by George Mann
She nodded. “The tunnel is clear of that filth. But that still leaves the Koscheis to deal with.”
The Ghost nodded. “No time like the present.” He groaned, stretching his sore muscles. “You’d better show us where this house is.”
Behind him, the avatar was climbing to its feet, with a sound like a forest being stirred by a gale. It reached for its sword, the vines on its leg unraveling to free the weapon. It peered at the Ghost, and then turned and marched back down the tunnel, in the direction of the platform and the exit.
“It looks as if he already knows where he’s going,” said Rutherford. “I vote we follow him.”
* * *
They emerged from the exit a few minutes later, still jubilant from their apparent victory. The night had turned frigid, a cold wind stirring up from the east. The Ghost turned up the collar of his trench coat, wrapping his arm around Ginny’s shoulders.
The avatar of Albion was standing by the rear of the station building, staring up into the clear night sky. Out on the main road, a passerby called out in alarm, and then ran off into the night, shouting something about a tree-man. It mattered little—no one would believe his testimony, and Albion would be long gone before anyone returned to investigate.
“I get why you do this, you know,” said Ginny, as they strolled toward the van.
“Oh, and why’s that?” said the Ghost.
“Because of moments like this,” she said. “The rush of victory. Knowing you’ve saved people’s lives. It feels good.”
The Ghost laughed. “I suppose it does. But it’s not over yet.”
“Well, as good as,” said Ginny. “We’ve foiled their plan. Do you really think they’re going to stick around now, after this?”
“I don’t know,” said the Ghost. “But I don’t get the sense they’re the type of people who’ll give up easily.” He glanced at the avatar. It was still staring up at the sky, as if it were expecting something. He followed its gaze, trying to discern what it was watching. There was nothing there. Nothing but a few scattered clouds, and a clear, inky night, speckled with the lights of distant stars.
“Hold on, what’s that?” said Regina. The Ghost glanced over to see that she, too, was looking up to the stars. She was pointing at something—a tiny pinprick of light.
“It’s just a beacon,” said Flora. “Probably an airship, heading off for some distant shore.”
“No,” said the Ghost. “Look, it’s getting bigger.” He watched with a dawning sense of horror as the light in the sky began to take shape, tracing an immense circle high above the rooftops of the city. Lines appeared inside it, forming the outline of a pentagram. Sparking symbols appeared like circlets, tracing a bizarre pattern around the orbit of the immense portal.
“Look, there’s another,” said Horwood, pointing out a second portal, still forming, close to the first. Lightning cracked the sky, high above the dome of St. Paul’s, lighting up the underside of the clouds.
“I don’t like the look of this at all…” said Donovan.
The first portal shimmered, and reality seemed to crack inside of it, swirling with vivid colors, like a rainbow had been smeared, warped out of recognizable shape and form. Something was coming through. Something large and rotund, with a silvery skin, emblazoned with the same glowing symbols.
An airship.
The Ghost glanced at the second portal to see that it, too, was birthing an airship in matching livery. The first of them was almost through, and even as it emerged, biplanes began to detach from its flanks, buzzing like hornets over the rooftops of the city. As they watched, the aeroplanes loosed streams of tracer fire upon the city streets below, causing buildings to erupt in flame, billowing black smoke on the horizon.
The avatar stirred, turning toward the site of the opening bombardment. Without another glance at the Ghost and his assembled party, it marched off into the street, brandishing its sword.
“It looks as if the Koscheis had a plan B,” said Donovan.
NINETEEN
The van hurtled through the streets, swerving to avoid the oncoming rush of terrified pedestrians as they fled for their lives, desperately evacuating their homes, trying to get as far from the carnage as possible.
Ahead, the avatar was running, feet rupturing the asphalt with every step, causing Regina to have to steer around the newly formed potholes as she tried to keep up.
