The Celtic Mirror

by Louis Phillippi

  “Get Kettelmann off my back, Ian!” He yelled, trying to concentrate on his objective.

  The ring, he knew, was not solid. It was a closed hook that was controlled only by a special key that fit on a telescoping rod. It was a ground crew responsibility to open and lock the device, and the airman inside the gondola could not manipulate it.

  The M-60 would supply the key if Morgan’s luck held. The key slot could not be seen from that distance but he guessed where it lay in relation to the rest of the ring. He planned to concentrate his fire on that remembered spot and hope that one round would shatter the mechanism or that the shock of a near hit would weaken the device and release the cables before the worst occurred.

  The worst could come in many forms but would have only one result. A flaming fragment from one of Arthur’s close tosses with the onager or from an exploding fuel barrel could turn the airship into the sloop’s crematorium. So could a stray tracer from the M-60, or an intentional shot from one of MacCumail’s gunners who did not know what lay below.

  The worst came to pass even before he could begin shooting. He had lost precious seconds, ducking out of Kettelmann’s fire twice more before Connach and Patrick drove the traitor into hiding behind a stack of provisioning crates.

  When Morgan was able to align the machinegun’s barrel with the impossibly small target again, he watched a string of someone else’s white tracers float toward the airship and vanish into the envelope’s interior, seeding it with fire. He clenched his teeth helplessly but groaned aloud as the airship blossomed then began to wither in the same instant, folding perceptibly upon itself from the center.

  The airship became a fiery rose, which started to sink down upon the sloop, and the soldier that had lived unwanted inside his skin for so many years completed the action that the conscious Morgan had only begun.

  Not worrying any longer about the possibility of stray tracers, he sent short bursts skyward. Sparks flew from the gondola’s undercarriage, illuminated Morgan’s efforts. The gondola rang like a fire bell, which the unoccupied portion of his mind decided was fitting, while the machinegun jumped in his hands like a jackhammer, making it impossible to group his hits as well as he needed.

  A shift in the breeze curled and bent the smoke columns that ascended from the still fiercely burning fuel dump, making them appear like scintillating dancers. The same breeze swung the collapsing airship so that it hung directly over Morgan, making his shooting angle nearly perpendicular. He muttered an unchristian curse at the Hellwind god and rolled onto his back, bracing the weapon on the flagstones between his armpit and side. As the burning machine sank closer to his position, he could clearly hear the terrified screams of the crew and could as easily see their faces as they stared fearfully from the ports.

  Ignoring them, feeling the increasing heat, Morgan continued to fire, hoping that the belt-fed weapon would not fail him. Then a bomb bay hatch swung open and a Vik crewman made a desperate leap for one of the tethering wires. He sailed through the air as gracefully as a skydiver. Miraculously, the man caught a cable by one hand and swung pendulum-like before beginning a rapid hand-over-hand descent.

  Morgan half-admired the airman’s bravery when the cargo ring suddenly snapped open, releasing its collection of cables and the courageous but doomed Mercian.

  Morgan cursed again as the freed airship began to drift toward the sloop once again, then as if attracted to the cconflagration ashore, it moved away from the boat and continued its slow fall toward the fuel dump.

  Morgan lost it from view as the smoke and flames that dominated the atmosphere inland swallowed it, but he still could hear the crewmen’s screams moments longer with unwelcome clarity. They somehow managed to rise above the deep rumble of exploding fuel and the growing battle-numbness in his mind.

  Grunting, he twisted back into a crouch. Grit stuck to his back and shoulders with perspiration as if glued there, but he scarcely noticed any more. He motioned Brigid/Aiofe foreword.

  “Keep the car between yourself and Kettelmann!”

  Behind her, the milling Suevian sailors moved closer but were without organization or purpose other than placing as much territory between the holocaust and themselves. The demonstration of the M-60’s power, he knew, had a great deal to do with their reluctance to rush the small guerrilla band. He hoped that they would remain leaderless and indecisive. He knew that they would not remain that way for long.

