Sentinels (The Sentinels Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  “Okay, here's the thing -”

  And she recounts the story Bryce told her that afternoon.

  “Wow, that's a lot more than I've been told! The whole Himmler thing sounds insane, I agree. But this war is pushing everyone close to the edge.”

  “But do you think there's really a Nazi agent in Duncaster?”

  “I doubt it. I mean, a stranger here sticks out like a sore thumb. The only people it might be are Bryce, or Carl or of course your good self.”

  “Do I look like a Nazi?”

  He laughs.

  “I reckon a real secret agent wouldn't look much like one. It's part of the job description, don't you think?”

  But she can tell from his tone that he doesn't suspect her, and relaxes – irrational, but there it is. They walk back to the Green Man chatting like old friends, and pouring scorn on Bryce's Nazi conspiracy theory.

  Sometimes, you just need a guy you feel comfortable with. Especially when life's a little too exciting in other ways.

  Back at the inn, they find Carl with Professor Pardoe and the Land Girls. It seems that Bryce and Reverend Black went their separate ways after a sharp exchange of views. With no obvious way to a compromise, it seems hostilities will be resumed the next day. To her credit, Pardoe seems more upset to have caused controversy rather than about the opposition to her work.

  “It's really all quite harmless, you know,” she keeps repeating.

  “I'm sure it is, professor,” says Tony. “You know how country folk can be. Superstitious, and all.”

  “I reckon it would be good fun, digging up old bones,” says Jo the Land Girl.

  “Make a change from mucking out pigs and the like,” agrees Grace.

  Pardoe regains some of her enthusiasm.

  “Well, if you'd still like to take part, I can show you a few likely places, but of course one really should only dig under proper supervision.”

  “Maybe you could show us a map?” asks Carl. “A picture's worth a thousand words, and all that.”

  The conversation turns to archeology, and Rachel thinks anything she might say will mark her down as a wet blanket at best, if not a lunatic. She also feels a stupid but inevitable pang of jealousy as Carl turns his charm on the Land Girls, joking about various unscientific reasons for exploring the woods. She finishes her drink and says her goodnights.

  Chapter 11

  “We are now at periscope depth, Captain!”

  “Good, keep us steady.”

  “Course, dead on two-eighty-two degrees.”

  “Speed registering at fifteen kilometers per hour.”

  Kessler looks around the cramped bridge with interest. He arrived in Hamburg late last night and had no time for a tour of the U-66 before being shown to his bunk. The submarine is far smaller than he expected, but at the same time vastly more complex. Here in the control room, arrays of valves, levers, dials, and switches – almost all baffling to Kessler. And yet amid all this technology, his mission is essentially supernatural, or perhaps mystical, to its core.

  Seeing the SS man's curiosity, the young Captain Stahl grins and says, “A bit different from parading through Munich with a nice big flag, eh?” Then he slaps the shiny metal column that occupies the center of the control space.

  “Up 'scope!”

  The periscope controls rise smoothly into view. Stahl reverses the peak of his cap and grabs the instrument's handles. Kessler admires the polished efficiency of the 'Old Man', as his crew calls him. The captain is twenty-nine, but already a seasoned veteran of undersea warfare.

  “Nothing in sight,” says the captain. “Down 'scope! Prepare to surface!”

  Again, there's a bewildering array of orders, responses, more commands, and more responses. The light on the bridge changes to red, startling him.

  “It adapts your eyes to darkness,” says Stahl with a slight smile. He's clearly amused to have to nursemaid an SS man, and one in plain clothes at that. After more baffling to-and-fro exchanges, Stahl opens the hatch above their heads and dodges the resulting cascade of sea water. At the same time, Kessler hears the submarine's diesel engines roar into life, replacing the hum of electric motors.

  “Come on up, major,” says Stahl. “Get some fresh air while we charge batteries.”

  The two men climb the conning tower, followed by the first officer with a sextant. While sightings are taken, Kessler surveys a deserted North Sea. They're only three hours out of Hamburg, but there's already no sign of civilization. The only light comes from a thin sliver of moon. He can barely make out the white V of the vessel's wake.

  “So, major, you are planning to do some shooting in England?” asks the first officer. It's not the first time someone had commented on Kessler's tweed outfit.

  “I hope not, but if necessary I am prepared,” replies Kessler.

  “You realize,” says Stahl, “that we cannot stay on the surface for long in daylight? An hour at most, and only then if visibility is poor. Any longer and we become a sitting target.”

  “I understand. Rest assured, captain, that it will all be over quickly, one way or another.”

  He does not mention the air inspection report he received just before embarking. The navy men don't need to know that a British military unit of some sort is encamped in the target zone.

  Well, a warrior does not shy away from battle.

  Kessler scans the horizon with dark-adapted eyes. He can make out no sign of land ahead, only the horizon where the starry night ends and the black, cold waters begin.

  ***

  In her attic room, the dream of the boat-grave under the sea possesses Rachel again, identical in every detail to that of the night before. Again, she drifts over Duncaster, to the church with its heraldic shield, then out to sea where Redwald lies at rest with his crown and his warriors. This time, she recognizes the Sentinels, and understands how desperate they must be to defend the realm at a time of peril.