Overhead, at least a dozen biplanes were swooping low over the city now, bringing flaming death with every dive, machine guns chattering, engines howling. The Ghost wanted to be up there, ducking and weaving amongst them, blasting them out of the sky—but he knew he was needed elsewhere. Regina was right—they’d have to rely on Albion and the armed forces to defend the city, while they infiltrated the Koscheis’ main base of operations. If they could take that down, there was a chance they could put a stop to the entire invasion.
Someone there had to be pulling the strings. That was their target.
The biplanes were concentrating their fire in the area immediately around St Paul’s. Clearly, the Koscheis were attempting to gain a foothold here, and as the van screeched around another bend, it became apparent that they’d already achieved as much. There were scores of them in the streets, energy flickering around them as they blasted buildings—and civilians—with their unnatural light.
Regina slammed her foot on the brakes, and the van mounted the curb, screeching to a halt. The Ghost didn’t wait for the others, but flung open the rear door and leapt out, flechettes streaming from his gun.
Two Koscheis fell, tiny metal blades catching them unexpectedly, shredding their throats.
The avatar was wading amongst them, swinging its sword in a wide arc before it, cutting through the Koscheis in a swathe. They turned their fire on it in response, electricity crackling over the avatar’s torso, cracking flakes of bark from its chest, but failing to stop its advance.
Overhead, a biplane swooped low, the roar of its engines splitting the sky, and the avatar looked up, raising its free hand and sending thick vines shooting into the air. They snared the tail of the nearest biplane, and the avatar whipped its arm, dragging the machine out of the sky, bringing it crashing down amongst the Koscheis like a wrecking ball. It burst into flames, engine oil and munitions going up like fireworks. All around, Koscheis burned in the aftermath, hooded robes becoming cloaks of roaring flame.
Around the Ghost his friends had formed a line, weapons barking as they attempted to keep the Koscheis at bay. Regina had broken from the formation, wading deep into the fight, her stolen weapon spitting death to all in her way.
The rat-a-tat of machine gun fire from overhead caused the Ghost to dive, and the pavement where he’d been standing erupted in a slew of dust and chippings. Vines burst from the broken ground, curling up to grab at a Koschei’s ankles, yanking him to the ground and dashing his head against the concrete.
All around them branches were twisting out of the soil, grasping for the enemy—a forest of deadly thickets and thorns, brought to life through the elemental control of Albion. The avatar of Lundenwic had risen, and it was angry.
“We need to get to the house,” called Donovan, from close by.
The Ghost nodded. “Regina!”
She turned to glance at him, just as a Koschei raised his hand, targeting her with a crackling blast of energy. She fell, the Koschei weapon tumbling from her grasp as she writhed on the ground, screaming with pain.
The Ghost leapt toward her, his flechette gun spitting death, but the Koschei flicked his wrists, deflecting the deadly blades with his glowing shields. The Ghost strafed left, and the Koschei flung another bolt, scorching the trailing edge of his trench coat. On the ground, Regina was still fighting against the crackling energy, mouth open in a silent scream, electricity arcing between her teeth. He hoped the wards on her back would be enough to save her.
The Ghost circled, keeping step with the Koschei. He was an older man, in his fifties, with a bald pate and thick
beard. Tattoos adorned every inch of his exposed flesh, and his eyes seemed manic and darting. He was grinning insanely, baring his yellowed teeth.
The Ghost squeezed off another flurry of flechettes, but once again, the Koschei easily deflected them.
He risked a glance at the ground, searching for any sign of Regina’s lost weapon, but it was nowhere to be seen, kicked away in the chaos. The distraction, though, was the opening the Koschei had been waiting for, and he lurched at the Ghost, pushing on the air to create a wave like a brick wall, which slammed into the Ghost, sending him toppling backwards. He tried to roll, but the Koschei stood over him, fingers splayed, manipulating the air currents around the Ghost, preventing his every move.
The Koschei said something in Russian, but the Ghost couldn’t hear it—couldn’t hear anything—over the rush of wind that was pummeling him, coming at him from all directions at once. He gasped for breath, but felt the wind being drawn from his lungs, and he clutched at his throat as the world started to swim into darkness around him.
