Sentinels (The Sentinels Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  Sentinels

  Written by David Longhorn

  Edited by Emma Salam and Lance Piao

  Copyright © 2016 by ScareStreet.com

  All rights reserved

  Thank You!

  Hi there! I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for downloading this book. I really appreciate it, and to show how grateful I am to you I'd like to give you a bonus full length novel absolutely FREE.

  Sign up for our mailing list below and receive Sherman’s Library Trilogy by Ron Ripley, which offers many thrills and chills!

  www.ScareStreet.com/DavidLonghorn

  Yours eerily,

  David Longhorn

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: 540 AD

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue: London, August 1940

  Bonus Scene: Bombers Moon

  FREE Bonus Novel!

  Prologue: 540 AD

  The great hall by the North Sea was dark with shadows and the smoke of torches. It was a poor sort of building by the standards of a land that was, mere decades ago, the Roman province of Britannia. But the days of the Caesars were long past, and the hall was the residence of Redwald, one of the dozens of warrior kings who had carved new realms out of the fallen Empire.

  The last light of an autumn day leaked in through crude wooden shutters. A row of sturdy poles, still bearing the marks of cut boughs, marked the center line of the hall. There was a swarm of people, a stir of uncertain movement, and the odd whisper. But in the main part of the great hall, all individuals were lost in the mass come to pay homage to their leader. They knew themselves as the Tribe of the Knife; history would come to know them as Anglo-Saxons.

  Only on a simple platform at one end of the building could a sharp eye make out any details. In the torchlight, a large man covered by a purple cloak lay on a heap of animal skins. It was almost impossible in the gloom to make out the last traces of red in his hair and beard – the color submerged in gray. King Redwald's eyes were closed, his breathing labored, and his gnarled hands, complete with rings, clasped on his chest. A bronze helmet stood upright by his head; its visor bore a fair likeness of the dying man as he was in his hale middle years. To his right were a battle-worn sword and dagger; to his left lay a round wooden shield with bronze hooks bearing deep gouges.

  Two figures knelt at the dying man's feet; no onlooker could fail to note the contrast between them. One was a lank-haired old woman in plain gray robes that had seen better days. The other was a young man, splendidly dressed; his cloak was as blue as a summer sky and pinned at his throat with a golden brooch. A man with a scarred face stepped into the pool of light. His cloak was homespun brown cloth held in place with an iron pin. The long dagger at his belt was as well-worn as his garments.

  “It is almost time. All preparations are made.”

  The old woman looked up at Wulfric, the battle-scarred warrior.

  “It must be done the old way. It is wrong to stray from the ways of our Lord!” A young, dark-haired woman took a step into the dim light. A baby was swaddled in a blanket at her breast.

  The young woman's accent was so thick that it took a moment for the others to grasp her meaning. The words of the tribe did not sit easily on her tongue. Wulfric turned and gestured her back as one might do to quiet a troublesome pup, but his voice was not unkind.

  “Redwald married a British king's daughter, my lady, and the alliance it brought us is no small thing. But nothing was ever said about our people wedding your father's faith. We have our ways. We brought them from the old lands. They are strange to you, and cruel perhaps, but they have served us well enough so far.”

  The young woman could only meet the gaze of the fighting man for a couple of moments. She looked down at her swaddled infant, and mumbled something about witchery and demons before falling silent.

  Wulfric turned back and spoke to the young man in the sky-blue cloak.

  “You will soon be king. Would you know what the Spinners of the Years intend for your dynasty?”

  The young man looked up and, not for the first time, Wulfric reflected on how closely the boy resembled his father, yet how different they were in character.

  Ah well, thought the veteran warrior. Perhaps with time, and the tempering of battle.

  “What if the prophecy is ... not good?”

  The young man's voice was as unimpressive as his light downy beard. His eyes were wide, unblinking; he was obviously too afraid and confused. Not yet ready.

  “The Fates are the Fates,” retorted Wulfric. To the old woman he said, “Will they come to us?”

  For a moment, it seemed as if the old woman had not heard the warrior's words. The young man made an impatient gesture, but a firm hand fell on his shoulder.

  “Give the wise-woman time,” said Wulfric. “Hild knows the right road to the high places. She has the sight.”

  As if in response to his last words, the old woman threw back her head as her eyes rolled back into their sockets. In the darkness of the main hall, there was a sharp intake of breath, the sound of a crowd awed. The young man stared into Hild's white orbs in horrified fascination. He had never seen such a thing before, had never really given much thought to the old ways, still less to the old gods. Until now, he'd thought of them as mere words that were chanted before a feast, a battle, or a voyage.

  The hand on his shoulder gripped him a little tighter.

  “Courage always befits a ruler, lad. Especially when he faces the unknown.”

  The old woman began to sing. Her voice was not very impressive, weakened as it was by more than seventy winters of singing, scolding, and gossip, and by love-talk in youth and wise counsel in age. As the song unfolded, the listeners heard her voice grow stronger. At first, she told the tale of the old lands, of its gods and its heroes, and of the king who now lay dying – the boldest chieftain of all. King Redwald led them in their long ships across the unforgiving sea to these strange isles of the setting sun.

