by George Mann
Gabriel had finished his cigarette. He crushed the end of it between his fingertips and tossed it out of the window. “There is a way,” he said. “When the Koscheis were firing that blue energy at us yesterday, I saw a stray bolt hit the wall. The mulch recoiled, like a living thing. Where the energy touched it, it blistered and boiled away. If we could find a way to harness some of their power, we could do it.”
“Ah, now that’s where I think I might be able to help,” said Regina, reaching around and pulling a strange-looking weapon from her waistband. She laid it on the table before her. It was shaped like a large handgun, with an oversized barrel, engraved with symbols that resembled those used by the Koscheis. “I took this off one of them yesterday. It fires a kind of blue flame, if you know how to trigger those symbols.”
“And do you?” said Donovan.
Regina grinned. “I learned from an expert,” she said.
“Then we have a plan,” said Gabriel. “We rest up and prepare, and then this evening, we return to City Road to cleanse the tunnels of the infection. And hope we don’t meet your friend while we’re at it,” he added, glancing at Horwood.
“And the Koscheis?” said Rutherford.
“We know we can beat them,” said Gabriel. “In small numbers, at least.”
“And there’s more of us now,” said Flora. “We can do this.”
Regina looked to Rutherford. “What about Hargreaves, and Absalom?”
“We can’t risk it,” said Rutherford. “Someone at the Service has been feeding information to the Koscheis. If they find out we’re coming…”
“I don’t like it,” said Regina. “Absalom could send backup.”
“And so could the Koscheis. I’m sorry, Regina. I can’t countenance it. Absalom is fully aware. He authorized this. I’m out in the cold.”
“Absalom knows?”
“And now so do you. So what will it be?”
She met his gaze. “I’m with you. Of course. But we end this tonight. All of it. We burn that shit out of the tunnel, and then we go for the rest of them, too. We take down that house near St. Paul’s, and we break open their entire network.”
“Alright,” said Rutherford. “If we’re all agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Gabriel.
“Agreed,” echoed the others.
EIGHTEEN
The stench emanating from City Road Underground station was now so pungent that it was noticeable from the street. Pedestrians had taken to crossing the road to avoid it, eyeing it warily, and the Ghost wondered how long it would be before some unwary public health inspector found himself descending into the stinking bowels of the tunnel system, only to find himself caught up in the mulch like the other poor innocents he’d found bound to the walls down there, slowly being consumed and forgotten.
As he hopped down from the rear of the van, he scanned the immediate area for any sign of the Albion avatar. Mercifully, it appeared to have moved on. The only evidence of its passing was the deep furrow in the brickwork it had made with the tip of its sword, and a scattering of dead leaves, dislodged when the Ghost had slammed it against the side of the building. He stooped to pick one up, wincing at the sudden pain in his leg.
Despite Rutherford’s ministrations, his wounds were still causing him difficulties. Realistically, he knew he was in no fit shape for another encounter with the Koscheis, but he had little choice. He’d just have to put it out of mind and hope that his enemies didn’t use it to their advantage.
He’d taken time to repair his suit as best he could, stitching up the slashed leg, reinforcing the padding around his torso. He’d also reloaded his rocket boosters and refilled his flechette cartridge, as well as packing a small handgun in the top of his boot, just in case it might prove necessary.
While Ginny had spent much of the afternoon ensuring everyone in the small group had been marked with Horwood’s protective wards, Donovan had rested, and Regina and Rutherford had paid a visit to Absalom’s unrecorded safe house to stock up on weapons and supplies. Additionally, they’d called in some favors to organize the use of the van. It was a battered old thing, spouting coils of black smoke from its coal-powered engine, but it had sufficed to get them all here without drawing too much unwanted attention.
Now, as they gathered around the station’s rear door, the Ghost couldn’t help but think that they looked like a motley bunch, hardly in a fit state to take on an army of Russian occultists. But then he’d always been an underdog. Perhaps he was attracted to the challenge—the need to look danger in the eye. Or perhaps he just had a death wish, and somehow, he’d unwittingly lured all of these people into his bizarre crusade. He looked at each of them in turn, seeing the steely determination, and the fear, in their eyes. Whatever the case, they believed in their cause—and who was he to stand in the way of that?
