D-Day

by Bob Mayer

  Breathing hard, Scout got to her feet, stepped over Cyra, then held her ground. She felt something wet on her forehead, and then a drop of blood dripped into her left eye. She wiped at it with her free hand.

  “Eighty-seven cuts,” Legion said. “That’s the most I’ve inflicted before the end. It takes a while to bleed out. There is an art to it. Anyone can butcher. It takes an artist to end a life without a single fatal blow.”

  Scout blinked and shook another drop of blood away from her eye. She looked at Pandora. Do you have a plan?

  Pandora gave a slight smile. Very good. Awareness of others. You should run. Leave him with me.

  “So not fair,” Legion said, as if he knew they were communicating. “But a fight is never fair. It won’t help you.”

  “We killed Xerxes Dagger together,” Scout said. “We’re going to kill you. And how come you guys have names like Dagger and Legion? Why not Fred? Or Joe? Or Billie-Bob?” I can’t leave Cyra.

  Scout blinked blood out of her eye. The cut in her arm was throbbing. A faint voice whispered in her mind.

  Legion fixed her with his dead gaze. “Xerxes Dagger? I wondered why he didn’t come back.” He twirled the blades.

  Showing off, Scout thought, and knew she’d scored something on him.

  “He was my brother.” Legion came at her, and Scout jumped back over Cyra, bringing her dagger up, parrying his first blade as he stepped over the body. But the second one—she could see it, almost slow motion, but faster than she could move to block it—the tip touched her shoulder, a blaze of pain, arcing toward her neck to finish her, but then it was jerked back in surprise.

  Scout slashed, slicing his forearm to the bone as he belatedly tried to blocked her, his focus diverted by the ceremonial dagger Cyra had slammed through his foot, pinning it to the ground.

  He barely had time to register that pain as Pandora’s hand slithered around, gripping his forehead, pulling his head back as her other hand drew her dagger across his neck.

  Scout was drenched as his heart pumped his life out. His eyes were blinking, confused, not understanding what had happened.

  His blood is cold.

  Scout slammed her dagger into his heart, twisting, shredding it.

  “You can’t—” Legion managed to say before he died. His body fell backward, but Cyra’s dagger kept the foot pinned, the lower leg straight, so he fell awkwardly.

  But it didn’t matter, because in just seconds, the body crumbled inward to dust.

  Scout knelt and cradled Cyra’s head. “Are you all right?”

  Cyra nodded. “Help me up.”

  They stood, facing Pandora.

  “Impressive,” Pandora said. “I wasn’t quite sure we could defeat him.”

  “Who is he?” Scout asked. “What is he? Him and Xerxes Dagger. Are there more like them?”

  “Oh, yes,” Pandora said. “There are more.”

  “Are they Shadow?” Scout asked.

  “A good question,” Pandora said. She looked at Cyra. “Your mother betrayed us. Betrayed the sisterhood. She wanted Scout to come after me. For us to fight, even while she knew the beast we just killed was prowling about. He would have killed those I have to protect.” She shifted to Scout. “He would have damaged your timeline badly. He’s already touched it by killing Pythagoras of Samos.”

  “So he’s Shadow,” Scout said, tired of asking questions.

  “He’s evil,” Pandora said, without answering. “Pure evil. And—” She paused. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She comes.” Her eyes were blank, her mind somewhere else.

  “Who comes?” Cyra asked.

  Pandora came back to them, to the here and now. “Time is fleeting.” She pointed at Cyra. “You must deal with your mother. You must become the Oracle.” Then she looked at Scout. “We are sisters. Some day, you will understand that.”

  Scout stared at Pandora. “Tell me something. Is hope still trapped in your pithos?”

  Scout blinked as everything went black for a moment, then light was back, but Pandora wasn’t in front of her. A hand rested on the back of her neck, the fingers like icicles, extending up to cradle the back of her skull.

  I could kill you, Pandora’s said inside Scout’s head. Draw the life out of you, leaving just the shell of your body, which would crumble into dust, just like his, since it is not of this time. There would be nothing of you left. How long do you think you will remain in the memories of those who sent you here so foolishly? So unprepared?