  Hild's voice grew stronger still, surer and richer in tone, and for a moment, Wulfric saw the woman's face transformed into that of the beautiful girl he knew as a boy in the old country. It was a boundless moment. The torches flickered at a sudden breeze and then the woman was old again. Her song was telling the story of what will be.

  The onlookers sighed in a mixture of wonder and relief as the tale unfolded. They heard that the progeny of the dying king would soon lead their tribe to victory, scattering the Celts in confusion and driving them back as far as the Welsh hills to the west. The richest portion of the land of Britannia would be theirs, with all its great woods and broad rivers, good hunting and good fishing, and room for this tribe to build a splendid kingdom.

  “Yes! Just as my father said it would be,” exclaimed the young man, gripping the scarred man's arm.

  “Wait,” warned Wulfric. “The song is not over.”

  He was right. The old woman sang on, her voice rising and falling in the king's hall, as she told of wonders that baffled and delighted the listening folk. She spoke of a realm greater than that of the fallen Caesars, of the rise of cities whose wealth would disappear, even the legendary Byzantium. She also spoke of fleets challenging untamed seas to carry the banners of great kings to the four corners of the Earth.

  Whispers filled the hall. This is a true vision! This is a good telling!

  But then the old woman shifted to
a minor key, her voice falling so that all whispers were hushed and the gathered people strained to hear her. She had to deliver another message.

  “All that is needed is one sacrifice, one covenant of blood, to make all these things come to pass.”

  Her song ended. Hild, the prophetess, descended from the platform and passed through the crowd. She seemed to see no one as the silent people stood aside. Even the bravest was unwilling to even brush against the garment of one so clearly ensorcelled.

  “Now.”

  Wulfric broke the silence and signaled to one of the bystanders. An old man stepped onto the platform, holding in his gnarled hands an object that entranced all who saw it. It gleamed in the erratic torchlight, shining with the bewitching luster of precious metal and richly-colored gemstones.

  Wulfric laid the shining crown gently on the breast of his lifelong friend, the king. Perhaps the weight of the crown was enough to drive the last breath from the man's body. His breathing grew heavier, then he gave a slight moan and was still.

  Wulfric stood and paused for a moment, looking at his fallen lord. He reached down and firmly raised the young prince in the blue cloak to his feet, presenting him to the people. The new king was proclaimed, and hailed by all the warriors.

  The old warrior released his new lord and took a step forward.

  “We have heard the woman speak true of what has been, and speak true of what is to come. The price is one of blood, as is proper for our tribe, the Men of the Knife.”

  A pause, and silence fell on the assembled people. All waited for the inevitable question.

  “Who will stand the long watch with me?” asked Wulfric, drawing his dagger.

  There was a long silence. Then, without a word, one man stepped forward into the light. Another pause, and a second volunteer took the fateful step. Wulfric nodded.

  “Three is a good number; three is enough to stand guard.”

  Chapter 1

  I'll be lucky to get through this unscathed, she thinks.

  The night is starless thanks to a heavy overcast, and the road's completely unlit.

  To be fair, they'd probably be unlit in peacetime, too.

  But at least in peacetime, she could have used her car's headlights properly; they're rendered near-useless by wartime restrictions. The headlights of her little Morris are masked by blackout covers with slits in them – compulsory in England in 1940.

  Rachel Rubin suspects she is lost.

  Ideally, someone who gets lost in the English countryside would simply find somewhere to stay in the nearest village. There'd be a quaint old inn of some kind, or perhaps a farm that took in guests. Unfortunately, finding the nearest village, or any form of habitation, isn't easy during wartime. She's approaching a crossroads now, touching a daring fifteen miles-per-hour on this winding English lane.

  She stops her sputtering car as she sees a signpost. She takes out her flashlight and shines its feeble beam into the murk. Sure enough, the traditional finger-post sign is useless. All the names have been whitewashed out, supposedly to baffle German invaders. It's frustrating and a bit ludicrous.

  As if an SS Panzer regiment wouldn't be able to find its way around without road signs!

  But it still brings home to Rachel how close she is to the Nazis. The Second World War is less than a year old and only a narrow strip of water separates England from occupied Europe.

  And the enemy could come any day now. Unable to do much about that, Rachel needs to find somewhere to stay for the night.

  As she turns a tight corner, she gets a glimpse of a pair of legs in the dim glow of the masked headlights. Rachel heaves the wheel over to avoid the man and nearly ends up in the ditch. She blares her horn without stopping the car.

  Johnny Riley swears at the car as it disappears into the gloom.

  It's not the first time he's nearly been killed on these dark country roads. Just a year ago, a man didn't run such risks. Now they've got this blackout and all the other wartime regulations. So if they're not nearly running over you, they're demanding to see your papers at checkpoints. He tries to avoid the authorities by going straight across country where possible. And security checks aren't the worst of it; food rationing means that even generous folk have less to give wandering men of the road, like himself.