“Alright,” he said. “We’re going in. We know what we have to do—protect Regina while she deploys the weapon. We get finished down there as quickly as possible, and then we’re back out again. If we get split up, we rendezvous at the hotel. Any questions?”
There was a murmur of agreement from the others. They’d discussed this at length back at the hotel, and then again in the van as they’d rumbled through the London streets, outlining each of their roles if the Koscheis attacked. They were as ready as they were ever going to be.
“Straight across the ticket hall, down the stairs, and onto the platform,” said the Ghost. “We start there, working our way down the tunnel until we’ve cleared it all.” He hoped Regina’s stolen weapon would work—otherwise they’d put themselves in extreme danger for nothing. There was no alternative plan.
He braced himself against the stench, and then darted in, running straight for the stairs. He heard the footsteps of the others behind him. He took the stairs two at a time, hitting the platform a few seconds ahead of the others, sweeping the barrel of his flechette gun across the tunnel entrance. “Clear,” he called, as Regina emerged behind him, the barrel of the Koschei weapon already aglow with elemental energy.
“Over there,” said Donovan, pointing to the mulch that had now seeped fully out of the tunnel mouth, completely coating the far end of the platform and working its way along the tracks.
Regina nodded, raising the weapon. “Stand back,” she said, as she squeezed the trigger and unleashed a bizarre, nightmarish stream of pale light, which seemed to crackle, fizz and spit as it gushed out of the muzzle of the gun, striking the edge of the platform. Reality itself seemed to stutter as the light flickered, causing a strobe effect, deepening the shadows all around them.
Regina held the stream steady, and as it struck the mulch, it appeared to have a similar effect to the Koscheis’ lightning, causing the vegetation to boil and hiss, bubbling away into nothingness. Within seconds, she’d cleared a large patch of the platform, and was moving onto the tracks.
“It’s working,” said Ginny, triumphantly.
Regina jumped down from the platform onto the tracks, and the others clambered down after her, forming a protective semicircle around her as she strode forward, blasting the walls, floor and ceiling of the tunnel as she went.
The mulch had begun to retreat, inching away from the edge of the blast radius, but it was too slow, and soon the air was filled with the cloying odor of burning vegetation. They marched on, deeper into the tunnel, meeting no resistance as they went.
“It’s too quiet,” said Donovan from beside the Ghost, as they backed along the tunnel, keeping watch behind them. “Something’s wrong.”
“Maybe they abandoned the place after last time,” said Flora. She was gripping her gun with both hands, arms raised, walking in step with Donovan, eyes scanning the murky darkness behind them. “They know we’re onto them now. They could have fled.”
“I think that’s unlikely,” said Donovan. “It’s more plausible they’ve already achieved what they wanted to down here, and have moved on to the next stage of their plan.”
There was a thud fro
m further down the tunnel, coming from the platform area they’d just cleared.
The Ghost narrowed his eyes, trying to see what was coming. “Either that,” he said, “or they’re not worried about having to defend it anymore, because something else is…”
A second thud, followed by a third, echoing through the tunnel like the rumble of thunder.
“What is that?” said Rutherford. “It sounds like a train is coming.”
Nearby, a crow squawked, fluttering out of the shadows toward them. Rutherford, spooked by the sudden movement, snapped off a shot, and the bird wheeled, feathers erupting from its ravaged corpse, before tumbling out of the sky, thudding to the tracks below.
“Not a train,” said the Ghost. “More like a demigod.”
Crows burst from the tunnel mouth, swarming at them in the hundreds. They seemed to fill the entire width of the tunnel, an oncoming wave of disorienting feathers, talons, and snapping beaks. Rutherford opened fire again, dropping a handful of them, but it wasn’t enough, and they were forced to take cover, burying their faces in the crooks of their elbows as the birds swarmed around them, scoring the tops of their heads with their claws.
