Ghosts of Empire

by George Mann

  There was a crackle from behind him, just a short way along the tunnel. He knew immediately what it meant—exactly what he’d feared. The Koscheis had been expecting him.

  “Gabriel…” Donovan said, his voice low.

  The Ghost gave a minute incline of his head, to indicate that he understood what was happening. He shifted his weight to his left foot, placed the tip of the blade against the wall beneath Donovan’s left arm, and hung there for a moment, waiting.

  Another crackle. The Ghost turned, pivoting on his left foot and flicking his wrist in the direction of the crackling sound.

  The knife shot through the air like a loosed missile, striking one of the emerging Koscheis in the chest, directly below the cup of his throat. It buried itself to the hilt, and the man fell forwards and sideways, his fingers dragging a trail of light behind them from where he’d been engaged in casting another symbol. He gurgled, blood bubbling from his lips.

  The Ghost yanked the cord inside his jacket, igniting the rocket packs strapped to his calves. With a roar that seemed to echo the entire length of the tunnel, he shot up, riding twin plumes of light, pressing his hands against the tunnel ceiling.

  There were five Koscheis below, and a sixth still emerging from a portal, not counting the dead one already crumpled on the steel tracks at their feet.

  The Ghost rolled beneath the arch of the tunnel roof as a bolt of electrical light burst from below, striking the brickwork only inches from his head. Where it struck, the mulch seemed to boil and burst, retreating from the site of the impact like an animal skittering away from danger.

  He didn’t have time to consider it now, though, as he dived, spinning through the air toward another of the Koscheis, who frantically began to spin wheels of light before him in the air, raising what the Ghost took to be defensive shields or barriers. He twisted right at the last moment, turning his dive into a fly-by, skimming the top of one of the fizzing shields and unleashing a hail of flechettes. They thudded into the back and shoulders of the Koschei, causing him to arch his back in spasmodic pain, before dropping to his knees and pitching forward into the tracks.

  Two down, four to go.

  He shot upwards, throwing his hands out and using the tunnel mouth to pivot and change direction, his gloved fingers pulling away clumps of the foul-smelling vegetation.

  He fell into another dive, as the remaining four Koscheis formed a circle, back to back, attempting to cover themselves from all angles. He showered them with a further blast of flechettes, but this time, the tiny silver blades rebounded from their shields, as they swung their arms, directing the motion of the swirling wheels of light to protect themselves.

  Too late, he realized he wasn’t going to have time to pull up, so he rolled to the right, colliding with one of the runic shields. It might as well have been a wall, as he rebounded painfully, his crossed forearms protecting his face as he went into a spiral, wheeling around unsteadily, the jets at his ankles scorching the top of a Koschei’s head and causing him to howl in pain.

  He fought for balance as he thundered along the tunnel, first striking the left wall, then the right, and finally steadying himself against the ceiling, before launching himself back into the fray.

  This time they were ready for him, and lightning crackled as they flung their brutal elemental magic like javelins, attempting to spear him as he harried them from above. He twisted and ducked, easily avoiding their attacks and returning fire with his flechette gun—until he realized their attacks had been nothing but a distraction, an attempt to keep him busy while one of their number completed a more complex ritual.

  Without warning, the air around him grew suddenly thin. He twisted, trying to break through whatever atmospheric pocket they’d created around him, but it was no use—the spike of flame from his rocket boosters was beginning to peter out and die. They’d snuffed the air supply to his canisters, causing the flames to sputter out.

  The Ghost’s flight stuttered in mid-air, before he dropped like a lead weight toward the ground, slamming down, hard, against the rails below. He howled as one of the rails bashed against his shin. He shook his head, sucking air down into his lungs before rolling onto his back and unleashing a hail of flechettes at the oncoming Koscheis.

  They deflected them easily, battering them away with their airborne shields of light.

