Blood Red City

by Justin Richards

  It was a disappointment, but hardly unexpected, Jed thought as he returned to his car. The photos had come out blank and even under a magnifying glass they’d remained defiantly devoid of detail. No one had seen anything that would help him find out where the strange craft he had seen was from, or where it went. If he had seen it – he could barely recall now what he had witnessed. A shadow, a trick of the light … Time to let it drop. Again.

  The tap on the window made him flinch with surprise. It was one of the men from the observatory, probably come to check he knew the way back to the main road. Jed wound down the window.

  ‘It’s OK, I remember the way. And I’ve got a map.’

  ‘A lot of what we do here is government funded,’ the man said. Trevor, Jed remembered his name was, though that could be his first or last name. ‘Or at least, dependent on the government’s good will.’

  ‘I guess it is,’ Jed replied wondering where this was leading.

  ‘So you can believe us when we tell you we saw nothing. Back in February, I mean. We saw nothing at all.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  Trevor nodded. ‘Good. That’s good. Because,’ he went on, ‘if we had seen something it probably would have been to the south east of here. There’s a few farms out that way – let me show you.’

  He gestured for Jed to pass him the map he had open on the passenger seat. ‘This is the area I’m talking about.’ He pointed to the empty space on the map south east of where the observatory was marked, broken only by a few thin roads on their way to somewhere else. ‘Just to save you the journey, you understand. But there are a few farms and a couple of homesteads in that area. If you ask people down there, they probably won’t have seen anything either.’

  * * *

  There were photographs of everything in the Vault. Even of himself, soon after he arrived, helping to catalogue and label some of the artefacts and one of the dead creatures.

  Hoffman paused, his fingers glossing against the surface of the photograph. He looked so young. So naïve. So human.

  He set aside his emotion, like flicking a switch he turned on his concentration and returned to the task, leafing through each picture. A steady, systematic movement. As soon as he finished one box, he returned it to its place on the shelf and started on the next. No pause for sleep or food. Like a machine.

  Until he found it.

  There were two photographs. One of the artefact lying on the ground in the forest where it had been found. The other was on a plain background, a measuring stick laid alongside to give the scale. He was surprised how small it was. It would fit into the palm of his hand. It was made of a single piece of stone, the symbols carved into it, just as the girl had sketched. An angular hourglass with a reference number displayed on a card at the edge of each photograph: V-962-X7.

  The number yielded a single card in the index drawer. Neat block handwriting told him:

  Stone implement. Likely buried at the site in antiquity and disturbed by the crash.

  Given the location it was found, suggestion that it could even be the mythical ‘Axe of Thor’. The runic markings support this theory. Thor is said to have used the axe to hammer on the Gates of Asgard to awaken Odin and the other gods when they slept through the Long Dark Night of Damnation.

  Hoffman turned over the card. On the back, someone else had written:

  Artefact removed from Archive on 27 October 1938. Authorisation – Standartenfuhrer Hans Streicher.

  Streicher was dead, so Hoffman couldn’t ask him. But where was the artefact now?

  * * *

  Papers and manuscripts were spread across the table of the conference room at Station Z. Guy and Leo sat one side of the table, Elizabeth Archer and Miss Manners on the other. Brinkman, already briefed by Mrs Archer, left them to get on with it. All Guy knew was that he and Leo were going to France. He had yet to discover why.

  ‘Sumner is holding a reception to open the new wing of his personal museum or gallery or whatever he calls it next week,’ Leo was saying. ‘He’s already sent out a catalogue to various local collectors and luminaries, which is how we found the axe-head.’

  ‘Assuming it’s the same artefact as Miss Roylston saw,’ Guy said.

  ‘It’s the same,’ Miss Manners confirmed. ‘I showed her the catalogue at lunchtime when she managed to slip away from Crowley’s house for a while. There’s no doubt.’

  ‘What I do doubt,’ Elizabeth said, ‘is the supposed provenance.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Guy asked.