Horwood called out in terror as one of the birds took a chunk out of his ear with its beak, until Flora battered it away with the grip of her gun, wielding it like a cosh to keep the screeching creatures at bay.
Behind him, the Ghost could still hear the crackle of the Koschei weapon as Regina continued to scour the walls of the foul mulch, inching ever forward, protected by the others.
Within seconds, the swarm of crows had dissipated, fluttering away into the dank depths of the tunnel system, leaving them bleeding, frustrated, and confused.
And that was when the avatar of Albion thundered into the tunnel, eyes blazing with rage.
“Oh, God,” muttered Horwood, still clutching his maimed ear. Blood was trickling down the side of his face.
The avatar ran straight at them, taking long, lolloping strides, its antlers brushing the ceiling of the tunnel, sparking where the ivory scratched against the concrete. Its blade hung low and ready by its side.
“Go!” said the Ghost. “We’ll cover you. Stick to the plan.”
He planted his feet, readying his flechette gun—for all the good it would do. Beside him, Donovan and Rutherford stood their ground, while the others closed in around Regina, urging her on into the tunnel.
Donovan opened fire, snapping off a series of shots that pinged harmlessly off the avatar’s bark-encrusted face, sending up clouds of fine splinters where they struck.
It raised its arm, swinging its sword, ready to cleave their paltry barricade in two.
“Now, Gabriel!” bellowed Rutherford, diving left, as Donovan dived right.
The Ghost tugged on the ignition cord for his boosters and propelled himself into the air, colliding head-on with the avatar’s face, just as the creature’s sword arm came down where he’d been standing.
The avatar twisted, but the Ghost scrabbled for a grip, catching hold of its antlers, clutching tight as it swung its head from side to side, trying desperately to shake him off. He clung on, obscuring its view, as it raged, thrashing out with its blade, striking the tunnel walls as it marched forward.
“Hurry up!” he called. “I can’t hold on for long.”
The avatar roared—a deep, guttural screech of anger that reverberated through the Ghost’s belly. It was primal and terrifying. He felt his grip slipping on the antlers. “Come on!”
Down below, Rutherford was pressed against the tunnel wall, fumbling with a length of cord. He ducked as the avatar took another blind swing, gasping as the blade scored the wall only inches from the top of his head. Finally, the knot uncoiled, and he tossed the loose end of the cord to Donovan, across the other side of the tunnel.
Their eyes met. And then they pulled the cord taut, and ran at the avatar’s legs.
Above, the Ghost was struggling to maintain his grip, as the avatar had begun scrabbling at him with its free hand, catching hold of his trench coat and trying to yank him free. His left hand slipped, losing purchase on the antler, and he swung wildly, maintaining his grip through his right hand alone. If it managed to prise him free before the others were done, it would dash him off the tunnel walls in a matter of moments.
And then the avatar was suddenly falling, toppling forward as Rutherford and Donovan wrapped the cord around its legs, causing it to stumble as it tried to take a step, losing its balance and pitching over.
The Ghost released his grip, using the force of his rocket boosters to propel him out of the way as the beast went down, thudding to the ground, scrabbling at the tunnel walls for purchase.
The Ghost went high, and then dipped again, before cutting power to his boosters and coming in to land, behind the avatar, where Rutherford and Donovan were hurriedly finishing off knotting the cord that now bound its legs.
The avatar screeched again, dragging itself along the tracks with its hands, still trying to reach Regina and the others, who were distant now, much further along the tunnel, and visible only by the sparking light of the stolen weapon. In their wake, the mulch had been almost entirely obliterated, leaving nothing but steaming ash and blackened walls as evidence of their passing.
The avatar twisted, trying to turn itself over in the tunnel, but it was too large to easily maneuver down here, its antlers catching on the steel rails.