  Ahead, Connach, Cunneda and Patrick had spread out as far as the width of the quay and available cover allowed, which was not much. Their fire was desultory and ineffective since Kettelmann had clung to his own cover and returned fire just often enough to keep them from moving forward. A group of professional soldiers would have put together a leapfrogging attack on the position, with half of the team providing a covering fire while the other half advanced into new positions of cover.

  Connach and Cunneda were not professionals however, and he knew the veteran non-com, Patrick, would not presume to issue orders to the noblemen, especially Cunneda.

  “Shit! Cunneda can’t possibly despise me anymore than he already does,” he said aloud to no one.

  “Ian! Patrick! Cunneda!” He bellowed in a voice that he hoped would allow no questioning. “Concentrate your fire on Kettelmann’s position and keep his head down. Brigid and I’ll move to those bales ahead of you!”

  Cunneda turned sharply around and gave Morgan a scathing look. Then, without saying anything, he returned to his original position and fired a shot in the German’s direction.

  It was answer enough. The other two nodded agreement without taking their eyes from Kettelmann’s location. First Patrick squeezed a round off, then Connach.

  It was time to move.

  “Keep at a crouch and run as if you’re dodging poisonous snakes,” he told his companion. “Don’t even think about engaging Kettelmann. Leave that to them.” He gestured vaguely toward Connach’s position. As he looked into her eyes, he saw confusion, fear and love.

  The first two were understandable. The latter was alien on the battlefield, and it bewildered him.

  “Which one of you is home right now?” He asked too harshly, covering up his own confusion.

  She gave him a peculiar look and her eyes welled with tears. “Both of us, Kerry, since the both of us may swim in Cernunos’s cauldron if the more powerful gods favor the Viks today.”

  “Then don’t forget that,” he said trying to remind them even more of their current mortality, feeling somewhat cheap in doing so. “I want you to remember that you are not impervious to a bullet, bomb or bolt, any more than those dead men near Kettelmann’s position. The only way we’re going to watch the sunrise tomorrow is by fighting our way through these bastards and surviving.”

  He looked intently at her and wanted her to survive more than anything he had ever desired. Abruptly, he no longer thought of Brigid as “them.” She was simply “she,” and an infinitely complex “she,” and an incredibly beautiful “she.” Her body, radiant beneath the sheen of perspiration and dirt, seemed to strain toward him. It could have been his imagination.

  He touched her arm. “Do as I say, and we might stand a fair chance of coming out of this.” He prayed to the God of his youth that he was not lying.

  “The instant our covering fire starts up again, we take off toward Kettelmann. You head for the bale to your right. I’ll take the one to the left.” He squeezed her arm again tightly to emphasize his words. “Don’t stop for anything,” he said. “If I should drop, keep on moving.” He fixed her with a stern look but did not dare focus upon her stricken face. “Understand?”

  She nodded without speaking. As he watched, tears rolled from the corners of her eyes and traced eloquent lines through the grime on both sides of her face. She made no move to brush at them or to blink them away. They shimmered in the eerie light like rare gems. He released his grip on her arm and stretched out his fingers to touch their salty treasure.

  As his fingers touched h
er face, Cunneda, Connach and Patrick opened fire with a concerted ferocity that startled even Morgan.

  “Go!” He yelled, giving her a half push in the proper direction.

  With a churning gut he watched her break cover and swiftly leave her way to the shelter offered by the stacked bales of supplies. Surprisingly, not one shot challenged her brief, exposed run.

  It was different for him, however. As soon as he began to move, a deadly spray of NATO rounds sliced through the space he needed to cross. Flattened metal fragments whined obliquely from the Vik car’s armored sides, and two wheels on the vehicle lost spokes to Kettelmann’s fury, dropping the car onto its hubs.

  He paid no attention to the sighing of the lethal breeze that swirled around him and began his run as if competing in a deadly relay race. The M-60 was his baton; the bale of cordage his finish line; Kettelmann, his audience and his judge.

  Kettelmann’s hellish applause clapped the air around him, and one round actually caressed his hair.