  Scout thought of Moms and Roland and Eagle and Mac and Doc and Ivar and most especially of Nada, a memory himself.

  Interesting, Pandora said. Your ties to them are strong. Did you ask them who your true mother is? Do they even know? Do you know who you are? Do you really know who anybody is?

  The blackness flickered once more, and when reality was back, Pandora was gone.

  “What happened?” Cyra was looking about for Pandora. She took a sharp breath as she saw someone else. Scout also saw her.

  A woman dressed in a black robe, her hair and most of her face hidden by a hood, was standing at the edge of the clearing. She had a book in one arm. It looked heavy by the way she held it in the crook of her arm.

  “Your mother has passed on,” she said to Cyra.

  “What? What?” Cyra repeated, understanding, but not accepting.

  “She was tired and hurting,” the woman said. “She’s not in pain anymore.”

  Scout saw that the woman’s eyes were pure white. “Who are you?”

  “It’s time for you to go,” the woman said to Scout.

  Darkness fell.

  United States Military Academy, West Point, New York, 6 June 1843 A.D.

  Ivar used the download’s map to search the Academy, dodging upperclassmen every time he got close to one after being stopped and hazed several times.

  There wasn’t time for such tomfoolery, Ivar thought, then smiled to himself at the turn of the antiquated phrase.

  Unable to track McClelland down in his room in the barracks or the mess hall, he finally decided that if the cadet was an agent of the Shadow, then he would be where his target was: Grant. Ivar trailed behind as a large contingent of cadets began to drift over to the stables, since it was well known in the Corps that Grant was making an attempt at the Academy jumping record. The wagering was intense, the Corps split over whether Grant could pull it off. There were some who predicted disaster, given the nature of the Hell-Beast.

  Of course, none of them, other than Jackson, had been there this morning when Grant jumped the stream. And not even Jackson knew what Ivar did: Grant would succeed.

  Ivar didn’t enter the riding hall. He pushed through some bushes on the side, found a convenient tree, and climbed until he had a view through one of the high windows. The interior was an oval, tanbark-covered floor, surrounded by stadium seating. The stands were over half full, and a steady line of men in gray were entering, taking the rest of the seats. Ivar scanned the crowd for McClelland.

  He spotted Benny Havens seated amongst a contingent of civilians, a rather stout woman next to him. Ivar assumed that was his wife, Letitia. If Havens was Ivar’s Time Patrol contact, he might have spoken to Weir about wrangling Grant an assignment at the Academy under the misassumption that the mission was simply to keep Grant safe. Much like Doc’s and Moms’s contacts had thought that was their mission during Ides, given they had no clue what the future held.

  Grant walked in from another door onto the arena floor, leading York. A buzz ran through the crowd. Grant was in his dress uniform, a saber dangling at his side. He seemed frail, especially compared to the massive horse.

  Two enlisted men were setting up a couple of props and a bar under the supervision of the Master of Horse, which Ivar thought was a pretty cool title, one Scout might like.

  But the jump was secondary; McClelland’s whereabouts was the priority.

  Grant mounted York and trotted the horse to a spot in front of a reviewing stand. He drew his sabe
r and brought the hilt to his chin, blade up, saluting Major Delafield. The Superintendent stood, returned the salute, then reclaimed his seat. Grant slid the saber into the scabbard.

  He walked York to the bar then leaned over, saying something to the Master of the Horse. The sergeant nodded and gave an order to the two men. They raised the bar. The excitement in the hall rose with the bar.

  Where the hell is McClelland? Ivar wondered, since it seemed every cadet in the Corps was now in the riding hall. What would Nada do? he thought. And the answer was obvious: Think like the enemy.

  But this enemy wasn’t making sense. McClelland had been there when Jackson challenged Grant, and spurred it on, but he’d attacked Ivar, not Grant.

  What would Moms do?