  One of them said something in Russian—a short, barked command—and the others responded immediately, summoning balls of sparking blue energy into their palms. They hurled them like grenades, which exploded over the Ghost’s torso, rippling like waves of electrical current, causing his body to twitch and shudder as he writhed in pain. He could feel the wards that Ginny had drawn on his back and shoulders begin to absorb the energy as it coursed over him, glowing hot and painful. Keeping him alive.

  He gritted his teeth as he waited for the energy to burn itself out. He could see the Koscheis were peering down at him in confusion. Clearly, they expected him to be dead.

  One of them—the one the Ghost had taken to be their leader—raised his hands, both of them working in time to describe a new, complex symbol in the air before him. He was grinning, his hooded face under-lit by the spectral light of his spell. Clearly, he intended to fell the killing blow.

  The Ghost could hear Donovan calling to him, but the words were lost beneath the ringing in his ears and the crackle of the charging light, hovering in the air above him.

  And then the Koschei was toppling forward, a wet red hole in the middle of his forehead, blood and bone fragments dribbling down his face. One knee buckled, and the corpse went down awkwardly, falling heavily across the Ghost’s lower legs.

  The other three Koscheis turned, glancing down the tunnel to where Rutherford stood, weapon still trained on them. His gun spat, and the Koscheis flung their shields forward, deflecting the bullets so that they careened wildly around the tunnel, thudding into the sludge-covered walls.

  Still on his back, chest burning with every breath, the Ghost raised his right arm and sent a stream of flechettes into the lower back of one of the Koscheis, shredding his internal organs. He dropped to his knees, fingers tracing the outline of a portal as he fell, so that his corpse tumbled forward into nothingness, enveloped by the shimmering light as he went.

  The Ghost kicked his legs free from beneath the other body and scrambled to his feet. A quick glance told him that Flora was hurriedly shredding the mulch that still pinned Donovan to the wall, tearing it off in great gobbets to get him free.

  Rutherford was hurriedly reloading his gun, and Ginny was nowhere to be seen. Surely she hadn’t hung back from the conflict?

  The answer came in the form of a swirling wind, blowing through the tunnel, whipping up the lapels of his long coat. “Oh, no,” he mumbled.

  He backed away, edging down the tunnel, away from the remaining two Koscheis, who were wordlessly summoning further shields of swirling light. He wondered if they knew they were already doomed.

  A new source of light appeared at the other end of the tunnel, beyond Rutherford. At first it seemed small, but it grew in size and presence as it drifted closer, resolving into the form of Ginny, hanging in the air above the tracks, her arms outstretched by her sides, her legs together, feet pointed toward the ground. She was surrounded by a halo of soft yellow light, and her eyes were ablaze with a cold white glow. Ethereal wind whipped around her, stirring her clothes and whipping her hair back from her face. She looked utterly captivating, imbued with unearthly power.

  The Ghost realized he was holding his breath; he let it out, utterly in awe of this woman.

  She rotated her wrists, and beneath her cupped hands swirling clouds began to gather, slowly coalescing into the form of two enormous, spectral lions.

  One of the Koscheis began hurling handfuls of sparking electrical energy at her, but they burst ineffectively off her torso, fizzing to nothing, like droplets of water boiled away in a hot pan. She drew closer, and then stopped about fifty yards from the Koscheis
.

  “Your souls are forfeit,” she said, her voice underscored by a cavernous echo. “Sekhmet hungers.” She closed her fists, and the ghostly lions surged forward, unleashed for the hunt. They thundered down the tunnel toward the Koscheis, who were given no time to react.

  The lions leapt into the air, synchronized in their attacks. They fell upon the Koscheis, utterly ignoring their shields, roaring as they burst through the men’s chests, before dissipating into clouds of smoke that simply whorled away on the same ethereal wind that had formed them.

  There was no blood, no wounds—no outward sign that the two Russians had been harmed in any way—but nevertheless, their legs buckled and they tumbled lifelessly to the ground, their hearts stopped, their souls devoured.

  The Ghost ran forward, his chest burning, the wards on his back still aglow with the sharp heat of the energy they’d absorbed. Above him, Ginny hovered in the air, imperious. “It’s over, Ginny,” he said.