  He grunted with the exertion of sprinting with the heavy weapon. For while he ran, it was more impediment than baton. When he finally reached the safety of the cordage, he was exhausted and breathing heavily. He bent his head against the hemp, letting its fresh, tarred smell refresh him. The rough fibers dug into his forehead, irritating him in a pleasant way.

  Any pleasantness he felt just then was erased when a round from Kettelmann’s weapon buried itself in the hemp.

  “Morgan!” Kettelmann screamed then laughed demoniacally. “The cavalry has just arrived, and you Indians are doomed!”

  Chilled by Kettelmann’s words, Morgan chanced a look. The madman was right. Armed sailors from a P-Boat had swarmed onto the quay, reinforcing Kettelmann’s position. They appeared purposeful, unlike the sailors at Morgan’s back. And they were firing at him! Abruptly the bale thudded with the impact of a dozen missiles, and one or two poorly aimed bolts slithered crazily along the stones between the two bales with barely enough force to pose any danger to the three soldiers to his rear. When a spent bolt angled up the quay from the opposite direction, he realized that Connach and company had their own problems.

  The shoreward sailors had gotten organized, and the squeeze was on!

  There was only one direction to go. Morgan swung the M-60 up and around the right side of his bale, and slammed the plastic butt into the hollow of his shoulder. The weapon coughed death down the length of the quay, scattering the newly arrived Mercians. Brigid’s rifle came to life to his right, and behind him; he heard the second fire team open up, but they were not advancing as they should. He fired another burst at a tangle of soldiers that were attempting to leave Kettelmann’s barrier, watching them falter, then simply fall as if swept aside by an invisible hand.

  “God damn it, Connach! Move out!”

  “We can’t!” Connach shouted back. “We’re inside their range!”

  Morgan turned. The shoreward sailors had advanced half way to the broken Vik machine and were now firing their weapons in a more organized manner. The first rank discharged their bolts and knelt while rearming, allowing the second rank to fire. Another twenty paces and they would be able to have both Brigid and himself in range and would have the second fire team skewered like Saturday’s barbecue!

  Morgan did not hesitate. He placed his back against the bale and, though it violated all of the training he had undergone, fired over the heads of his comrades and into the closely packed ranks of the enemy. The rounds scythed through the standing second file, sending dead and dying Suevians backward in a bloody danse macabre, inspiring the unscathed to scramble over the casualties in a rush to the relative safety of the explosions to their rear.

  The M-60 stopped and the bolt remained open. Empty! Morgan removed the cartridge belt from around his neck, pulled out the round that held it in a closed loop and fed the new load into the weapon, noting as he did that the new belt was a genuine NATO issue and not a Reged imitation.

  He released the bolt and spun to his right. He rested the machinegun against the side of the bale and got off six rounds, killing three of Kettelmann’ new allies before the gun stopped again. He looked at it in stunned disbelief and moved the charging lever to the rear. It was obvious to him that a round had failed to eject.

  “Christ, Ian,” he muttered as Patrick joined him at the bale, “I suppose this is one of the Mirror’s little ‘alterations’.”

  “Lord Morgan?”

  “Nothing, Optio. The damned thing’s jammed,” he muttered again, fumbling in a thigh pocket for his rigging knife. “You know we are trapped here?” He closed his fingers around the walrus tusk handle and opened the fid with a practiced hand. As he pried at the distended casing he kept his eyes upon the enemy to his rear. They had not regrouped except to make stacks of the dead and the dying to hide behind.

  Beside him, the Celtic NCO fired careful well-spaced rounds. Morgan then heard him suck in his breath and curse.

  “What’s wrong, Patrick?”

  “You taught me to shoot your Shadow-world weapons well. And today I have shot as well as ever. I am not a child to lose my training when I am threatened by death. This man you call ‘Kettelmann’ must not be a man after all. He must be a servant of the Dark One. I have shot him twice in the breast and still he stands. See!”

  Morgan chanced a quick look around his side of the bale. It was as Patrick had described it. Dead Mercian sailors sprawled in their own blood around the German, yet Kettelmann appeared unhit, unhurt. Shunning the protection of his cover, Jay Kettelmann advanced toward Morgan’s position, carrying a single M-16.

