Sentinels (The Sentinels Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  “We've run aground!”

  “It's just a sandbar! Reverse motors, they'll pull us off!”

  “No! It sounded like rock, not sand. If we move it could tear right through our exterior!”

  “Captain? What are you orders? Captain?”

  Then they are all silenced by a deep, harmonious sound that seems to rise from the waves all around them.

  “What in the name of God is that?” asks one.

  The sound comes again. For all its spine-chilling eeriness, it is still strangely familiar to the men who hear it.

  “Church bells!” one whispers. “God protect us!”

  “Where is the old man?” asks another.

  “He went overboard with Kleist, didn't you see?”

  “Put out the life raft, then, get them back!”

  Then they notice the fog is beginning to lift.

  “Motors full behind, we must escape before we are spotted!”

  The rising note of the submarine's diesels can't blot out the ghostly chimes. The U-66 goes into reverse, and there's a sickening sound of metal being torn apart as the keel ruptures.

  “I told you, you wouldn't listen!”

  “We're taking on water!”

  “If it gets to the batteries we'll be gassed!”

  “Abandon ship!”

  ***

  She finds Carl on the stretch of beach below the church. He lies amid a jumble of broken tombstones and other debris from last winter's storms. His limbs are thrown all awry – she thinks of a broken doll discarded on a heap of garbage. Despite her fury at his deceit and violence, she can still feel a pang of compassion at seeing a life ended like this.

  She hears running feet on sand as Bryce comes up to stand by her, gun in hand.

  “He can't tell us anything now, damn him,” says the agent between rasping breaths.

  “No. No, he can't,” she agrees.

  “What the hell happened? Who was he shooting at?”

  Rachel looks at Bryce. His blindness was hard to credit, but he obviously can't see the Sentinel that stands, swaying slightly, by the corpse. She wonders for a brief moment where the other two are, then decides that she doesn't want to know.

  Bryce bends down and takes hold of something that protrudes from Tanner's chest. She looks away as the object comes free with a sucking noise.

  “Some kind of iron blade – it must be hundreds of years old!” Bryce speaks with the callous curiosity of a boy dissecting an insect under a magnifier.

  “And what on earth caused all that damage to his face? Those certainly aren't knife wounds!”

  “You could ask the culprit, but they tend to be a bit repetitive,” she says, nodding at the Sentinel. She can hear the undead thing whispering at her, its words hovering just on the edge of meaning.

  Bryce turns and looks straight through the phantom warrior. If he senses an uncanny presence, his hawk-like face reveals nothing.

  “Are you seriously claiming that Reverend Black's ghosts from the Dark Ages are here, now? That they did this to a man? Why didn't they simply kill the lot of us for good measure, if they're guarding the crown from all?”

  “I don't know – but there are rules, there must be! Maybe down the centuries they've grown weaker. Doesn't that make sense? Nothing lasts forever. Once they could drown an entire medieval town, now they can only raise a fog on a summer's day.”

  The fog begins to lift as she speaks.

  “Even magic fails in the end. They could never have expected to stand watch for so long, back at the start of the Dark Ages. I think they're almost exhausted.”

  “You're asking me to take a lot on trust, Miss Rubin.”

  For a moment longer, they stand looking down at what remains of Carl Tanner's face. Bone shows through the torn flesh around his nose and mouth. She tries to remember the color of his eyes, but fails. Nothing remains of the handsome fly-boy she met yesterday morning but the fair hair, now clotted with blood, spread out around his head like a grotesque halo.

  “One of us has to put it back.”

  “I'll do it,” says Bryce, and starts to pick up the satchel.

  “No!” she says, and before he can stop her she's snatched up the bag.

  “You silly little fool! If you're right, you could be committing suicide!” he says.

  “And what about you? Do you want to throw your life away? Besides, you'll have your hands full with Professor Pardoe and Captain Walker.”

  He's trying to find a suitable reply, but she's already walking back along the beach, heading for the path that will take her up the cliffs. As she walks, she feels them following her, all three Sentinels now, their shapes a little more substantial than shadows in the dissipating fog. She hears all three whispering, too, and for the first time she can understand what they're saying.

  “Woman with the second sight,” they say, breathless voices echoing in her mind. “Wise woman, cunning woman, help us, for we are old and lost and weary of heart! Perform the true rite and return what was stolen. Take us to the high places, lead us back to the old gods who wait for us in their noble hall of feasting! We are weary, so very weary.”

  She walks quickly despite her sprained ankle, moving with a clear purpose. This is a duty, something that can't be avoided or put off. More than a duty, it's her destiny. Before today, Rachel never even suspected that she had one.

  Bryce stands watching her for a moment, torn between his own sense of duty and a conviction that something strange and unknowable is at work in the world. Then he breaks into a run, passing the young woman – Is that someone walking with her? Several someones? Better not to think about such things – and making his way up the cliff where he meets Captain Walker at the top. The captain stands with a pistol drawn and a cordon of soldiers behind him, holding back a group of villagers led by Reverend Black.

  “How is the lieutenant?” asks Bryce.