And then suddenly he was free again, and the Koschei was on the ground, a vine wrapped around his leg, pinning him down. He scrabbled at the wiry root, trying to pull himself free.
The Ghost sucked at the air, relief flooding his body. He glanced around to see the avatar looming to his right, skewering another Koschei with its blade, even as more of its vines grappled with another biplane, yanking the pilot out of the machine and crushing the life out of him in the process.
It glanced at the Ghost, catching his eye, and the avatar held out its hand, extruding a long, fat thorn from its palm. It nodded to the Ghost, and he reached for it, pulling it free from its socket. He weighed it in his hand like a sword.
At his feet, the Koschei was screaming, his leg now severed above the knee by the tightening vine. He raised his hands, trying to conjure a portal, but the Ghost put an end to him with the thorn, burying it deep in the man’s chest. He gurgled something incomprehensible, before falling still.
The Ghost yanked the thorn free, tucking it inside his trench coat, and then turned to help Regina to her feet. She looked pale, but alive. Nearby, he could hear the wail of sirens, and the report of machine gun fire. The armed forces were beginning to respond, joining the fray. Soon, the Air Force would engage the biplanes and airships, too.
He pulled his spare handgun from his boot and tossed it to Regina. “Show me the way to the house.”
“There’s too many of them,” she said. “We’ll never get through them that way. But I know another route.”
The Ghost nodded. He still didn’t know how much he could trust this woman, but he supposed he had little choice. He started after her as she made for the van.
Donovan and Rutherford were using the vehicle for cover, taking turns to cover each other as they blasted away at the Koscheis. They’d already managed to take down three of them, and as the Ghost ducked toward the van, he saw another bullet hit home, catching a Koschei in the side of the head and dropping him where he stood.
“Into the van!” he called across to them. “We’re going after the house.”
Donovan frowned. “What about Flora?”
The Ghost glanced back, to see swarms of uniformed soldiers flooding into the street, machine guns chattering. Flora was nearby, crouched behind a postbox, taking potshots at the Koscheis. Vines had broken through the pavement around her, creating a barricade. A little further down the street, Ginny floated three feet off the ground, ethereal wind rippling her hair as she summoned her immaterial lions to feast on the souls of the Russians. Horwood was nowhere to be seen. “I think Flora will be fine,” he said, smirking.
Donovan nodded, although he didn’t look particularly reassured.
Regina hauled herself up into the driver’s seat, and the Ghost, Donovan and Rutherford crammed in behind her.
“Where to?” said Rutherford, taking another shot out of the window, and winging a Koschei in the leg.
“Belgravia,” said Regina, as she stamped on the accelerator.
TWENTY
London had erupted into chaos.
Every turn they took, the roads were blocked by swarms of fleeing pedestrians, or lines of honking cars, as people tried to evacuate the capital. They were fleeing for the bridges, trying to cross the river, blocking every route that Regina knew to get them closer to Belgravia.
“I hope this works,” said Donovan. “I can’t quite fathom why we’re heading away from the fight—where we’ve left Flora and Ginny, I might add—when the house we’re trying to reach is right there, near St. Paul’s.”
“They’re defending it,” said Regina. “There’re scores of them in the streets. But this is a back way in, one they won’t think we’ll try.”
Rutherford nodded. “It makes sense. If we can use their network against them, hopefully we can get close to the heart of the enemy operation. Take that out, and we may just be able to win the day.”
“Exactly,” said the Ghost.
Regina hit the brakes, stopping the van in the middle of the road, where a taxi had apparently been abandoned, its doors hanging open. “This is as close as we’re going to get. We’re going to have to make a run for it.”
They jumped down from the van and followed her as she ran through the streets, going against the tide of civilians.