The Ghost picked his way over the rails, stepping over the creature’s legs, until he located its sword, laying abandoned on the tracks. He stooped and collected it, hefting it, his muscles burning under the sheer weight of the thing. He turned the blade over, resting it on his palm. It was exquisite, decorated with an intricate knotwork pattern of what he presumed to be ancient origin. The hilt was gold, inlaid with rings of polished jet.
Slowly, he carried it up onto the avatar’s back, and stood upon its shoulders, holding the blade with both hands, its tip poised over the avatar’s neck. A single blow would remove its head. He raised the sword.
“No!”
Horwood’s voice echoed along the tunnel, from somewhere up ahead. He was running toward them, gasping for breath. He hove into view, the left side of his face now covered in blood from his wounded ear. “Please, don’t hurt it.”
“What are you talking about, man?” said Donovan. “Your plan isn’t working. It’s still trying to kill us. We have no choice.”
“Regina’s almost finished clearing out the tunnel ahead. At least wait until she’s done. If Albion’s spirit can be restored, it can help us against the Russians. Trust me.”
The Ghost hesitated, blade tip still poised over the back of the thing’s neck. “Are you sure?”
“No, I’m not sure,” said Horwood, “but it’s a risk we’ve got to take. It’s the only thing that can stop the Koscheis.”
“Alright,” said the Ghost, lowering the blade. “But just until—”
He was cut off abruptly as the avatar twisted, jerking its shoulder so that the Ghost lost his footing, lurching to one side, going down on one knee. He dropped the sword, scrabbling for a handhold, but the avatar was too fast, and its thorny fingers snagged him, puncturing his damaged leg and whipping him forward, over its shoulder, slamming him down across the tracks.
“Gabriel!” Donovan was running forward, across the avatar’s back, firing shots into the back of its head, but the creature just seemed to shrug them off, bullets thudding into the outer layer of bark.
Its hand tightened around the Ghost’s leg, dragging him closer, his back scraping painfully across the wood and gravel between the tracks. It snarled, its eyes shining with malign intent.
It was looming over him now, still on its front but supported on its elbow, one hand pinning him down, the other extruding what appeared to be a long, thin thorn. It grew as the Ghost watched, its needle-like tip closing in on his left eye.
He struggled, trying to force his way free, to snap the branch-like fingers, to worm his way out, but
the creature’s grip was fast, and no matter what Donovan tried, he couldn’t even wound it enough to distract it.
“The sword,” yelled the Ghost. “Get the sword!”
He realized that Rutherford must have already been trying to wrest it free, but a quick glance told him it was no use—the avatar had uncoiled a snaking vine from its flank, which had encircled the weapon, drawing it in, out of the reach of the British agent.
The thorn was only inches from his eye. It would burst through his goggles any moment, piercing his eye, first blinding him, and then killing him as it skewered his brain.
He could hear Horwood calling to the avatar from somewhere behind him, telling it to stand down, to fight against the corruption, to free itself from the Koscheis’ control, but it was no use—the thorn continued to grow, and the expression on the avatar’s face told him everything he needed to know.
The tip of the thorn clinked against the glass lens of his goggles. Not long now. He wished he’d been able to speak with Ginny before it was over. “Felix?”
“Yes?”
“Tell her… tell her…” He trailed off. Something subtle had altered in the avatar’s demeanor. It was peering down at him, more inquisitive than malign.
“Yes!” called Horwood. “Yes, that’s it! Remember.”
The avatar shifted, lifting its hand away as the thorn seemed to withdraw inside of its arm once again, sliding away from view.
Its grip on the Ghost’s leg loosened, and he pulled himself away, sliding backwards along the tracks. Blood was weeping from several puncture wounds in his leg… but he was alive.
He heard voices calling from the far end of the tunnel, and turned. The others were returning—Ginny, Flora and Regina.
“Gabriel?” Ginny came running when she saw he was down on the tracks.
“I’m… fine,” said the Ghost, not quite sure whether to believe it himself.
Horwood was clambering over the avatar’s legs, already working on the knots that bound its legs.
The Ghost took Ginny’s proffered hands, pulling himself up. “You did it,” he said, turning to Regina.
