes or anything like that, although I can pick up on some of that from my sister’s side. No, what I’m sensing somehow frightens me. I’ve not the Sight that my mother had and that Brigid has, but I feel an unnatural flow between you two and strangeness in Brigid that I can’t quite identify.

  “Tell me. What in the name of the great Cernunos is going on?” The genuine worry in Connach’s voice almost prompted Morgan to reveal the Gothic secret he shared with Connach’s sister who was not just Connach’s sister anymore.

  He had no chance.

  “I have a distinct feeling that the two of you are having a private conversation about me.” She had glided unnoticed into their presence…like a spirit.

  Connach shifted gears as swiftly as a politician at a campaign debate. “I’m briefing Kerry on the operation. You’d better stay so I don’t have to repeat myself.” His face reflected none of the uneasiness that Morgan had just witnessed. Connach led them to the Mercian vehicle. “Here’s the way we’ve finally decided to do it,” he said smoothly, daring Morgan to disagree with a raised eyebrow. “Patrick will drive. Martin and I will sit up front but keep our rifles out of sight. You,” he indicated Brigid and Morgan “will lie in the back under the blankets, which our dearly-departed Mercian friends provided us.” A pair of rough blankets was handed to Brigid.

  “I’ve had the rear seat removed so you two should have plenty of room.”

  “Sounds like you’ve given that a lot of thought,” Morgan said with irony, finding no fault in Connach’s plan. What bothered him was the ride toward the enemy base, lying in the rear of the Mercian car next to the vampire spirit, a position she unabashedly desired, although under somewhat different conditions.

  Connach leaned against the car, a picture of steadied casualness that would have made the late, great John Wayne envious.

  “I have asked Martin and Patrick to donate one grenade each to the cause,” he said. “Now, Kerry, I would like one of yours to join one of mine.” He unclipped a fragmentation grenade from his Mercian belt and placed it at his feet. Two other antipersonnel grenades already lay there.

  Morgan removed a grenade from his harness and put it with the others.

  “Why have you not asked for one of mine?” Brigid/Aiofe asked.

  Morgan had the distinct feeling that she already knew the answer.

  “Because, dear sister, they are all going to belong to you.” Connach smiled apologetically at Morgan.

  “My little sister can throw as well as any man, and she’s a damned sight more accurate than I am.”

  Inhumanly accurate, now, Morgan thought unkindly.

  The not-quite-human female accepted the complement with a curt nod and leaned down to gather the little bombs in one of the blankets.

  The sight of her pendulant breasts, swaying above the beer-can grenades made Morgan feel dizzy with a sudden desire. Damn it, he did love her. Did it really matter if Aiofe’s spirit lived inside her skin, too? And Brigid was still there. She loved him; he loved her. Aiofe could watch if she wanted to. He would just have to get used to the idea.

  As if unaware of Morgan’s thoughts, she dumped the entire dangerous load into the armored car with a lack of concern that made Morgan flinch.

  “We’re going to try to reach the boat strictly through deception alone,” Connach continued after “Brigid” had neatly arranged the grenades into one pile, “so I want you two to keep down and out of sight unless the shooting starts prematurely. After that, you’re welcome to join in.”

  “Thanks,” Morgan said, battle-excitement creeping into his veins, displacing a little of his uneasiness over the woman he would be lying with.

  “While the both of you are under those blankets,” Cunneda interjected nastily, “don’t forget where you’re supposed to be and what you’re supposed to be doing.”

  “That was uncalled for, Martin!” Connach growled. “Don’t forget where you are, either or what you’re supposed to be doing.”

  The nobleman deflated as Morgan watched. He sighed and wiped his brow with a sleeve, streaking his forehead with some of the former owner’s blood. He laughed nervously and reached out a hand to Connach.

  “Taranis help me! Ian, you startled me so much that I was almost about to apologize. Forgive me. I must be on edge with all this waiting for action while my city is being ground to dust behind me. I am almost used to the idea, though, that my betrothed wishes to marry this uncouth foreigner instead of ruling Dumnonia with me.” He slumped down into his seat and busied himself with his rifle.

  He did not look once at Morgan, although the Californian knew that the “unprompted” remarks were intended as a real apology. Should he believe that the snobbish aristocrat had relented? It was the best Cunneda had done so far, and it sure beat having to guard his backsides at all times. Still, the irony of the situation would forever escape Cunneda. How was the prince to know that his timing stunk?