  “They say he might make it, if they get him to a surgeon quickly enough,” replies Walker, surprised at the man's concern. It's the first hint the captain has seen that Bryce has normal human feelings.

  Walker nods down at Rachel, who is picking her way up the narrow, winding path from the beach.

  “What on earth happened?”

  Bryce looks at the young journalist, then along the beach to the spot beneath the church.

  “Mister Tanner seems to have had an accident,” he says, in an even voice. “I'll handle the official report. Now it seems that we have to return the crown to its proper place.”

  Walker seems about to demand more information, but instead, he nods curtly and begins to bark orders at his men.

  “Clear a path through, there! Clear the way to the woods!”

  After a moment's hesitation, Reverend Black calls on his parishioners to do the same.

  Rachel stops when she reaches the top of the cliff and takes the crown out of the backpack. There's dried blood on the precious metal. Then she crosses the road and takes the straight route to the mound, stepping carefully so as not to risk dropping her burden. As she passes, some people sink to their knees, some look away, but most stare at the crown. The July sun breaks through the mist, and the Crown of Redwald becomes a golden beacon.

  Young Mary watches the nice American lady and the Raggedy Men go by, peeping from behind Betty's skirts.

  They all follow Rachel to the mound, soldier and civilian, adult and child, priest and government agent. She finds the place easily enough. There's a gaping trench dug across the mound by the young women who were so easily won over by Carl's charm. And Rachel thinks of the verse of the folk song that had stuck in her mind yesterday.

  Mark well, all men who trespass,

  To lay hands on the crown…

  All men who trespass. It was that simple. The curse was a thing of its time, formed in an era when 'men must war and women must weep' – Tony Beaumont had been right, in a way, despite getting his quotation wrong. A male beggar camping out on the mound or a soldier digging nearby quickly incurred
the wild wrath of the Sentinels – proximity plus Celtic ancestry made them targets. But women weren't included in the curse. A simple form of words had provided a traitor with a loophole and let the crown be unearthed safely. More or less.

  Carl was pretty smart to get the Land Girls involved, and of course he didn't care about putting them at risk if he was wrong. Maybe he could have gotten away with it. But then he shed a brave Englishman's blood over it.

  She pauses on the edge of the pit and looks down at the grave of Redwald, warrior king. She feels a crowd gathering around her, one composed of the living and the dead.

  There's little enough to see of the great man. A few bones and a skull remain, but her eye is drawn to the rich array of grave-goods. On one white shoulder-blade rests a jeweled brooch that once fastened a fine cloak that has long since rotted to nothing. There is a splendid helmet of bronze, its elaborately decorated mask looking more human than the bleached skull beside it. Less exposed are two long rust-red blades – the sword and dagger of the king.

  The hands of the skeleton rest on its breastbone. The fleshless fingers form part of a circle where the symbol of kingship lay for well over a thousand years. Rachel climbs down into the trench, careful not to touch any part of the body or relics. She lifts the crown above her head, and looks up at the folk gathered around the edge of the pit.

  Jenny is there among the ghosts, now a smiling barefoot peasant girl with flaming red hair rather than the withered phantom of the graveyard. Beside her, stands a woman with a piercing eyes in a more archaic costume. Behind them, a mass of ghosts and phantoms of Duncaster's wise women from down the centuries, all – like Jenny – appearing as they were at the height of their powers. The keepers of the crown’s secret, a line that died with Jenny and was revived by some unimaginable means in Rachel.

  “Okay, team, what do I do now?”

  There's a flurry of movement like the flapping of raven wings, and Rachel feels a rush of energy course through her. Words unheard since the last millennium spill from her tongue as she holds the crown up to the sun for the last time. Then she lays the precious thing down, placing it gently between the hands of the king. The flood of words ends, and she hears a great roaring noise, like flood waters. The sky seems to grow smaller and then disappears completely as she enters the twilight region between the worlds of the living and the dead.

  She sees them now as they once were, the three brave warriors who forfeited their lives to stand watch over their king. No longer grisly things of bone and ragged flesh, they stand around her, unsmiling but not hostile. One, a gray-haired man with a scarred face, reaches out his hand and she takes it. With a jolt she is ripped free from ordinary time and space.

  At first, she's confused by the swirl of impressions around her, but she slowly realizes that she's still accompanied by Jenny, last of the seers of Duncaster. The smiling young woman shows her a path, a kind of shining roadway the leads up and out of sight into a blaze of unearthly light. Rachel knows this is the way to the high places, a route to the ancient gods. She urges the warriors to follow her, tries to lead them to a place of rest. They hesitate, she feels their doubt and confusion, and then a sudden burst of radiance overwhelms her. Rachel falls backwards onto cold, damp earth.

  “Somebody help her!” shouts a familiar voice.

  Reverend Black's a nice old fella, she thinks. He's one of the good guys.

  Epilogue: London, August 1940

  Looking up from the hilltop, she sees dozens of intersecting vapor trails, as if a bored god is scribbling on the sky. It's a meaningless non-pattern to anyone on the ground, but in the air, young men in war machines are fighting to the death. It is, as Churchill said in a speech just a few weeks ago, the Battle of Britain.