  ‘Its apparent origin. According to the notes in Sumner’s catalogue, he believes the axe-head to be an ancient artefact that originated in North America.’

  ‘That’s possible, surely,’ Guy said.

  ‘It is,’ she agreed. ‘But it is also possible that the artefact in Sumner’s possession is this.’

  She pushed an ancient parchment towards Guy. He leaned forward to inspect it. The writing was Greek, he could tell that much. But it wasn’t modern Greek, which he could read fairly easily. He didn’t spend time trying to interpret what he did understand. His attention was focused on the picture.

  It was a drawing of an axe, complete with its wooden handle. But the head of the axe looked identical to the photograph in Sumner’s catalogue.

  ‘It’s the same,’ he murmured, pulling the catalogue closer so as to compare the two.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Miss Manners said.

  ‘Or,’ Leo added, ‘we think it’s possible that there are two of these axes.’

  ‘If not more,’ Elizabeth said. ‘But we have to be sure. We know the Vril are after the one in Sumner’s possession. Or we have to assume that they are.’

  ‘Though we don’t know why,’ Guy said. ‘And of course, they may be after this Greek one as well, if there are indeed two. We have no way of knowing. It is Greek, I take it?’

  ‘From the text,’ Elizabeth explained, ‘this is the axe that Theseus took from Procrustes.’ She pulled the parchment back and started to gather up the other papers and documents, obviously assuming this explained everything.

  Guy looked at Miss Manners, who seemed to be trying not to smile. Leo cleared his throat.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Guy said at last, ‘all I know about Theseus is that he killed the Minotaur in the Labyrinth.’

  Elizabeth looked up, and caught Guy’s puzzled expression. She sighed. ‘Procrustes had a bed.’

  ‘So do I,’ Guy offered. ‘Did he also have an axe?’

  ‘Procrustes, also known as “the Stretcher”, was a son of Poseidon. He was a smith, and he waylaid travellers on the road between Athens and Eleusis. He forced them to try out his bed for size.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound too bad,’ Guy ventured.

  ‘If they didn’t fit the bed,’ Miss Manners said, ‘then he stretched them out and hammered at them until they did.’

  ‘Hence “the Stretcher”,’ Leo said. ‘The process killed the poor travellers, of course.’

  ‘Unless they were too long for the bed,’ Elizabeth went on. ‘In which case, he cut their legs off. With an axe.’

  ‘Ah, I see. That axe.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So you had to be a perfect fit to survive,’ Guy deduced.

  ‘Well, no,’ Leo told him, ‘because Procrustes cheated. He actually had two beds of different sizes. So he’d produce the one he knew you wouldn’t fit.’

  ‘And how does Theseus come into it?’

  ‘He got the better of Procrustes,’ Leo said, ‘which must have been a huge relief to everyone else. He made him lie on his own bed, and sure enough Procrustes didn’t fit either. So, according to one version of the story, Theseus took his axe, and cut his head off with it.’

  ‘Theseus was trying to find a way to the underworld, and Procrustes guarded the Sixth Entrance to Hades. There is also a version of the legend that says Theseus used the same axe to slay the Minotaur,’ Miss Manners said.

  ‘Ah, the Minotaur.’ At least Guy knew that story
.

  ‘But let’s not get carried away,’ Elizabeth told them. ‘These are just myths, after all. But it’s interesting that the axe was known as the Labrys, from which the Labyrinth took its name. And from that, it’s come to mean a maze, of course.’

  ‘The double-headed axe has always been important in Minoan legend and ritual,’ Miss Manners said. ‘Which would tie in with the Minotaur and the Labyrinth.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something else that’s interesting,’ Guy said, ‘if only to prove that I do know something about Greek history as well as their language.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Well, it’s probably just a coincidence, but until very recently the double-headed axe was also the symbol of the Greek Fascist Party.’

  ‘You never know,’ Leo said, ‘like the Nazi adoption of the Swastika, ancient symbols seem to have a resonance with the fascists. Harking back to an earlier, purer age or something, no doubt.’

