by Weston Ochse
He watched as YaYa landed and rolled.
Holmes did better, standing up, using the witch’s weight as ballast.
Then Walker, then Laws, then it was his turn.
Just as he was about to hit the ground fear surged through him as he realized he’d just leaped from an airplane. He’d been so focused on the mission that he’d forgotten to be scared. He closed his eyes and winced as he landed. Still, with the extralarge commercial parachute, he was able to stand and walk it down.
They recovered their parachutes and placed them in a pile.
The witch looked like a freshly bathed cat.
“If there ever comes a time when you want me to jump out of another plane, don’t bother coming around. I won’t do it. England or no.”
“Wasn’t so bad,” Laws said. “Yank here is terrified of heights and he jumps all the time.”
“Of course we sometimes have to kick him out the door,” Walker added, “but he’s getting better.”
Yank rolled his eyes. He’d known the jibe was coming. Laws couldn’t help himself. Always the fucking merry prankster. Mr. Joker boy.
Laws patted Yank on the back. “What? No comment?”
“I’ll reserve my comment for the next time we’re sparring.”
Laws shut up at this, probably because he knew that Yank had forgotten more about fighting than Laws had ever learned.
Holmes checked his HK416. “Let’s remember this is a military mission.”
Yank watched as Laws almost came back with a smart-assed reply, then thought better of it when Holmes gave him a firm glare.
They all wore body armor over black sterile uniforms. Their Pro-Tec helmets had mounts for night vision, but their QUADEYES were in their cargo pockets, as were their ballistic masks. They wore Rhodesian military vests over their body armor, which had numerous pockets allowing them to carry ten spare magazines, as well as white phosphorous and fragmentation grenades. They wore their usual MBITR and Holmes did another radio check.
YaYa and Hoover took point, the dog ranging a dozen feet forward. Walker and Laws followed. The witch and Holmes came next. Yank brought up the rear.
He checked his watch. 0840 local time.
They reached the top of the mound without event. The pinnacle was mostly flat, running lengthwise for more than seventy meters, with a width of nearly twenty meters. Several piles of wood and sticks had been placed in the center, making Yank wonder if they might not be planning a bonfire later.
The witch found a location on the northeast side. It looked like any other place, but she’d stopped and said, “This is it.”
The rest of the SEALs faced outward around her while Holmes stood beside her as the witch unwrapped the item she’d brought.
Yank glanced back and saw a length of metal a little more than a yard long with a hooked end like a shepherd’s crook or a giant fishing hook.
She pulled the last of the canvas from it. “I found this laying around the museum. Belonged to a ninth-century Norse witch.”
Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “You stole it?”
“They didn’t know what they had. There’s more power in this than anything I’ve ever seen. It drew me to it.” She shrugged. “What do you want to do? Look at it behind a case or use it to help us save England?”
Holmes didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “How exactly are we going to get in?”
“That’s where the Tuatha comes in. It knows the secret knock.”
She began to hum. Her pupils rolled back, revealing nothing but white.
Yank shuddered. He hated when that happened.
She spoke something guttural in a language he didn’t understand, then struck the ground three times with the end of the metal staff.
Yank didn’t see what happened, but he heard her say, “Oh hell no,” then heard her fall.
He turned to see her splayed facedown. No opening. No doorway. Nothing except cold, wet grass.
“What happened?”
Holmes knelt and checked for a pulse. “She’s alive. Pulse is strong.” He glanced at Yank. “She acted surprised.”
Yank made a face. “Can’t be a good thing if a witch gets surprised.”
Holmes nodded.
Walker pointed toward one of the woodpiles. “Look. There.”
They watched as several pieces of wood fell from the pile to the ground as if there was something inside the pile pushing it free.
Yank and the others raised their silenced HKs but refrained from firing.
Then more wood fell until the entire pile had flattened across the ground. Yank saw both Walker and YaYa grit their teeth. When Yank looked back at the wood, he watched as the pieces began to come together. Small and large pieces, thick and thin pieces, they were moving together on their own for a common purpose. He couldn’t be sure how long it had taken, but it was suddenly a being. He could see legs, bent the wrong way, like an animal’s. A tall, slender upper body with long arms, a triangular head with what looked like horns jutting free. Only it wasn’t a body or a being, just wood somehow hewn together to make this … this creature.
When it turned its head to regard them he couldn’t help but let out a gasp.
Then it took off running.
“Hoover, YaYa, Walker, get that thing,” Holmes ordered.
All three looked at one another, including the dog. Then they were off. YaYa and Walker slid their rifles on their backs, barrels down for better ease of running.
He turned to Yank and Laws. “You two, help me and Ms. Moore.” He bent down to pick up the staff but snatched his hand back when it sizzled on the metal. “I think we’ve been tricked.”
“But who would do it?”
“My guess is that Tuatha was playing possum.”
Laws grabbed the witch under her arms. “Where to now?”
“Wherever that thing is going.”
“Do you have any ideas?” Laws motioned for Yank to grab her feet.