  But before the dream can reach its grisly finale, there's a strange sound – a kind of drum-beat or perhaps the pounding of her heart? She emerges from sleep to realize that someone's knocking gently, but persistently, on her bedroom door. She switches on the bedside lamp and gets up to open the door.

  It's Carl, holding a bottle of brandy.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks, still baffled by sleep.

  “My room's right underneath yours,” he explains. “And you've been making some alarming noises! I heard you last night, too, but we hadn't been introduced, so -”

  “Oh, god. Here, come in.”

  She realizes she's in just her pajamas and gropes for her overcoat. He walks in as if they've known each other forever and sits on the bed.

  “I thought we might share a night-cap?”

  He holds up the bottle.

  “Okay, but just a splash. I've got a tooth-mug. ”

  “Cigarette? Oh, no, I forgot. Do you mind if I do?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  Rachel decides against joining him on the bed. She knows enough about guys who seem nice not to send anything that might be taken as a signal. Instead she sits on a chair by the window and takes a sip of brandy.

  “So, was I shouting or what?”

  “Well, you were pretty worked up about something. I didn't hear any words.”

  “It was the same nightmare as last night, but you woke me up before the really horrific part.”

  “Sometimes talking about these things can help,” he says, taking a drink.

  “Yeah, I've heard that.”

  She hesitates, then gives a brief account of the dream, explaining that other people are having it, too. Carl's about to say something when he suddenly freezes. Blood drains from his face and he stares, unblinking, past her.

  Rachel turns and sees a face at the window. Or rather, something that was a face, a long time ago. She jumps up and staggers back, falling onto the bed. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice scolds her for forgetting to put up the blackout screen.


  A Sentinel leers in at them, slack-jawed and gap-toothed, a strand of its lank hair falling into one vacant eye-socket. A clawed hand appears and scratches at the window. Rachel imagines the thing crawling up the wall and across the slates of the inn like a humanoid spider.

  “Holy shit! I never saw one up close before.”

  It takes a second for his words to register, then something clicks into place.

  “That's why you needed to get out for some air, that first day in the church,” she says numbly. “You saw them, too.”

  He continues to stare at the Sentinel as he replies, distractedly, “I saw you looking at something and then I got a glimpse of it.” His voice is strangely monotonous. “It wasn't seeing it that shook me up, it was realizing that you could, too. Then I realized that it meant I wasn't going crazy, at least that's something!”

  Rachel stares back at the spectral warrior, forcing herself to meet its blank gaze. Its jaws work slowly, mouthing inaudible words.

  “Why can't it just come in and, well, get us?” Carl whispers.

  “Maybe it needs an invite. Or is that just vampires?”

  Then, with astonishing suddenness, the horrific face is gone and Rachel realizes that Carl's got an arm around her shoulder. He offers her the brandy bottle and she takes a good-sized gulp.

  “So, you could see that clearly, like it was real?”

  “Oh yeah. That was a lot clearer than usual. For me.”

  “What do they want with me?”

  “Why did they attack that soldier? Or that old hobo?”

  It's a good question.

  “Say, do you remember when you introduced me to Reverend Black, and he gave me his little lecture on the Saxons and stuff?”

  “Sure, I got the same thing when I met him the first time. Why?”

  “Well, the Saxon invaders defeated the Celts, right? And they were driven back to – where did he say?”

  “Wales.”

  “And that soldier, Jenkins? He was from Wales, wasn't he?”

  Carl pauses for a moment,

  “Yeah, that's right. He was a Celt.”

  “And the hobo, Johnny, he was Irish, yes? Also Celtic. And a warrior. That medal he won? He must have been a great soldier at one time.”

  “Okay, but what does that mean?”

  She turns from the window, feeling that the show is over for now, and looks him in the eye.

  “The Saxons, Redwald's people, attacked the Celts. Wouldn't anyone defending Redwald's grave see Celtic warriors as a threat, with England under threat of invasion?”

  His eyes widen in surprise.

  “But those guys were no threat.”

  “We know that. But maybe they, the Sentinels, find it hard to tell, after all these centuries?”

  “Yeah. That does make a kind of sense.”

  He reaches up to take her under the chin, but she intercepts his hand.

  Aw, crap. Mister Handsome has to go and spoil a perfectly good conversation.

  Gently, but firmly, she takes his arm off her shoulder and stands up.

  “Okay, Flying Officer Tanner, I appreciate your chivalry, and if you want to grab a blanket and try to sleep in that old armchair, that's fine. I'd prefer not being alone for the rest of the night. But that's it. Nothing else happens, okay?”

  He looks disappointed for a moment, but then his trademark grin is back. She can almost hear him thinking 'Well, it was worth the old college try'.

  “Sure, I'm used to roughing it! I'll be up early tomorrow.”

  “Don't tell, me, it's being a farm-boy?”

  “Right! But I'll try not to wake you.”

  Carl covers the window with the blackout screen.

  “Better late than never, huh?”