“This is it,” said Rutherford, as they rounded a bend into a large square, where large, sweeping terraces surrounded a meticulous park. It was clearly an affluent area—the most pristine that the Ghost had seen since arriving in London—but now, it seemed disturbingly quiet, its people gone, fearful of being caught in the fallout of the Russian invasion.
Regina ran up the steps to the front door of one of the terraced houses and tried the handle. It was locked. She took a step back, raised her gun, and fired twice at the wood around the lock. Then, with a sharp kick, she opened the door with a splintering bang.
“Come on, it’s upstairs.” She led the way, up onto the landing, and then along to a small, rather nondescript door at the far end. “It’s still here,” she said, with some relief. She reached up and traced her fingertip around the edge of a barely perceptible mark in the paintwork. As she did, the symbol began to glow, fizzing with the same unnatural light as the Koscheis’ portals.
“How did you find out how to do this again?” said Rutherford. He sounded both impressed and a little wary.
“Desperation,” said Regina. “I copied one of them, after Hargreaves fell through the portal and it shut behind him. This one leads to a farmhouse…” She completed tracing the sigil, and opened the door, stepping through.
With a shrug, the Ghost followed. Sure enough, he found himself standing in a farmhouse kitchen, just as Regina had explained. Bemused, he crossed to the window, peering out at the grassy wilderness beyond.
“My God,” said Donovan. “It’s incredible.”
“It’s dangerous,” said Rutherford. “Come on, we can’t hang around. Stick to the plan.”
Regina crossed to another door, and repeated the action, hurrying them through. This time they emerged in the drawing room of an old country manor house. She led them on to the dining room. Here, there was evidence of a scuffle, and the remains of a dead Koschei, now moldering on the floor.
“I see you were busy last time you were here,” said Rutherford.
“Not through choice,” said Regina, her voice level.
More doors led them through a cobbled lane, an old church—where a scene of intense carnage had taken place—and finally onto a box room in another terraced house, this one also occupied by a body.
The young Koschei had had his head caved in, or something to that effect—the top half of his skull was entirely missing, and the flesh around the wound was blistered and black. “The former owner of the weapon I was carrying,” said Regina, her voice barely above a whisper. “This is the place. The house near St. Paul’s, with all the doors.”
The Ghost nodded. “Downstairs?”
“Y
es. In the hallway. There’s about fifty of them.”
He crossed to the window, careful not to show himself as he peered out. Russian biplanes were still tearing through the sky, showering the streets with tracer fire, but now other fighters had engaged with them, too, ducking and weaving in a deadly, balletic dance. He could hear voices in the street below, too, and risked a quick glance, before stepping away from the window. “There’s at least ten of them in the street below.”
“That could mean there’s more in the house,” said Donovan.
Rutherford nodded. “Where do we go when we get down there?”
Regina shrugged. “I don’t know. Hargreaves and I got out of here the first chance we could. I don’t know where any of those portals lead.”
“Then we’ll just have to take our chances,” said Rutherford. “Come on.” He raised his pistol and walked to the other door, peering out onto the landing. He glanced back, indicating it was safe to proceed. They followed him out.
There were no voices down in the hallway. The Ghost took point, creeping down the steps one at a time, his flechette gun trained first at the bottom of the stairs, and then, as he made his way further down, into the hallway, sweeping his arm back and forth over the banister.
He could see immediately that Regina had been telling the truth—the view here was utterly disorientating, as if geometry itself had somehow broken down, allowing the walls to accommodate more doors than they should naturally be able to. Not only that, but there were rows of freestanding doors, too, just hovering in the air, supported by nothing. It hurt his eyes to look at them, causing him to feel dizzy and nauseous.
“What is this place?” Donovan whispered beneath his breath, as he came down the stairs behind the Ghost, trying to take it all in.
“A hub. A base. The place we have to find a way to destroy,” he said. He’d reached the bottom of the stairs.
“No,” said Rutherford. “A hub, certainly, but I’d wager one of these doors leads to the place we’re looking for. This isn’t where they do their planning.”