“Glastonbury Tor.”
Yank did the math. It was about forty miles away. They couldn’t possibly run it. They’d have to steal a car to get there in time.
Then they heard Walker give a shout over their MBITR.
“Oh hell! A truck just creamed it.”
CHAPTER 44
SOUTH OF GLASTONBURY TOR, ENGLAND. A FEW MINUTES LATER.
The party was still in full swing. Revelers could be heard inside and outside the home. Here and there a naked torso or butt could be seen pressed against one of the upstairs windows. Ian had never seen anything like it. What they were doing didn’t seem fitting on Christmas and certainly was not a tradition his family cultivated.
After a brief conferral, he and Magerts placed the men where they had planned, based on reconnaissance using Google Maps. The lots to the right and left of the home were empty, but across the road was seven-foot shrubbery capable of hiding men from view of the house. There was also a rather dense blackberry thicket in the empty lot to the right, which seemed to present an impenetrable view both to and from the home. Neither would provide cover enough to stop any rounds, but they’d provide excellent concealment.
Fifteen men were placed behind the shrubbery. They all carried SA80s, a suite of white phosphorous, smoke, and fragmentation grenades, Fairbairn-Sykes commando knives, and of course their swords. Eight men with the same armament were placed behind the thicket and were under the command of Magerts. The remaining seven Marines were stationed at the house where they’d previously conducted surveillance. Two of these men carried L7 General Purpose 7.62mm machine guns, which were placed so they could fire from the front and rear of the structure. The remaining five were armed as the others and were to be the Quick Reaction Force, moving where designated if needed. They were under the command of Sergeant Ronald Scott, who was eager to engage and disappointed he wouldn’t be part of the initial fight.
Ian and Magerts had decided to try to lure whatever forces were waiting for them outside. Attempting to break into the place would be suicidal. Ia
n stared up toward the height of Glastonbury Tor, which rose five hundred feet above the plain. The Tor was topped by St. Michael’s Tower, which was still standing even after much of it had been destroyed by a twelfth-century earthquake. The far side of the Tor was terraced, but the near side had a gentle slope, only slightly disturbed by terracing. A thin path ran from the summit down to the rear of the Tudor home. A wider, more formal path bisected the hill from southwest to northeast.
They observed their target for forty-five minutes to ascertain whether there were any roving guard forces or security elements, but there were none.
Ian checked his watch. 0830 hours. It was time to knock on the front door. He wore a black turtleneck under a black leather jacket. He wore black 5.11 pants with black boots. A black beret covered his head. He felt the heaviness of the amulet he wore beneath his shirt. He’d never used it before, but since they were going against magic, he thought he’d try. Taken from the body of a dead seventeenth-century witch hunter by one of his predecessors, the logs from the 1800s professed its ability to provide protection to the wearer against magic. Whatever the truth of it, he was about to find out.
He pulled free an M34 model United States white phosphorous grenade. The UK had ceased to use them in 1997, but for Ian they were so much more useful than his other options. On the one hand, a smoke grenade would merely conceal the door. A fragmentation grenade would destroy it and possibly innocents behind it. The white phosphorous grenade, on the other hand, could burn at 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit for up to sixty seconds. He liked it because of its duration and its disruption.
He pulled the safety, then the pin from the cylindrical grenade, then stepped free from the shrubbery and walked across the street. When he was ten feet away from the door, he tossed it. The spoon flew free and it rolled until gently bumping into the door. Then he turned and walked into the street, continuing east down the road.
He heard the pop and the hiss, then the roar of white phosphorous burning violently. Walking away as he did would put eyes on him instead of the two hide sites. He felt an itch in the center of his back like someone was training a rifle on him. Would he even feel the bullet? Not if it hit his spine or the back of his head.
Then he heard Magerts through the radio coms. “Front door is on fire. They’re breaking it down from the inside. They’ve tossed a body on top of the grenade. Jesus. It burned right through.”
Ian prayed that it wasn’t Trevor but suspected that it probably had been. Bastards.
He kept walking until he knew he was out of sight, then peeled off to the right and made his way back using the shrubbery as cover.
A howl went up from somewhere behind the house. As it died in the overcast morning, it was followed by another.
A minute had gone by, but the grenade was still spouting flame. The doorframe was on fire. He could see shadows through the flames but couldn’t make out anything inside.
And the party still went on.
The howls came again … closer.
A hound tore around the left side of the house. It skidded to a stop and regarded the burning canister in front of it. As it circled it was joined by another. They both regarded the grenade as it died, their heads turning at odd angles, as if they were trying to decide what it was.
Their presence made him uneasy, especially when he observed their eerily human fronts. Their simian faces held human eyes and bore odd expressions. Sometimes it seemed like they were in pain, sometimes it seemed as if they were trying to laugh, neither of which they could accomplish with their animal facial structure.
“Get ready.” He backed away from the men standing in front of him and drew his sword. When he was ready and when his men had their swords drawn, their Fairbarn-Sykes commando knives in their other hands, he made the call. “Here, doggie, doggie. Come to Poppa.”