  ‘Perhaps the French manuscript will enlighten us,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘Finally we get to France.’ Guy smiled. ‘I was wondering what the connection might be.’

  ‘The connection is a manuscript, as Elizabeth says,’ Miss Manners told him. ‘It is said to be a copy of writings by Plutarch, though he himself took the ideas from his grandfather, Lamprias, whom he almost certainly paraphrased.’

  ‘So what’s it about?’ Guy wondered.

  ‘It is unique,’ Leo told him, ‘in that it apparently brings together and reinterprets myths and legends from the ancient worlds of Greece, Rome, Scandinavia and Northern Europe.’

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘It seems to suggest a common thread, possibly a common origin, for all these myths. Which is obviously unusual. But Lamprias, the original author of much of it, seems to be the original source for the story of the Axe of Theseus, including the embellishments about the Minotaur. So this manuscript may well give us more background information about the axe itself and its history and relevance. By drawing together the different legends, it may give us a common origin for both these axes, or make it clear there is only the one.’

  ‘So if this manuscript is so important and unusual, how come there is only one copy?’

  ‘Suppressed by the Catholic Church.’ Miss Manners’ tone made it clear what she thought about that. ‘They’re so closed-minded. But at least they preserved the manuscript rather than burning it.’

  ‘And they preserved it in France?’

  ‘It’s held in the library of a monastery just outside Paris,’ Leo said. ‘And Elizabeth thinks it would be a good idea for you and me to go over and fetch it.’

  Guy laughed. ‘Easy as that?’

  ‘Not quite, old boy, no. Apart from the fact that we’d be stealing a priceless manuscript from a collection of monks who won’t care to part with it, we have to get into occupied France, and then survive long enough to identify the right manuscript.’

  ‘The library at St Jean-Baptiste de Seine has a large collection of ancient writings,’ Elizabeth said. ‘It’s quite famous for it.’

  ‘But if you can recover the manuscript,’ Miss Manners said, ‘then it might tell us more about the Axe of Theseus, how it relates – if it does – to the axe that Sumner has, and why the Vril are after it.’

  Elizabeth smiled. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘All right, let’s go and get it, then.’

  ‘There is just one other complication,’ Leo said as Miss Manners helped Elizabeth gather up her papers. ‘The Monastery of Jean-Baptiste de Seine has been requisitioned by the occupying power.’

  ‘So it’s no longer a monastery?’ Guy said.

  ‘Oh, the monks are still there, apparently,’ Leo assured him. ‘And the library, and hopefully the manuscript. But the buildings are now also home to the local headquarters of the Gestapo.’

  CHAPTER 7

  They flew from Prestwick on the south-west coast of Scotland. From here, BOAC, recently formed from consolidating the nationalised British Airways and Imperial airlines, operated the Return Ferry Service to Montreal. Sarah and Sergeant Green shared the converted RAF Liberator with several other pilots. They’d all flown American-built bombers across from Canada and were now on their way back to collect more.

  Sarah and Sergeant Green sat alone in the back of the plane. It was draughty and cold and uncomfortable. It took about an hour for the other passengers to stop glancing back at Sarah. No doubt they were wondering who she was and why she was on the flight. It unnerved her slightly, until Green said quietly:

  ‘I don’t know why they keep looking at me like that.’

  She laughed, drawing more stares. ‘You realise I hardly know anything about you,’ she told him. ‘I don’t even know if you’re married.’

  He smiled. ‘You asking?’

  ‘I’m spoken for,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘I know. And yes, I am married. But thanks for the thought.’ He offered her a cigarette. She declined. ‘To save you asking the next question,’ he said, ‘the answer’s no.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, we don’t have any children.’ Green blew out a thoughtful stream of smoke. ‘Doesn’t seem like the best time to bring a kid into the world right now.’

  ‘No,’ Sarah had to agree. ‘Wouldn’t be easy for your wife either, with you away. I mean, looking after the child,’ she added quickly.

  Green grinned. He didn’t smile often, but it changed his face from looking like a boxer’s to something far more avuncular. Yes, Sarah thought, he’d make a good father – one day. If he got the chance. She hoped he would.