  Look for the unexpected. McClelland wasn’t in the riding hall. Then he had to be outside. Why? Doing what? Getting ready to do what? Ivar looked left and right. No sign of McClelland. He climbed down and began to circumnavigate the large hall. The river side was built on top of the cliff, leaving no room to walk. Ivar hustled the other way, around the front of the hall to the far side.

  The noise inside suddenly ceased, and he knew Grant was getting ready to make his attempt.

  And there was McClelland, lying on his stomach, peering in through an opening at ground level, a musket to his shoulder. He was mostly hidden by some bushes, but Ivar caught the glint of sunlight on the barrel. McClelland had pulled back a plank from the outer wall. Ivar realized he had a field of fire underneath the stands onto the riding floor.

  Ivar drew the dueling pistol and ran forward. He stopped just behind McClelland and got to his knees. He could see inside, and Grant was on York, facing the bar. He was leaning forward, his mouth next to the beast’s ear, his lips moving.

  Ivar pulled back the hammer on the flintlock, the noise unmistakable.

  “Put the musket down,” Ivar said, proud that he’d used musket instead of rifle.

  McClelland looked over his shoulder while he did as ordered. “I was just going to spook the horse.”

  “You seemed to be aiming,” Ivar said. He took a quick glance inside. Grant gave York the gentlest of nudges. The horse began to trot, then broke into a gallop. Grant was leaning forward, one with the horse, as they approached the bar. York leapt, flowing over the bar with inches to spare, then landed on the far side.

  The crowd exploded into cheers.

  Mission accomplished? Ivar wondered.

  “Get up,” he ordered McClelland. “Leave the weapon.”

  Ivar escorted him toward the cliff, away from the crowd exiting the riding hall.

  “When I spread the word among the upperclass that you pulled a pistol on me, you won’t last a week here,” McClelland threatened.

  “When I spread the word you were going to shoot Grant,” Ivar said, “I think you won’t be around much longer.”

  “Told you,” McClelland said. “I was just going to spook the horse. Make him miss the jump. I have a lot wagered against Grant.”

  They were in a small opening, between the trees and the hall and the cliff. Ivar blocked the only way out.

  “We wait until everyone is back in the barracks,” Ivar said.

  “And then...?” McClelland asked.

  Good question, Ivar thought. If McClelland were Shadow, he should get pulled back when the bubble collapsed, just as Ivar was, and everything would be back to normal. But what if he were from this time, the real McClelland, and had been suborned somehow by the Shadow?

  The damn vagaries of the variables.

  What would Roland do? And Ivar knew he was hitting the bottom of the barrel when he got to that point, but the answer was obvious: Shove McClelland over the edge of the cliff.

  “Who are you?” Ivar asked. “Are you from the Shadow?”

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “Why were you trying to kill Grant?”

  “Told you, I was just going to scare the horse. Keep him from making the jump. Why would I kill him? I’m not a murderer. You’re crazy. You were crazy this morning.”

  That made sense. If Grant failed in front of the entire Corps, how would that affect him? Would that be the seed of a weed of doubt that would cripple him the rest of his life? Make him question himself under stressful situations, such as when Robert E. Lee was turning his flank?

  McClelland’s eyes shifted, and Ivar knew he’d made a mistake. That was confirmed as he felt the round muzzle of a weapon pressed into the flesh at the base of his skull.

  “I’d be putting the pistol down, lad,” a familiar voice said.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, Ivar thought as he bent over and put the pistol on the ground, the gun to the back of his head maintaining contact all the way.

  “Go and join him,” Benny Havens said.

  Ivar walked over to McClelland on the edge of the cliff.

  The cadet took a step forward, saying, “Glad you finally—”

  “Stay there for a moment,” Havens said.

  “But—” McClelland was at a loss. “You said if I did what you asked, all would be square between us. The debt forgiven.”

  “The debt is forgiven,” Havens said, but his eyes were on Ivar. “Should I let him go? He’s just a simpleton, trying to repay a gambling debt. He knows nothing. But he did give you a beating.”

  “Excuse me,” McClelland said, trying to muster some indignation. “You said—”

  “Shut up, lad,” Havens said.

  Ivar was beginning to understand. “You ordered him to attack me, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Did you order him to kill me?”