  “Shoot at the bastard again,” Morgan growled.

  Rock steady, Patrick pumped three shots into Kettelmann as he neared. Morgan clearly saw the red tunic jump to the bullets and emit three small puffs of dust.

  “Looks like the Vik gods have chosen their champion,” Morgan told Patrick calmly, trying not to reveal the panic he began to feel. “I hope they’ve picked one for the good guys, too.”

  “Lord?”

  “Never mind, Sergeant.” The tip of the fid tore through the jammed cartridge without freeing the round. “Shit!” With a roar of frustration he heaved the M-60 into the water where it would remain safe from Vik recovery for a time. He shook his fist at the sky.

  “What the hell are you trying to tell me? Is it me you want? Well, if it’s me you want, then it’s me you get!”

  Feeling a wearying sadness for all the things that would now not be, he glanced at Brigid and drew his pistol. The stone in his ring vibrated faintly even without Aiofe’s free presence.

  “This is to be it, then.” He stepped from the protection of the bale and faced Kettelmann across a distance of fifty meters, ready to duel unevenly with him, handgun against automatic weapon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Kettelmann stood his ground and observed Morgan mockingly, a broad smile playing about his mouth.

  Morgan was chilled. He sensed, rather than saw, a blackness that hovered near Kettelmann, not exactly an aura, but an absolute lack of one. It was as if the German was surrounded by an irresistible black hole into which all that was good was being sucked. It was the same darkness that he had felt in the presence of the Scatha assassin, but this one was not a direct part of Kettelmann. It was evidence of the power that destroys through lesser beings but does not become a part of them.

  It was then that he realized that the commando’s weapons were silent despite an increasing volume of fire from the Suevian bowmen to their rear. A bolt passed between his legs and shattered on the stones a meter in front of him. He turned and observed Connach and Cunneda as they crouched behind a pile of cordage and attempted to return fire. Their rifles did not respond to the pressure of their trigger fingers.

  “Your rifles won’t work now,” he yelled to them, holstering his pistol because he knew that it had been rendered just as useless.

  “I know what has happened here,” he said only to himself. Cold, invisible hands played along
his spine despite the oppressive heat. “Just like you told me long ago, Ian. Science won’t operate in this world unless the gods approve. Well, they just now withdrew their support.”

  Connach must have had the same thought. Morgan watched him lean his M-16 against the bale in front of him, drawing his dagger in its place. The gold-inlaid Connach dragon on the blade caught the wan glow of the smoke-shrouded and subdued sun and reflected it into Morgan’s eyes.

  “I pray that it is only the Dark One who has championed the Vik pigs,” Connach shouted, holding the ornate dagger point skyward and before him like a talisman.

  Morgan turned to meet his lover’s eyes. “Scatha?”

  “It is so,” she replied without emotion, but her dark eyes met his and held them. “But she has grown stronger with the taste of death in this place. Her belly is swollen with it.”

  “Then we must slice her belly open!” Connach snarled and turned his dagger toward himself and drew it across his thigh so that a welling red line followed it. “Take this offering and drink, Dragon of my House, that you might bite deep and drink the life from my enemies!” The Celtic prince smeared the blade with his own blood and held the reddened dagger overhead.

  Know, Scatha that we do not fear you and that we shall slay the coward that you have chosen to do your bidding!” he shouted.

  “Fools!” Kettelmann screamed. “Hier ist Macht! Here is power! Power behind me, with me, inside me! I cannot die!”

  “We’ll just have to see,” Morgan said quietly. “I’ve met your patroness before.” He spread his arms wide, locking eyes with Kettelmann. “It must be obvious even to you that I survived the encounter.” He smiled grimly. “Ask your new mistress what happened to her old servant.”

  A brief satisfaction curled about Morgan like a cat as faint flickers of doubt and fear chased across Kettelmann’s face. Morgan slid the Ax-Wielder’s notched sword from its scabbard. The sound of steel against the untanned hide made him grin in earnest. The new weapons might fail in Brigid’s world, but the old ones would not.