  ‘You’re right, she wouldn’t have time,’ Green said. ‘Mable works in a munitions factory in Manchester. Lives with her mum, who works there too. It’s boring but dangerous.’ He took another drag on the cigarette. ‘So, a bit like flying across the Atlantic, I suppose.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  * * *

  One trip, Jed promised himself. Just one. Chances were he’d find nothing, because there was nothing to find. If he was lucky he might meet some old farmer with failing eyesight who might have seen something back in February. Or maybe he didn’t, and perhaps it wasn’t February he was thinking of anyway. But after the tip-off from the guy at the observatory, it had to be worth a look.

  So just one trip. And even so, he was wasting time and gas, he thought as he turned down yet another narrow dirt track.

  Or maybe not.

  Jed slammed his foot down on the brake pedal, bringing the car to a skidding halt in a cloud of dust. It might be nothing, but the undergrowth on one side of the track had been ripped away, branches of trees broken off, the ground charred, a scar scraped through the landscape. The woodland had started to grow back over it, of course, but it looked as though something had ploughed through here – something large and fast and hot. And the damage was evidently several months old …

  Could this be what he was looking for?

  Jed left the car angled across the narrow road, running back to explore the area he’d seen. The trail led deep into the wooded area, the ground and branches and scrub charred and discoloured, thrust aside as something forced – burned – its way through.

  In the distance, nestling under larger trees, he caught sight of something reflecting back the afternoon sun. The glint of metal. Whatever it was that had torn its way through the wood – it was still here.

  Did he have the camera with him? Jed couldn’t even remember if he’d bothered to chuck it on the back seat of the car. But he wasn’t going back to check, not until he’d seen what was at the end of the trail of devastation.

  He hurried forward, hardly daring to draw breath. Was it a plane? A Japanese bomber? The shape was obscured by the trees and the vegetation growing back over it. Then a figure stepped out in front of Jed.

  He skidded to a halt. The man was dressed in rough work clothes, dishevelled and spattered with mud and dirt. There was a rip down one leg of the pants. His weather-beaten face was set hard as granite and he he
ld a shotgun levelled at Jed.

  ‘Wait – wait!’ Jed cried out, afraid the man was about to shoot first and not bother with questions at all. ‘I just want to see what’s down there, in the trees.’

  ‘Why?’ the man’s voice was strangely devoid of accent, flat and emotionless.

  ‘Do you know what it is?’

  ‘This is my land.’

  Jed held out his hands. ‘Look, sorry if I’m trespassing. I’m a reporter, from LA.’

  The shotgun jabbed forward slightly. ‘Reporting what?’

  ‘For a newspaper. I know something came down here, one night back in February when there was all the noise and shooting over the city. Remember?’ Maybe the guy was a bit simple. But Jed didn’t doubt he would shoot if he didn’t like what he heard.

  ‘You’re a newspaper man.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You got connections.’

  ‘I suppose. But whatever you have here, on your land, it could be valuable. Why not let me take a look?’

  The man tilted his head slightly to one side. Maybe he was considering this. ‘Then what?’ he asked.

  ‘Then I could come back with a camera. Take some photos. Get you and whatever it is in the paper. Make you famous. Maybe,’ Jed added, ‘make you rich.’

  ‘You’d pay me to let you see what’s down there?’

  ‘Depends what it is.’ He didn’t want to commit to anything until he knew what the guy had here. ‘Let me see what you got, and I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.’

  The man nodded. But he didn’t lower the gun.

  ‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ Jed said. ‘I’ve got some cash on me now, if it helps. Not much…’ He reached into his pocket for his billfold. ‘I’m Jed – Jed Haines. What’s your name?’

  ‘Davy Wiles. I don’t need money.’

  ‘Then you’re a remarkable man.’

  ‘Yes.’ He said it like it was a simple statement of fact.

  ‘So what do you need?’

  There was a pause. The man looked up, as if he was listening. ‘I need to see Sumner.’