  “No. Just to put you out of commission so this here event could be taken care of. Didn’t work, as we see.” Havens didn’t seem upset about his plan falling apart.

  Ivar glanced at McClelland. “Looked like you were getting ready to kill me with that axe.”

  McClelland shook his head. “Just trying to crack your skull. Make you go to the Surgeon.”

  Ivar realized McClelland was too stupid to lie. “This is between the two of us,” Ivar said to Havens.

  “Get out of here,” Havens said to McClelland. The cadet hastily departed toward his inglorious future as a drunk and failure.

  “A degenerate gambler,” Havens said. “The worst kind of man. There’s no cure for him.” He lowered the pistol.

  Ivar stared at Benny Havens. “Why are you working for the Shadow?”

  “Is that what you call it?” Havens asked. “My wife calls them demons, sent by Satan. They’ve come only a few times since the first.” He went to a log then sat, a tired, old man. “Every time in the middle of the night, to tell me of their bidding.”

  “These demons wanted you to get Grant kicked out?”

  “At the very least,” Havens said. “Dead would have suited them fine. That’s too far for me, though. I’d never do that.”

  “What do they look like?” Ivar asked, although he already had a good idea.

  “Beings floating in the air, with blood red eyes that bulge from a smooth, white face. And long, red hair. There are always a pair. They have no lips, but the wife and I can hear them. I know that sounds crazy,” Havens said, “but it’s the God’s honest truth. I’ve seen them with me own two eyes several times.”

  Valkyries. Emissaries of the Shadow. “Why do you do their bidding if you know they’re evil?”

  “Our daughter.”

  The download indicated the Havens had been childless, part of the mystique of their long “service” to the Corps, as a number of cadets, mainly those who favored liquor, viewed them as a sort of surrogate parents. Edgar Allan Poe had called Benny the ‘only congenial soul in the entire God-forsaken place’ while William Tecumseh Sherman had labeled him ‘a rascal not worth the remembrance.’ An interesting dichotomy in points of view.

  “What about your daughter?” Ivar asked.

  Havens stared off into the unseeing distance. “They took her the first time they came. She was just
a teeny baby. They came and took her, and told us they were going to hold her. That we were to tell no one about them. That we were to say our girl had died of the baby sickness, or else we’d never see her again. Letitia just ‘bout went insane. Took all I had to keep her quiet. I just about went crazy, too. I never was no God-fearing man, and now demons had come into our house and taken our baby. How’s a man to deal with that?”

  There were tears rolling down Havens’s cheeks, and the pistol was forgotten in his hand.

  He looked at Ivar. “What did we do to deserve this punishment? How did we cross God? Letitia, she’s always been a God-fearing woman. She doesn’t even cuss. So it must be on me. My fault.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Ivar said. There was no way he could explain the Shadow to Havens, not that the rules of Time Patrol would allow him to. “Did you provoke Pickett to challenge Grant?”

  Havens glumly nodded. “His girl was up the week past. She did talk to Sam. But I got Pickett aside last night, told him I overheard words. Words I invented to stir his blood. I put the worm in his brain, and once it fed on enough rum, it turned.”

  “What else did they ask you to do? Besides Grant?”

  Havens shook his head. “It makes no sense. First thing they asked was three months after they took our daughter. They came back. Wanted me to get the cadets to have a party in the barracks for Christmas. Back then, I didn’t see the harm, but I didn’t see the reason, either. Why would Satan care about a party?”

  “The Eggnog Riot,” Ivar said.

  “Aye.”

  A Christmas Day party in the barracks in 1826, when so many cadets got so drunk, they ended up rioting. With just that, the Shadow, via Havens, had almost wiped out the careers of an impressive list of West Point alumni before they graduated: Jeff Davis the most notable, along with a future Governor of Mississippi, a future Supreme Court Justice, a future Secretary of State of the Republic of Texas, and a Confederate Army General.

  “But it didn’t work as they wanted,” Ivar said.

  “I don’t know what they wanted, other than me giving them the kegs. A bunch of the poor lads got kicked out.”