  When they're both settled, she switches off the lamp and tries to get back to sleep. But after a few minutes, her mind's still racing and she asks, “Carl? You asleep?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Right. Well, I've been thinking. It is weird those two particular guys were attacked. After all, there must be other Celts in that engineer unit, and there might even be some living in the village. I think there must be another factor we've missed. Something important.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, both attacks happened in the same general area.”

  And they talk on for a while until, after a pause, Rachel hears Carl snoring gently. Soon she follows him into sleep.

  ***

  Now, there is a new dream. A face Rachel's only ever seen as a picture at her father's bedside. Her mother is trying to tell her something in a gentle voice she can't remember ever hearing. Then her mother's kindly, wistful face changes to that of Jenny, and then to that of another woman, and another, and it's as if Rachel is being carried swiftly down a corridor past face after face, until she's finally confronted by a sharp-featured, old woman with piercing eyes.

  “Find the lost ways. Lead them to the high places. Lead them to their rest!”

  Much later, she wakes to see a few streaks of gray dawn light sneaking in past the blackout.

  “Carl? You still asleep?”

  As her eyes adjust she sees that he's gone. She hears an engine sputter into life, and wonders who's setting out on a journey this early.

  ***

  She wakes to find herself not as troubled as she was the previous morning. And she's not surprised to find that someone, perhaps herself, has left another message in her notebook.

  Dreams can be deceiving.

  She takes down the blackout screen.

  “Give my regards to Jenny,” she says to the black cat on the windowsill. “But I'd kind of figured that bit out already.”

  The cat gives her an inscrutable look before licking a pink-toed paw and starting to wash its face.

  She dresses, washes, and grabs a quick breakfast. While she doesn't have the whole picture, she's sure she's found the essence of the legend in the facts she's gathered; the legend of Duncaster, and the web of dreams that has been woven into her mind since she arrived. And that means everyone involved – Pardoe, Reverend Black, the villagers, even the clever Mister Bryce – is making a very big mistake.

  Outside, she finds a light sea mist has rolled in during the night, blurring everything more than a few feet away and giving the village an unreal look. But the confrontation developing outside the army camp is real enough. It's still early, but Reverend Black and a couple of dozen parishioners are facing off against Bryce, Pardoe, and the military.

  As she walks up, she hears Tony Beaumont trying to pacify both sides.

  “Look, we might not be able to do anything. We haven't even sent divers down yet, and when we do, they might well conclude that there's no way to explore the seabed.”

  Bryce looks peeved and says, “Captain Walker assures me it will be possible to drain an area using concrete caissons.”

  At this, Jane Pardoe shakes her head emphatically.

  “The kind of heavy engineering work you're talking about would be far too destructive to any remains. You're talking about plunder, not science!”

  So, it's turning into a three-way fight.

  At the same time, Reverend Black repeats his demand that no search for the crown be carried out under any circumstances. They are all talking at once, while from the locals come shouts of support for the clergyman, and some outright abuse aimed mostly at Bryce.

  “You're all wrong!” Rachel shouts.

  There is a brief silence in the argument before everyone starts talking over one another again. But Tony Beaumont comes over to her and asks what she meant.

  “It's not out there,” she says, pointing out to sea.

  He looks puzzled, as do several villagers standing by.

  “But that's where it's always been claimed the crown is buried,” he says.

  “Yes, but why?” she asks. “Why do people think that?”

  “Because, well, because they do, I suppose. It's a tradition.”

  More people are pay
ing attention to them now.

  “It's only a local tradition because Duncaster people have dreamed about the king out there, the king under the sea,” Rachel says.

  She turns to Reverend Black, who's walking over to her.

  “Has it never occurred to anyone to wonder why someone guarding an object would tell you, night after night, exactly where it is?” she demands.

  “Because that's what the nightmare of the Sentinels does, over and over again. The dreams created the tradition, don't you see?”

  “Rubbish!” says a villager.

  “What does she know?” demands another.

  “The warning's clear enough!” points out Betty Jones, to general approval.

  Rachel raises her voice to address them all.

  “Yes, they warn you not to take the crown, that's true. But when did that kind of thing ever really work?”

  Rachel walks over to the archeologist.

  “Professor Pardoe, has the so-called Curse of the Pharaohs ever stopped your colleagues from digging up the treasures of Egypt?”

  The scientist looks startled, but nods, “Well, no, of course not! Every ancient treasure is guarded by some curse or another. We ignore them, as do common looters. If we took heed of such things, we'd never find anything!”

  Rachel looks around at faces that are confused, or angry, or worried. Bryce is unsure of himself for the first time since they met. She can see his rational, pragmatic nature struggling with the idea that some supernatural force might have tricked him. Tony and Captain Walker are clearly baffled by this latest turn of events. Reverend Black looks perplexed, too, but is perceptive enough to ask the obvious question.

  “Well, if the crown isn't under what's left of the old town, where is it? Or are you claiming that it doesn't exist?”

  This prompts another outburst from the villagers, but Rachel raises her hands again in a comforting gesture.

  “Oh, I'm sure it exists,” she says. “As to where it is, I think I've figured that out.”

  “What's all this, then? Outdoor morning prayers, is it?” cuts in a familiar voice.