  Tony Beaumont, smart in his officer's uniform but still looking pale after his ordeal, says, “It's rather ironic, isn't it? That such a brutal war should produce something so beautiful, I mean. Apparently, those trails are caused by water from the engines condensing.”

  “I know,” she says, smiling. “Somebody explained it to me once.”

  She looks down at the people enjoying their Saturday afternoon in the park. A few stare up at the battle unfolding many thousands of feet above them, but most are acting as if it's just another day. Walkers are dotted here and there, some solitary, some in pairs or groups. Dogs are running after sticks or balls, or for the simple joy of running.

  A few yards away a family is picnicking close by a duck pond. A mother and two children sit on a tartan blanket, with sandwiches and small cakes set out on paper plates. As the woman pours herself some tea from a thermos flask, Rachel catches a glimpse of a fourth person standing over the family group, unnoticed. It's a young man in an army uniform. He stands looking down with a dark, fathomless gaze.

  As she watches, the young man disappears, fading away like the drifting shadows cast by the fleecy summer clouds. It doesn't bother her. She's gotten used to ghosts.

  “I got a call from Reverend Black this morning,” she says. “Apparently, nobody has seen anything strange around Duncaster since we put it back.”

  “Maybe the Sentinels are recharging their batteries,” he suggests. “They had a few busy days, after all.”

  “Maybe. I don't think they've gone away as much as found some kind of rest. It could just be temporary. If someone else tries to meddle with the crown – well, who knows?”

  “And are you still seeing things?” Tony asks.

  “You could have phrased that better, fella!” she says, taking any sting out of the words with a smile. “And yes, I am still seeing a few spooks, but not so many as I was. And they're a lot less clear now. Maybe they'll be gone in a few months. Or years.”

  “Let's hope so! Coping with the living is tricky enough.”

  “Talking of being among the living, have you still got your lucky charm?”

  He reaches into the breast pocket of his tunic and takes out the old drifter's medal. One arm of the Victoria Cross shows a semi-circular indentation. Fresh metal is exposed where a pistol bullet struck and expended most of its force.

  “I'm going to find out about him, even if I have to fill in every form the Ministry of Defense can throw at me,” says Tony. “It's the least I can do. And we will give this back to his family. There's a human interest story for you!”

  “I suppose so. The agency seemed happy enough with my 'U-boat runs aground off English coast' feature.”

  “Nice to see Captain Walker get some credit for that, even though all he did was round up some scared German sailors. Why do you think the Sentinels attacked them? I mean, they were of the same tribe, technically.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “but when Carl shed your blood it changed the situation. Carl became a traitor and his allies, I guess, were seen as invaders. Scratch one U-boat!”

  “Were you tempted to tell the guys back in New York that that was the most normal thing that happened in Duncaster?”

  She laughs.

  “Who'd believe it? Nobody, apart from the people who were there.”

  “And what about that vision of your mother?”

  Rachel thinks of her father's letter, his response to her carefully-worded request for information on her mother's family.

  “Let's just say the jury's out on whether or not I'm related to the wise women of Duncaster. But I’m sure I must be. It makes sense. After all, why did I just turn up in that particular place at that particular time?”

  “Sheer blind coincidence?” he asks.

  “Sure, you go ahead and believe that if you like. I'll carry on calling it fate. Or destiny.”

  Hand in hand, they resume their walk, taking the long way around the park so they'll have a few more minutes before they have to go back into the noisy heart of the city. And, although she sees more ghosts along the way, she doesn't mention them to him.

  * * *

  Bonus Scene: Bombers Moon

  The barmaid turns off the radio and the short period of attentive silence
ends. The crowd in the bar start discussing the war news. It's a moment Rachel has experienced hundreds of times since she arrived in England, but this time it feels different. There's a sense of hope today, the kind of excitement that comes when people who've endured a brutal ordeal realize that there might finally be an end in sight.

  “Stalingrad. Gotta say, has kind of a ring to it,” she says, taking a sip of her drink.

  “But do you think we can trust Stalin?” asks Charlotte.

  “The Red Army's giving the Nazis a hell of a beating. Stalin's a bastard, but he's on our side for now,” replies Rachel. “Sure, we’ve heard about his glorious victories before, but maybe this is it! Imagine that! Maybe historians will write that this year's the turning point. There has to be one. Why not 1943? The year Hitler's luck finally ran out.”

  “Look out,” says Charlotte, suddenly distracted. “God squad at six o'clock!”

  Rachel raises an eyebrow. It's not the first time she's been puzzled by her friend's quirky English. Charlotte nods towards the door and Rachel twists around to see a white-haired man in black clothes looking around the bar room. He's out of place in a journalists' pub, and not just because of the clerical collar. For a moment, Rachel doesn't recognize him, then memories flood back. She jumps up and rushes over to throw her arms around the startled priest.

  “Reverend Black! It's so good to see you again!”

  “Thank you, Miss Rubin,” replies the clergyman, smiling after his initial surprise. “But I wonder if my bishop will be pleased to hear I've been hugged by an unmarried young lady in a public house?”