  She looked down at him, and for a moment he saw nothing behind her strange, glowing eyes—no flicker of acknowledgement or recognition. But then she threw her head back, and breathed in, and the howling wind around them ceased. Slowly, she lowered herself to the ground, and collapsed into the Ghost’s arms, utterly spent.

  The Ghost brushed her hair from her eyes. “Thank you,” he said. It didn’t seem enough.

  Ginny smiled up at him. “It was nothing,” she said, laughing. Her eyes widened. “What about Felix?”

  “Oh, it takes a lot more than a light show to impress me,” said Donovan. He had one arm around Flora’s shoulders, as she helped him along.

  Ginny beamed. “It’s good to see you, Felix.”

  “Right—it’s time we were getting out of here,” said Rutherford. “There’ll be more of them coming. I can guarantee it. Once they find that body…”

  The Ghost cursed. He should never have allowed the dying Koschei to summon a portal and escape. There was no way he could have survived, but his body would be enough to allow the others to discern what had happened.

  “What about all this?” said Flora, indicating the mulch.

  “We’ll have to deal with it later,” said Gabriel. “We need to get back to the hotel, to regroup and deal with our injuries.” Not for the first time, he wished he understood how the Koscheis could warp space around them to create portals. A shortcut to his hotel room would be most welcome about now.

  “Agreed,” said Rutherford. “Come on, this way.”

  They set off down the tunnel, back in the direction from which they’d come.

  With every step the Ghost expected to hear the crackle of opening portals, to find themselves overwhelmed by a small army of Koscheis, but as they drew closer to the platform at City Road, he allowed himself to feel a faint sliver of relief. Donovan was still alive, they’d defeated the Koscheis in another encounter, and Horwood’s protective wards had proved effective, despite the fact his back and shoulders still felt as if they were on fire. It was hardly the breakthrough they’d been looking for, but it was something.

  The Ghost boosted himself up onto the platform—his rocket canisters now restored—and then helped the others up one at a time, heaving them up off the tracks. The mulch had made inroads here, even during the short duration they’d been in the tunnel. It was seeping from the tunnel mouth, edging onto the platform, a relentless wave that was slowly washing out from the tunnel in both directions. Left unhindered, it would soon spread deeper into the Underground network.

  He found he was growing used to the stench now, able to breathe normally—but it was clear that whatever the Russians were doing down here, it involved some sort of disease or corruption. That much was evident from the extent of the mulch and the manner in which it had consumed those other corpses. Although the Ghost didn’t like to consider the fact that those people had probably been alive when the mulch began to do its work.

  He guessed the Koscheis must have been cultivating it in the abandoned station, with the intent of spreading it through the rest of the London Underground system, disseminating it amongst the population. To what end—other than a series of slow and painful deaths—he had no idea.

  They mounted the steps to the ticket hall, slowed by Donovan and Ginny, both in desperate need of time to recover from their ordeals. They’d have time back at the hotel, where he, too, could tend his bruises. And fix himself a stiff drink. It was turning into quite some vacation.

  They emerged into the London night a few moments later, the cool breeze a welcome restorative. Nearby, cars hissed by on damp asphalt, and people streamed along the street, chattering and laughing, enjoying the cool city night.

  “I’ll find us a cab,” said Rutherford. He glanced at the Ghost. “You’d better make your own way.”

  The Ghost nodded. The last thing he needed was people talking about sightings of a New York vigilante in London, just when Gabriel Cross was on vacation in town. He’d take to the rooftops; find a less direct way back to the hotel.

  He watched the others limp toward the sidewalk.

  Around him, the trees creaked in the breeze. A crow cawed. He reached inside his coat, feeling for the ignition cord for his boosters, but something—some instinct, some unrecognizable sound captured by his unconscious mind—caused him to turn.