  Morgan was still looking at Cunneda in relief when an explosion made him jump. It had come from the base below. The echoes had not completely died before the concentrated chatter of automatic fire and the screams of wounded men joined them.

  “Let’s roll!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “I order you to let me take the boat, Narr! Fool!” Kettelmann yelled at the Suevian naval officer who seemed unimpressed with Kettelmann’s uniform and rank.

  “I was given orders to cable this foreign craft securely and send it to Londstaadt by airship,” he said insubordinately and gestured upwards. “That airship.” He folded his arms and stared at Kettelmann with a stubborn set to his mouth.

  As a sailor, Kettelmann disliked air transport. And as a twenty-first century pragmatist, he despised and distrusted the crude yet baffling technology displayed around him, exemplified by that un-powered but somehow directable aircraft overhead. He was a man full of the heady power of his own recent deeds, and he hated the slow-witted Suevian Captain who stupidly opposed him.

  He fingered the strap of the rifle that he carried over his right shoulder, greatly tempted to use the M-16 and end the fruitless argument right then, but the Suevian was not alone. A dozen tough looking enlisted seamen had gathered behind their commander and followed the loud argument with interest, their faces showing them to be little more than animals, subhuman. Subhuman, perhaps, but possibly dangerous to him if they held any loyalty to the Suevian. If they even understood the concept of loyalty! He would have to try theatrics, instead.

  He released his grip on the rifle strap and extended his right hand, holding it high so that even the moronic rank and file could see and recognize the token he held aloft. On his third finger glittered the badge of office he had stolen from Thorkell’s lifeless hand.

  “Do you see this, Schiffahrer?” He spoke as if addressing a crowd so that his words would carry to the onlookers, deliberately using the accents and intonations of Aethelric Thorkell. “It is the Governor-General’s orders I carry, not my own.”

  Thorkell’s name and the ring did not bring the magical response he had hoped for. Instead, the peasant-like Suevian took Kettelmann’s upraised hand by the wrist and forced it down.

  “You say you come from the Governor-General with these counter-orders? I do not care if you come from Loki himself with all the other gods in attendance. My orders come only from the Flottekapitaan himself, not from that preening killer of unarmed civilians!”

  Kettelmann’s face grew hot. He flung the Suevian’s hand away and unslung the M-16. “Your precious Flottekapitaan takes his orders from the Governor-General. Now you’ll take them from me. Those unarmed civilians you just mentioned are making war on us right at this moment. Are you deaf, or can’t you hear the fighting going on?”

  The officer nodded gravely, and for a moment, Kettelmann thought he had succeeded in penetrating the Suevian’s thick skull.

  Instead, the officer smirked, “You are the foreign sailor who was found aboar
d this boat, nicht waar? Some of those scars you bear were inflicted by these hands of mine.” He smiled as some of the seaman behind him laughed.

  Kettelmann reddened but said nothing. He did not want to provoke a fight he might not be able to win. He wanted the boat for himself. He wanted to be the one to sail to Londstaadt and claim a hero’s status. Once he was safe in the Mercian capital, he could become the master of these backward people, most certainly if he alone possessed the D-24 and its secrets. As a bonus he would awe them with the two M-16s. It was a pity he had lost the pistol in his escape from the Celts and Morgan.

  He would show the Mercian engineers and artificers how to manufacture those weapons he possessed along with others more powerful. He could become this world’s inventor of heavier-than-air flight. He would be honored, revered. The thought pleased him.

  The Suevian did not please him nearly so much.

  “What would you do with this vessel if I actually released it to you,” he asked mockingly. “Sail it back to your own country where we cannot find you? I could never allow that even if my orders did not prevent it.”

  “No,” Kettelmann answered carefully. “I mean to sail it to Londstaadt myself.”

  The Suevian raised his eyebrows in pretended wonder. “Alone, you would attempt this hero’s voyage?” He turned his head and winked slowly and deliberately, eliciting a second rumble of laughter from the rabble that crowded closely behind him.

  Kettelmann’s fingers tightened on the M-16’s stock and his index finger lightly touched the trigger. The temptation to kill the Suevian was strong in him, but he kept the touch just a touch.

  “I have sailed smaller boats than this around the world more than once, Schiffahrer. Londstaadt would be a mere jaunt compared to that.”

  “The Suevian snorted with derision. “A mere jaunt, Ausslaander? Londstaadt is a voyage of many days, perhaps weeks in that craft through dangerous waters, dangerous even for a P-Boot. Do you think you know the navigation stars for such a trip if I should permit it?”