The machine gunner up the road with the front of the house vantage spoke through the coms. “You got their attention. Call again.”
Ian whistled. “Here, doggy, doggy.”
“Here they come.”
The men heard it as well.
He gripped Guy of Warwick’s sword tightly.
Instead of coming through the shrubbery, the hounds leaped over the seven-foot hedge. They came down on the other side of the line of men, facing Ian all alone.
This was not exactly how the plan was supposed to have gone. One of the hounds rushed at him and he brought his sword down on its shoulder, the black blade slicing through meat until it struck bone. He jerked the blade free and brought it down for another attack, but this time the beast backed away.
Meanwhile three Marines had caught the second hound by surprise and were busy hacking it to death. Even as it tried to spin, pieces of it fell away. Once separated, they turned to smoke and drifted away.
Ian feinted.
The hound jerked back, then leaped forward.
Ian was forced to backpedal. He barely kept his balance.
The hound leaped.
Ian brought his sword up in a blind defense and ended up skewering the creature, the tip of the blade entering through the mouth. It fell hard, ripping the sword free from his hand. For a moment, he was worried that he was now weaponless. But the hound was dead and he watched it first fall to pieces and then those pieces turn to smoke. His sword was left lying in the grass. He snatched it from the ground and looked for something else to attack.
But the hounds were gone.
Not that they’d won the day or anything, but succeeding in killing what they’d previously been unable to kill elated him.
He could see the Marines smiling at their accomplishment, but he had to force himself to remain unaffected.
“They weren’t prepared. They will be now.”
The Marine at the back of the vacant house with his machine gun reported, “They’re massing a platoon of men with weapons—looks like SA80s—up on the Tor. Looks like there are some robed figures with them and several dozen hounds.”
Ian wished he could see their formation. “Are they coming down, or are they performing a blocking maneuver?”
“They’re not moving, if that’s what you mean.”
Ian had worked his way back to the shrubbery and the party at the house was still going in full force. He ordered four of his men to the door.
They ran the length of the shrubbery, then exited onto the road, east of the house. If they were being observed, now was the moment for an observer to fire at them. But no shots came. They were able to stack themselves on either side of the smoldering doorframe.
“The body is Asian,” one of the men said.
Ian let out a sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t Trevor.
One of the Marines peered inside, then jerked his head back.
“Report?”
“Uh…”
“Come on, Marine, what do you see?”
“A lot of bloody fucking.”
Ian had no response.
“Everywhere. Everyone. It’s one big orgy. What do you want us to do?”
Ian had been prepared for pretty much anything. But not this. He’d been ready to defend or to attack, but what could he do to rooms filled with people in coitus?
“We have more hounds coming your way,” a Marine said hurriedly.
Another Marine added, “Oh shit. Here comes one of the—”
The four Marines at the door stood as stock-still as mannequins.
A figure was coming through the darkness from inside. It was a woman. A tall, naked woman with her lips sewn shut. Tresses of long black hair fell down her back. She made the doorway and put a hand on each of the men in turn. When she touched them, they fell, immediately falling into a seizure, their entire bodies shaking and jerking.
Then she pointed toward the shrubbery. Ian watched as all eleven remaining men jerked straight as if invisible strings attached to their limbs had been pulled tight. Then she pointed toward the thicket.
“Magerts, report,” ordered Ian.
Nothing.
&
nbsp; His amulet felt warm beneath his shirt, but he was still able to move. He sheathed his sword, snatched up a rifle, and took aim. He locked on her face and fired six times. She fell backwards and then went down.
His men immediately relaxed their poses and began to whisper among one another.
“Quiet,” he reassured them.
The four men at the door had stopped seizing and began to get up.
First two hounds, then one naked possessed girl. They were being underestimated. It was only a matter of time before they’d realize it and attack.
But for now, he had to prepare for more hounds.
Even as he thought it, they attacked.
Four hounds came for him and his men. Two of them burst through the shrubbery, creating gaping holes. The other three leaped over the top of it like the previous pair. Although their bodies were the same diseased-looking hairless gray, they were different sizes by degrees.
One set of blue eyes flashed at him; then the beast came for him, low, mouth open with protruding fangs.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three of his men go down. Damn.
“Do you need help?” Magerts shot through the coms.
Ian brought his sword back into First Point, which presented the tip of the blade toward the target, his sword hand beside his right ear. “Got this.” The tip of the sword quivered from his barely controlled fear.
The hound clawed for his leg.
Ian jerked his foot back.
The hound immediately clawed at his other leg, before Ian could put his foot down.
He was forced to hop backwards and in doing so lost his balance.
The hound leaped forward, grabbing his boot with a claw. He felt talons bite into his leg directly above his ankle. He fought back a scream and jammed his sword at the hound’s face. It jerked back, but not before he sliced off an ear. But even as he looked, the ear grew back.
He pushed himself back and stood.