  There are bad times around the corner, Johnny lad, he thinks. But I've got no choice but to KBO. “Keep Buggering On,” like they did in the trenches in the last war.

  He takes a deep breath, gathers his wits, and sets off again, trudging up the winding lane towards his destination. He doesn't need road signs to find his way. This had been his route for years, now, ever since he's been on the road.

  As a young man, he'd had a job, a sweetheart, and plans for a decent sort of life. Then had come the First World War, from which Sergeant Johnny Riley emerged with his share of battle scars, but also with mental wounds too deep for anyone to heal. He got a medal for courage under fire, but it was a poor exchange – he lost both his sweetheart and his job. He became a drifter like many others. Riley took laboring jobs around England until, one day, he found himself without a place to stay. And now, he's a seasoned drifter, with a keen eye for a likely place to sleep. And an excellent memory for vicious dogs and foul-tempered farmers.

  Well, tonight's destination's a good one. He's always found a warm welcome in Duncaster, even though it's a run-down sort of place. The parish priest might spare a few pennies. There should be a housewife who'd offer him breakfast in exchange for some garden work. The widow who runs the pub is a generous soul, too. Last summer, she gave him a pint of cider and a good meal in return for chopping wood.

  Yes, Duncaster is not too bad, all things considered. A good place to stop for a day or two. Quiet.

  Thought of rest brings his mind back to his ill-fitting boots. He found them yesterday in a heap of good stuff that had just been thrown out by someone with more money than sense. The boots are too big, so he filled them out with old newspapers. After a day on the road, he's growing very footsore.

  The sky, cloudy all day, is clearing up, promising a pleasant July night. With the threat of rain receding, he could sleep by the roadside, under the hedge. Or he can try to find a barn or shed to sleep in, just in case.

  Beggars can't be choosers, he thinks, and smiles ruefully. If only everyone who used that old saying had to walk a mile in his boots. His feet are throbbing. He'll have to find somewhere to settle down soon.

  Some might find the thought of sleeping in the countryside at night a bit spooky. But Johnny Riley, who's seen the best and worst of the living through the years, has never believed in ghosts.

  ***

  Rachel Rubin is reasonably pretty, petite, with auburn hair, green eyes, and a light dusting of freckles on her pale skin. She's twenty-three years old, works as an agency reporter, and still waiting to fall in love with England. As a little girl in New York City, she loved reading Dickens, Hardy, and other Victorians, along with less literary, but more romantic fiction. She often imagined herself running across rolling English fields in some kind of fancy lace-trimmed gown, then falling into the arms of a young, strangely handsome, and very rich lord of some kind.

  Like many childhood fantasies, these notions evolved into something a little more sophisticated. When she was assigned to the London office of the Global Press Agency, she imagined bumping into a handsome British officer during a bombing raid on London. In her fantasy, he would grab her manfully and pull her into the shelter of a doorway, describing her as 'a little fool' for being out while bombs were falling. There'd be an exchange of well-crafted insults, as in all the best movies, and then the bickering would give way to a passionate kiss as a siren wailed to underline the drama.

  Things didn’t quite work out like that. She arrived in Liverpool by liner after a nightmarish crossing during which their convoy was attacked by U-boats. Ships that were hit by torpedoes were simply left sinking, their crews in lifeboats if they were lucky. Charlotte Marsh, a young Briti
sh journalist who befriended Rachel, told her that this was because U-boats picked off any ships that stopped to rescue survivors.

  Charlotte stayed in touch after they reached England, since they both worked in London. She suggested Rachel visit what Charlotte called, rather playfully, 'the British Atlantis'.

  “You're kidding?”

  “As if I would! It's called Duncaster, and it's in Suffolk. Well, most of it's in the sea, now, so it's off the coast of Suffolk, but you get the idea.”

  Rachel asked why a town that was mostly under water would be of much interest to anyone.

  “Well,” Charlotte replied, “it's charming and picturesque. Americans might like to read something about the quirky oddness of Little Old England. Local color stuff, you know. For instance, even though most of the town was submerged in medieval times, it continued to elect members of parliament. They used to row the voters out on Election Day so they could cast their ballot while floating above the town square!”

  “I suppose it gives a whole new meaning to the term floating voter.”

  “All right,” said Charlotte, smiling. “They say you can sometimes hear the bells of sunken churches ringing underwater on a calm night. How's that for spooky?”

  “Now that's more like it! Spooky sells! Tell me more.”

  Charlotte told her a lot more. It seemed that something interesting might soon be uncovered in Duncaster. It was the sort of story that might earn Rachel a promotion and a chance to become a real war reporter. Her editor took a little persuading at first, but then she came up with a killer argument – even if she didn't come back with a great story, at least she'd be out of his hair for a few days.

  Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

  And so here she is, lost in the middle of nowhere. At the next crossroads, she has the choice of three routes. She can see no evidence that any one of them is better than the others. But she assumes that the one to the right should lead to the sea, so she takes it.