  There, looming over him, was a creature that looked as if it had stepped out of a children’s fairy tale. It was a man—or at least, it had the basic shape and form of a man—about eight feet tall, with massive antlers erupting from the top of its head. Its eyes burned a deep and violent ruby red, and its body was formed from sinewy branches, plated with thick, ragged bark. Vicious-looking thorns jutted from its forearms, and it was carrying a double-handed sword in its right fist. A murder of crows rested upon its head and shoulders, hopping excitedly between its antlers. Shadows seemed to swirl around its feet, withering the grass and fallen leaves.

  “Ah, I guess hello is in order?” said the Ghost.

  The creature made a sound like distant thunder; a deep, bass rumble. It raised its right hand, the tip of its sword hovering over the Ghost’s chest.

  “Or perhaps not.”

  “Gabriel!” He heard Ginny call from behind him, but he didn’t dare avert his view from the creature.

  “Rutherford—stick to the plan. Get them to safety. Now!”

  “No!”

  “Ginny—go!” He peered up at the creature’s face. Its expression was near unreadable, but it was clear it didn’t have his best interests in mind.

  His hand was still inside his coat, his fingers brushing the ignition cord. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he closed them around it. And then he yanked it down, hard, and he was shooting up in the sky as the creature, frustrated, lurched forward, moving with a speed belied by its size and form, attempting to spear him through the chest with its sword.

  The Ghost twisted, diving low over its shoulder, the flames from his boosters brushing the bark and searing the leaves that ran in a tumbling wave over its back. It screeched—a harrowing sound, like rending wood—twisting around and sending the crows squawking into the air. Terrified, they swarmed in front of the Ghost, blinding him with a fluttering mass of beaks and leaves, and sending him careening off path, ducking out of the way of the sudden obstruction.

  The creature, seizing its opportunity, grabbed for him with its free hand, catching hold of one of his legs and swinging him around like a doll, before slamming him down onto the concrete. He groaned, spitting blood, as the creature released him, pulling back its hand, palm blackened and smoking from the flame of his boosters. He slid across the ground, still propelled by his boosters, uncoordinated and flailing. He crashed into the rear wall of the Underground station, jarring his shoulder, and then hauled himself up, clutching at the brickwork for purchase.

  He righted himself and shot up, just as the creature’s sword clanged off the wall where he’d been standing, scoring a clean line through bricks. The Ghost gawped at the deep scar in the wall with horror.
/>
  What was this thing? Another creature manifested by the Koscheis? Is that why they hadn’t sent reinforcements—because this thing was already waiting for them outside the station? Or was it the Albion entity that Horwood had spoken of? If so, it was hardly helping to protect them.

  He twisted through the air, risking a glance after the others. They were nowhere in sight. Rutherford had done as directed, getting them as far away from the creature as possible.

  He turned, hovering for a moment, while he trained his flechette gun at the creature’s head. Then, falling into a dive, he let rip, tiny blades thudding into its face, burying themselves in the thick bark. The creature waved its left arm before it, as if irritated by an insect, forcing him to twist away.

  It thrashed out again, this time catching him with the back of its hand, sending him careening toward the road on the other side of the station building. A red omnibus was trundling down the road, full of passengers. He was heading directly for it.

  The Ghost threw his weight to the left, roaring with the effort, as he forced his legs around, altering his trajectory. He soared over the top of the omnibus on his back, only inches from colliding with it, spinning up into the night sky on a glowing plume.

  The creature was still in the grounds of the old station building, searching the skyline for him. There was no way he was going to beat it alone. His only hope was to get away, to reconvene with the others and formulate a plan. But first he had to lose it, to prevent it from following him.

  Perhaps if he could gain enough momentum he could knock it from its feet. He couldn’t think of any better idea, other than setting the thing on fire. His rocket canisters had so far only managed to scorch it—and he could see nothing nearby that might serve as a flammable fuel source, particularly without putting too many civilians at risk.

  Knowing he had little other choice, he turned, falling into a steep dive, aiming directly for the station grounds. Firing at it was no good—at this speed, he risked flying through a cloud of his own flechettes. He’d just have to take his chances and hope he could catch it off guard.